Page 86 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“And we care why?” the one guy asks.

“I might be in the mood to clear it up, maybe save everyone a little trouble, if I can get a sense of what it is.”

“Maybe you’re just nosy,” the one says.

“Maybe. Or maybe I handle this and you guys get to go out for wings and beer instead of sitting here.”

The guys exchange glances.

“It’s a money thing, right?”

No answer.

Yes, I’m thinking. “Is there somebody I can see about it?”

The somebody turns out to be a middle-aged loan shark named Lenny. The cost is eight thousand dollars, due on Sunday morning. I tell him he’ll have it tomorrow afternoon if he pulls his guys. He agrees, and I arrange for my PI to deliver it.

“She a relative of yours?” Lenny asks.

“Employee,” I tell him.

He gives me a rumble of understanding. Insinuating I want to fuck her. I suppose he’s right, but it’s not how he thinks.

I want to fuck her, sure. But really, I want to do anything with her. I want to know her. I want to talk to her, laugh with her, watch idiotic goat videos with her. I want to know her on every level possible.

He tells me he’ll pull his guys back for the time being. There, but not visible, as a courtesy. They’ll be back if my PI doesn’t show.

I knock on the table and leave.

Twenty-Five

Lizzie

What doesit mean that they’re gone? I almost liked it better when I could see them. Are they watching secretly? Are there mob guys everywhere now? I have at least thirty-six hours, but I don’t trust them not to come early.

Just to be safe, I’ve installed the bolt lock. I’ve texted Mia to let her know her key won’t work. We had a texting argument that ended with me saying I’d be sleeping with earplugs in and wouldn’t hear her pounding on the door.

At least she’ll be out of danger.

I don’t know what to do when they come. I could run out the fire escape, but they’ll just come back. And what if it’s when Mia is here? No, I have to face them.

So I’ve been cleaning.

It’s probably silly to clean for gangsters, but I have this idea that if my place is messy, they might feel more at liberty to hurt me. The way people are more likely to throw litter on a trash-filled street.

I have on a red Henley shirt and a sporty little plaid skirt that’s good for summertime walking and that, for whatever reason, struck me as the garment least likely to inspire gangsters to carve up my arm. Which is, admittedly, not a high bar for a skirt.

Just as I begin straightening our books and pulling out the ones I want to take to Fargo, there’s a knock at the door.

It’s not exactly loud, but it feels like a crash of thunder inside.

They’re here.

I thought I was ready, but my heart’s bongo-ing, and I’m not feeling brave anymore. I tell myself it’s probably just a final warning or something, but I’m not sure that I have it in me to open that door.

I creep over, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards, and peer through the peephole.

A man’s profile. Strong nose, perfectly straight. Whisker stubble leading up to an imperious cheekbone. Pillowy, slightly thuggish lips.

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