42. Indy
FORTY-TWO
INDY
I get fired via email before I’ve ever even started the job.
That’s a new low.
I stare at my phone, the words blurring in front of my eyes while I forget to blink. It’s all very apologetic. A change of circumstances and all that. I swallow past the tightness in my throat before I lean my head back against the wall.
There’s a funny thing about last drops. You can’t really predict how many more your cup can fit before it starts to run over.
And you’d think it’d be the big things that do it.
Heartbreaks and disasters and such. Finding out your whole life has been a lie.
Maybe running into the guy you thought was the love of your life after six years of radio silence and having him look at you with nothing but distain. That should definitely do it.
You’d think.
But no. The last drop is getting fired, it turns out.
I clutch the phone so hard the edges dig deep into my skin, and I tap it against my forehead.
Chin up, I remind myself, but that voice is getting pathetically small by now.
Chin. Up.
The reminder is drowned out by something else, though.
You need to quit. I’m serious.
And then my jaw clenches.
Could he have…?
How would he even have gone about it. He doesn’t know—
She roped you into working for Callum Mercer.
That’s what he said.
I grab my keys, and I’m out the door.