Do Not Disturb
Page 39
The asshole keys a few more entries and then looks up. “Anything else, man?”
Man? I am not your man. I am your fucking employer. Treat me with some goddamn respect before I shove six inches of it up your ass. “I want to know who owns this website and how to find her.”
“Find her?” The man looks intimidated for the first time, his tattooed Adam’s apple moving up and down with his swallow, and he glances back at the “BLOCKED ACCESS” title on the screen. “I thought you were stuck here, couldn’t…”
“Get me the fucking information,” Marcus growls. “And get the fuck outta my chair.”
The tattooed man takes his time, the slow shuffle as he stores his tablet and moves away from the desk, lighting a new flare of anger in Marcus as he returns to his seat, glares at the man, and thinks of prison. This kid would have been his bitch within the hour, respectful eight ways to Sunday.
He watches the man’s slow exit and calls out to him as he pulls at the heavy doorknob. “Tonight. I want the information tonight.”
No response, not a “yes, sir” or a “right away.” The lack of response burns, and the numbers in front of him blur, his focus pulling, his desire to explore her site competing with the disrespect of the kid. Who hired that piece of shit?
He controls himself, taking a moment before reaching over and yanking up the phone. He calls the redheaded servant, who jumps on the line before the second ring. Finally. Someone with some respect. The kid was growing on him, despite the red hair. “I’m expecting some information from that asswipe who just left here. As soon as he delivers it, fire his ass.”
CHAPTER 46
THE LOOK BETWEEN Jeremy and the salesperson puts a dent in my “I’m not going to kill anyone today” outlook. I growl under my breath and open the door, sliding into the driver’s seat and opening my purse. I pull out my driver’s license and hold it out, waiting.
Five seconds pass.
Ten.
Twenty.
I turn, looking up at JagPusher. “That’s what you need, right? For a test drive?”
“Ma’am, this car has only eight miles on it.” The man’s smile is gone, a terse exasperation in its place.
“And?”
“And it costs a hundred and four thousand dollars,” Jeremy whispers loudly from behind the man.
“It seems like, at that price point, you’d be a little more helpful,” I snap, facing forward again, the license still dangling from my hand.
I wait for a long, silent moment, then feel the jerk of plastic as he takes it. There is a pause, and I look over to see him examining the front. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were a distinguished resident of Mulholland Oaks Apartments. Please give the cockroaches my regards upon your return home.” He smiles acidly and spins, a flutter of suit and presumption, and strides toward the dealership, my license firmly in hand, as if he has evidence and is headed for the principal’s office.
I wrap my hands around the steering wheel, gripping the leather tightly, and imagine his neck between my palms, the whites of his eyes as I strangle the life from his chest. The heavy weight of his body as it slumps, dead, against me. I exhale a slow breath and enjoy the vision for one, final, moment before I push it aside.
I feel the car shift as the passenger door opens and Jeremy settles in. I open my eyes and glance his way.
“Nice car,” he remarks casually.
“Yep.”
“Am I a little off base or does—”
“You’re off base,” I interrupt him.
“Really? ’Cause the sticker says a hundred thousand dollars, which is a—”
“A hundred and four thousand,” I correct him. “Don’t presume to know my financial situation.”
That shuts him up and he sits, silent, for a moment, before fully turning to me. “You have a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yep.”
The return footfalls are double in number and I groan, opening the door and preparing for battle, stepping out and turning to face the oncoming pair, my unhelpful salesman and his older suited counterpart, a man whose irritated expression screams of a supervisory title.
“Ms. Madden,” JagPusher begins. “You have no car currently, or previously, registered in your name.”
I fold my arms, catching a glimpse of Jeremy in my peripheral vision. He sits, facing forward, a confused expression on his face, which is adorable enough for me to want to cover him in kisses. “Your point?”
“I don’t think we’re the dealership for you,” the manager says with dismissive authority.
Man? I am not your man. I am your fucking employer. Treat me with some goddamn respect before I shove six inches of it up your ass. “I want to know who owns this website and how to find her.”
“Find her?” The man looks intimidated for the first time, his tattooed Adam’s apple moving up and down with his swallow, and he glances back at the “BLOCKED ACCESS” title on the screen. “I thought you were stuck here, couldn’t…”
“Get me the fucking information,” Marcus growls. “And get the fuck outta my chair.”
The tattooed man takes his time, the slow shuffle as he stores his tablet and moves away from the desk, lighting a new flare of anger in Marcus as he returns to his seat, glares at the man, and thinks of prison. This kid would have been his bitch within the hour, respectful eight ways to Sunday.
He watches the man’s slow exit and calls out to him as he pulls at the heavy doorknob. “Tonight. I want the information tonight.”
No response, not a “yes, sir” or a “right away.” The lack of response burns, and the numbers in front of him blur, his focus pulling, his desire to explore her site competing with the disrespect of the kid. Who hired that piece of shit?
He controls himself, taking a moment before reaching over and yanking up the phone. He calls the redheaded servant, who jumps on the line before the second ring. Finally. Someone with some respect. The kid was growing on him, despite the red hair. “I’m expecting some information from that asswipe who just left here. As soon as he delivers it, fire his ass.”
CHAPTER 46
THE LOOK BETWEEN Jeremy and the salesperson puts a dent in my “I’m not going to kill anyone today” outlook. I growl under my breath and open the door, sliding into the driver’s seat and opening my purse. I pull out my driver’s license and hold it out, waiting.
Five seconds pass.
Ten.
Twenty.
I turn, looking up at JagPusher. “That’s what you need, right? For a test drive?”
“Ma’am, this car has only eight miles on it.” The man’s smile is gone, a terse exasperation in its place.
“And?”
“And it costs a hundred and four thousand dollars,” Jeremy whispers loudly from behind the man.
“It seems like, at that price point, you’d be a little more helpful,” I snap, facing forward again, the license still dangling from my hand.
I wait for a long, silent moment, then feel the jerk of plastic as he takes it. There is a pause, and I look over to see him examining the front. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were a distinguished resident of Mulholland Oaks Apartments. Please give the cockroaches my regards upon your return home.” He smiles acidly and spins, a flutter of suit and presumption, and strides toward the dealership, my license firmly in hand, as if he has evidence and is headed for the principal’s office.
I wrap my hands around the steering wheel, gripping the leather tightly, and imagine his neck between my palms, the whites of his eyes as I strangle the life from his chest. The heavy weight of his body as it slumps, dead, against me. I exhale a slow breath and enjoy the vision for one, final, moment before I push it aside.
I feel the car shift as the passenger door opens and Jeremy settles in. I open my eyes and glance his way.
“Nice car,” he remarks casually.
“Yep.”
“Am I a little off base or does—”
“You’re off base,” I interrupt him.
“Really? ’Cause the sticker says a hundred thousand dollars, which is a—”
“A hundred and four thousand,” I correct him. “Don’t presume to know my financial situation.”
That shuts him up and he sits, silent, for a moment, before fully turning to me. “You have a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yep.”
The return footfalls are double in number and I groan, opening the door and preparing for battle, stepping out and turning to face the oncoming pair, my unhelpful salesman and his older suited counterpart, a man whose irritated expression screams of a supervisory title.
“Ms. Madden,” JagPusher begins. “You have no car currently, or previously, registered in your name.”
I fold my arms, catching a glimpse of Jeremy in my peripheral vision. He sits, facing forward, a confused expression on his face, which is adorable enough for me to want to cover him in kisses. “Your point?”
“I don’t think we’re the dealership for you,” the manager says with dismissive authority.
