Page 50 of Rider Daddies
Locked, just as expected.
Minchia.
“Check the drawers,” she suggests.
Carefully, I pull them out one at a time, searching for a key. Nothing.
Same thing with all of the cabinets.
“What about on top of the desk?” Allie comes over to search. “Might be hiding in plain sight.”
It’s hopeless. The only object on top of the desk, aside from the pile of documents, is a stale mug of coffee that has been left to rot. I lift it up to see if anything could’ve been left under it.
“Niente.”
“We should get back upstairs,” Allie says, “before we’re caught.”
“No. We’re getting out of here.”
That’s when footsteps start to echo down the hall.
“We’re screwed,” Allie whispers, terror taking over every inch of her face.
“We’re not screwed,” I say, looking for somewhere to hide, because there’s a high chance that we might be well and truly fucked.
After assessing the very bleak surroundings, I duck under the front desk. “Psst,” I call. “Down here.”
“I don’t think you realize just how fucking bad this is going to end for both of us,” Allie whispers as joins me under the desk.
I ignore the nerves that are congealing in my stomach and stay down as the footsteps grow closer. Allie’s icy expression is not helping matters.
I can’t help but wonder—is this what my life has come to?
I moved away from home at the age of sixteen to study my ass off for years, almost marry a creep and spend the rest of my life in an abandoned motel waiting to be sold?
Maybe some people don’t get good endings.
I exhale a shaky breath and stay low as the footsteps get even closer. Each one knocks my heart off-balance, my pulse losing its tempo.
I’m angry at Tristan for lying to me, but I’m even more enraged at myself for not seeing the signs. Not like there were any to begin with…but I still should’ve fucking known. He’s a sickasshole who probably makes more money doing this than he does working his day job.
The signs were there. Maybe I was choosing not to see them. How the hell did he afford to come to work dripping in new luxury designer clothing every single day? He never wore the same outfit twice, and I can vouch for that because I walked into his closet enough times to know. Tom Ford. Ermenegildo Zegna. Saint Laurent. Lawyers receive handsome paychecks, but they’re not handsome enough to build state-of-the-art penthouses. To be able to afford fine dining every single day of the week on their lunch breaks.
The footsteps enter the reception lobby.
Damn, I hope the paychecks that Manual hands over are worth it.
Without a second thought, I launch myself over the front desk and do what any normal human being would—growl into the man’s face.
But oh, this isn’t any old man.
This is Tristan.
I should’ve sensed that stench from a mile off.
He grabs my hand while I still have it pressed to his shoulder, and takes control of it. I’m dragged by my ass along the desk, the piles of papers taking to the air.
“What are you doing down here? You shouldn’t be down here.”
