CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JAX
Her blouse is orange, but I won’t hold that against her.
After some covert internet stalking, breaking the no-social-media rule, I mosey around to the back entrance, finishing my joint until a pair of employees exit, whispering about a musician who just arrived.
The guy doesn’t give a shit about who’s here because the girl is his whole world. She doesn’t see it. Poor fucker.
The door is lazy, yawning longer than it should. I toss the snuffed-out blunt in the trash and sneak inside, hands in my pockets, hair in my face.
My limbs are heavy, elbows sagging, heels digging for the center of the earth. Fuck, I like it when I know gravity is dedicated.
Maddox supplies his theme-song choice, so I block out the rest of the chatter on the comms and mutter the lyrics about a joker and a thief as I peruse the back offices.
The halls are nothing special—dull and uninspiring with lights that are too bright—but I’m not here for the scenery.
Or the scents of paper and charred popcorn.
“Sir,” Camille trills—saccharine with the red glow of a low battery.
She’s the resort’s employee manager, set to be here for the entire event. Two teenagers at home. Alone. It’s stressful, but I’m guessing this weekend pays their private school tuition.
She has one of the access cards to the elevator that goes to the lower level, but she uses it too often for me to swipe it without notice. Two other employees only hold the cards as a precaution, so I need to figure out when they’re working.
“Sir,” she repeats, full-bodied anxiety threading her tone now.
I glance around, flick my blue hair out of my face, and finally grant her my attention, though no words. I’ve learned a lot from therapy. People like to earn those.
“You can’t be back here.” She smiles, attaching to some vibe I’m giving off.
People also secretly yearn for disruption—anything to break up the bland while they’re trying so hard to blend in. I can usually make things interesting.
“Shoot,” I hiss, swallowing, peering around, and wandering haphazardly toward her computer.
“I get a little overwhelmed at these things, so I …” I stop and stare at her, letting her hang there for a beat while she notices my suit that promises I’m a worthy guest, my gauge ear piercings and tattoos that suggest I’m not a typical businessman, and how gravity is yanking on my limbs, which discloses the veracity of my confession. “I think I numbed too much.”
“Oh no,” she sighs, squeezing my arm and sharing what she discusses openly online. “I suffer from similar issues when I’m expected to socialize.” She shows me to a chair by her desk. “Wait right here while I see if I can get you some espresso.”
She shuffles off, and I reach my cumbersome arm to her mouse, navigate to the app with the employee schedule, snap a picture of it with my phone, and send it to the drive where we’re storing our findings.
Fifteen seconds after it goes through, my brother-in-law, Ty, pipes into my ear. “Underestimated, just like your sister used to be. Well done, bro.”
“Thanks, man.” I pull out a thousand dollars in cash and drop it on Camille’s desk with a Post-it note, saying Thank you, deciding not to wait for the coffee.
My chest constricts at the thought of Rena, but I try to focus on the knowledge that we’ll see each other more often on the other side of this. With that in mind, I flip on my own theme music.
My little sister is pink and breezy. And obsessed with freedom.
So, as I stride back to the main party, I tack on something Ty will appreciate. “Tell Rena I’m listening to ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’ ”
Nothing left to lose.