Page 77 of Five
Gabe raises his usual eyebrow at me, then he says, “A car will be waiting for you downstairs at seven-thirty to take you to work. I sent you the driver’s name, his photo, and the car’s plate.”
“I have a car. I can drive myself.”
“The wiener mobile, as Rami calls it. The driver is for protection.”
“Mr. Hot Shot and Bird Turd are still out there. It’s for my own protection. I got it.” I almost roll my eyes.
“It is for your own protection, and the rest of Chicago’s population after I saw, once again, the way you drive last night.”
That’s why people wear slippers, to throw them at stupid, unmoving, handsome faces. He turns and leaves, closing the door before I can tell him where he can shove his driver together with the car.
Going to my room, I have no intention of following Gabe’s order, when my phone on the nightstand beeps.
Gabe: Take the car with the driver. Look at it this way, he’ll stop anywhere you want to go on the way to work.
Is he psychic as well? The proposition is tempting though. I have unfinished business I’d like to be done with. I decide that I’ll take his suggestion to make a quick stop.
I open the small box I left on the dresser, and pushing the cardboard away, I gently place my gran’s urn on top of it.
“You always said that life is unpredictable, like pear and cheese. You were right…as always.” I kiss my fingers and place them onthe metal lid. Sadness, guilt and melancholy fight inside me and I’m powerless against them for a minute.
Then I turn to the boxes filled with clothes and shoes on the floor. Where am I supposed to put them? The wardrobe is the tiniest I've ever seen and my metal rack is full already.
Which brings me to the next question: how long am I supposed to stay here?
I look at the dresser and open the first drawer. There’s a huge box filled with every color and more of nail polish, all unopened. The next one has jockstraps in my size, still with the tags. The next brand-new sports bras. Are they all for me? Each drawer has something…especially for me.
How long did Gabe talk with Ollie for? The sight of all the purchases he made leaves me breathless. He took the time to call my bestie and then instructed his housekeeper—which from him, is huge. A sense of gratefulness floods me, and Gabe infiltrates a little deeper inside my chest.
I go to the bathroom and check all the products again. Some are things I normally use while others are brands I always wanted to buy, but couldn’t. Then I go to the kitchen again. The fridge and cupboards have all my favorite foods and every possible ingredient to make delicious salads.
Bloody hell, I think my brain has just imploded.
Yesterday, when Gabe threatened my landlord, it made me want to kneel at his feet and show him my gratitude in a very specific way—didn’t appreciate the damsel part, but seeing that side of him was bloody hot. But this? This means so much more to me.
I lie back against the counter, puzzled by Gabe’s attentiveness.
Why is the man that spent the last months barely acknowledging me showing such care now?
Let’s welcome whatever fresh hell today has to offer.
I got out of the car with a spring in my steps. Cheerfully thanking the driver/bodyguard, Arnold—he has more muscle than the real Schwarzenegger—I look up at the glass and concrete front of Reed Law Firm shining brightly in the morning sun. It’s getting hotter really fast. The cute silky blouse and black pleated shorts I’m wearing feel a tad too warm on my skin.
By the time I push through the revolving doors, the guy at the entrance has recognized me and is greeting me. Despite the soreness between my legs I manage to walk to the elevators, waiting patiently to get to my floor. But when I arrive to my cubicle, all my stuff is gone. It’s empty!
What the bloody fuck? Where’s my Sponge Bob mouse mat? And my purple lava lamp? Someone is going to die if I don’t get my Yoda pen back.
All my chirpy mood is gone, replaced by murderous intentions.
I march to the floor supervisor’s office, the Sloth. As soon as he sees me, he smiles. He’s a weird jolly bloke, always happy, but so damn slow—hence his nickname.
“Oh. You’re here,” he says.
“Where’s my stuff?” I get to the point, or he’ll try to keep me here all morning talking about his ant farm.
“You’ve been transferred.” The Sloth relaxes in his chair, lacing his fingers on his flat stomach.
“This is utter tosh! Again? Why?” What did I do now? Maybe the right question is what didn’t I do?
