Page 222 of Damaged Mogul
Breathe.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
When I reach ten, I fire off a response.
Lily: See you soon.
Puppet Master: Get here before my patience runs out.
I can’t wait to live on the other coast, far, far away from my puppet master.
Since returning to the Big Apple, I’ve been busy contacting different headhunters and temp agencies in Los Angeles. I also spent time checking out different neighborhoods where I could live. More than once, I was tempted to text Mikki, Keira, or Dom and ask them for help, but I refrained. I need to do this on my own.
Since LA’s subway system is a joke compared to New York’s, and distances are triple the travel time, I’ll have to buy a car to get around. Gridlock traffic will be a bitch. Being closer to Gage will more than make up for it.
I lift my eyes as a taxi comes to a screeching halt in front of me.
I jump into the back seat as a text message appears on my screen.
Puppet Master: Are you close? I don’t have all day. I have a company to run.
Lily: I texted you two minutes ago. I’m on my way. Please don’t text me again. You’re stressing me out.
I dump my phone at the bottom of my bag. “Fuck!”
The driver meets my gaze through the rearview mirror.
I roll my eyes.
He nods.
I’m about to rub my hands over my face, but catch myself. Smearing my makeup would only get me another verbal lynching from my puppet master.
I wish his business trip to Washington DC had extended even longer.
Sigh.
Since I have to eat––if I can hold anything down––Iintend on killing two birds with one stone. I might not be there by choice since he summoned me, but I sure as hell will leverage this face to face. The typical lunch or dinner with my father is the same old song and dance––it’s me sitting there, trying hard not to roll my eyes at what comes out of his mouth.
Not today.
By the time the salad is served, I’ll have informed him of my plans to move to LA.
Here goes nothing…
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Jean-Georges near Central Park—the three Michelin starred restaurant my father favors these days.
As I follow the maître d’ through the elegant eatery packed with the lunchtime crowd, the different aromas hit my nostrils all at once.
I place a hand on my stomach.
I’m going to be sick.
