Page 16 of His Good Girl
“I’ll make you some lunch while you’re here,” Rose shouts from the kitchen.
“I’m going to work out.”
“It’ll be waiting when you finish.”
“Okay.” There is no point arguing with her. I won’t win. It’s probably her best day ever, getting me home at lunchtime to stuff my face with glorious food while she has the chance.
Clutching the envelope, I run up the stairs, two at a time, throwing it on the bed before I take my coat off and hang it up. Stripping off my work clothes, I change into a pair of black sweats and a tight black tee, sitting on the edge of the bed to tie up my running shoes.
Picking up the envelope again, marveling at my own willpower for not having ripped it open and devoured every word yet, I head back downstairs and out to the enclosed terrace where the treadmill is. Stepping on and standing with my feet on the sides, I place the envelope under my arm and set it to a moderate jogging pace, feeling the chill of the cold winter day hits my bare arms. Bracing myself, I step on and start to jog, taking the envelope and sliding my finger under the flap. Pulling out a set of papers, there is a post-it stuck to the front.
Basic info. More to follow.
I start reading.
Serena Jane Wakefield was born to Clive and Cilla Wakefield twenty-five years ago. Just. Her birthday was two months ago today. She is an only child and grew up as part of the elite. Went to the best schools, but failed to finish university, choosing to start work as an admin temp two years into her degree to be a, I’m intrigued to say, lawyer. She has been doing that ever since through the Blue Cloud agency, picking up the odd job here and there for the last several years. She lives on the other side of the city in the lower rent area, which makes me madly curious. Did her parents disown her, or did she choose not to accept their money? Either way, she is making it on her own, so good for her. She doesn’t have a driver’s license but does have a passport. No other official documentation so far. Her credit history is lacking. She has no credit cards. Lives day to day, it seems, from her debit purchases. I don’t even stop to ask how he obtained that information. No boyfriend found. Last known man in her life, according to her social media, was a month ago, but it lasted a couple of weeks, and that’s it.
There is no mention of her association with Quentin, which isn’t surprising, and while I now know many things about her, I still don’t know her. Stuffing the papers back into the envelope, I throw it onto the terrace table set up near the treadmill.
“Logan?” I look up at Rose’s voice. “Your phone has been ringing off the hook.” She hands it to me.
I take it with a smile of thanks and glance at the screen.
Answering it with a suppressed sigh, I keep jogging, not breaking stride. “Quentin.”
“We are outside your door. Open up.”
He hangs up, and I roll my eyes. I seriously need to sweep this place for bugs again. Wondering why he didn’t bother to knock, or perhaps he didn’t want to encounter Rose, I stop the treadmill and jump off, crossing through the apartment to open the front door.
“You don’t knock?” I ask sarcastically before I turn and head back out to the terrace.
Hearing them follow me, and sliding the door closed, Quentin and the Society Enforcer, Isaac, join me outside. Leaning up against the railing of the balcony, my arms folded, I realize my positioning may not be the safest, but not giving a fuck, I regard Quentin closely. He doesn’t seem pissed, so I doubt this is about Serena going crying to him about what a dick I am. Also, he probably wouldn’t have brought Isaac on personal business.
“What’s up?” I ask, keeping a watchful eye on the bloodthirsty Enforcer. Standing twice as wide as me and three inches taller than my six-two, he could throw me over the side of this building without breaking a sweat.
“We have a problem, and we need you to fix it,” Quentin says, his gaze wandering over the brown envelope, but disregarding it as his green eyes, just like hers, land on me.
“What’s that then?”
“Shelley Thorpe.”
“Ah.” This all makes sense now.
Quentin nods, taking my one syllable as acquiescence. “Well, we shall leave you to your running, and whatever delicious meal Rose is making for you in there.”
Nodding, I don’t bother to ask what they want me to do. It’s obvious, and to be honest, I’m not cut up about it. Shelley was a bad mistake on my part and one that I have no problem cleaning up.
Isaac silently opens the terrace door again and waits for Quentin to sweep through before following him after a vicious glare at me.
Seeing them out, I close the front door quietly and lean my forehead against it.
That was close. Too close. I can’t have information on Serena lying around where he can pick it up and see it. I need to shred it, then shred it again and ask the P.I. to stand down. I don’t need to know anything else about her. I don’t want to know. She needs to be forgotten, and the best way to do that is to find someone to take out my frustrations on. It’s not like there aren’t a dozen or more takers who would be happy to end up in my bed, even if that means them getting hurt in the process.
“You ready to eat?” Rose asks, breaking my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I croak, knowing this isn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped. My first priority is to find someone who looks like Serena Wakefield and then unleash the debauched soul that resides within me to ease the craving I have for her. One slice of the blade at a time.
Chapter11
