Page 5 of Paint the Town, Dove
More.
“Who said anything about drinks?” I jibed, turning away from one of the only sane people keen enough to help me forget.
But only one thing was strong enough to do that.
And drugs were more effective anyways.
Chapter Two
Scarlett
“fight fire with gasoline”
“Mr. Turner, allow me to apologize once more for the late cancellation.”
I wasn’t sorry. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have been the one saving face for Ryden’s carelessness again.
“Simply put Ms. Blake, if Mr. Spectre cancels on another interview, there will be no further postponing. Understood?”
Abe Turner was the head organizer at GQ for public relations and marketing. I’d spoken to him a handful of times to ensure Ryden’s article landed a top spot in the Fall Flavour column, andsimply put, he was a complete jackass.
Despite the fact, that jackass would have wired thousands into Ryden’s bank account for a single hour of his time.
“Emory-Blake, Mr. Turner.”
“We mustn’t scatter ourselves with the specifics, Ms. Blake.”
Like I said.Jackass.
“… It’s today at noon or veto the deal.”
Clamping my phone between my shoulder and ear, I lodged my key into the lock of Ryden’s suite and pushed inside, spotting him within seconds.
I let out a long, dragged out sigh. “This again,” I muttered, barely a whisper. Every fibre of my being fought against the urge to sack him, flayed out limbs on the cashmere carpet, a garden of lipstick painting his torso like rose petals.
Something burned inside of me and I doused it in gasoline, relishing in the sting as the red flames ignited, a match against my scarlet hair.
“Jesus,” I puffed. These fucking messes he’d create.The bad decisions he couldn’t stop making.When would it end?
My stilettos speared the hardwood floor, clinking like knives against a cutting board. I expected him to flinch, but naturally he didn’t move.
“Noon is perfect,” I hissed through teeth. “I’ll have Ryden sign the agreement now.”
The line died before I could say my goodbyes. Fuck that, to hell with formality. Abe Turner may have been a scumbag, but I happened to have an even bigger one lifeless in front of me.
A bucket of melted ice sat atop the glass table beside the green velvet couch, tempting.
I didn’t think twice.
“Down came the rain,” I hummed, watching his limp body jolt out of paralysis. “And washed the spider out.”
“WHAT THE FU –” he bit his tongue, realizing who he was talking to. “Oh, Scar. Hey.”
I threw the bucket to the side. “Did I wake you?”
His arms were the first to stretch out, wobbly as he attempted to steady himself upright. “Could’ve called.”
“Where’s your phone?”
