Craving Flight (18 page)

I take a seat and scribble notes while he—salt-and-pepper hair already in disarray, blue eyes blazing—rages at top volume. He’s taken his suit coat off, his tie’s been flung over a standing lamp, and he’s pacing while he shouts. It’s a good thing Lucy got her shit together so I at least have a cup of coffee to down amidst his emphatic cursing. He’s very creative with his insults. They can be almost Shakespearean.

“Shit-eating maggots have more sense than these people do. They wouldn’t know which end was up if they were part of the human centipede.”

I see we’re going more contemporary today. And so it goes. On. And on. And on.

*

Three hours later,
I collapse at my desk. At least when I check my personal cell, there’s a text from Rey:

Call me.

This is promising. I take a well-deserved minute to do just that, resting my feet on my desk.

“Aloha, kitten.”

“Hawaii?”

“If you don’t mind the flight.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. I’ll have Matthew make the arrangements.”

“You’re the best. Give Matty a kiss for me.”

“Will do. We’ll talk later.”

I press the end call button on my phone and tuck it back into my purse. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about anymore. Seventy-two hours of debauchery and my clock will be reset. I’ll be good to go for another month or so. I take a deep breath and close my eyes before I press the intercom button.

“Lucy.”

“More coffee, Ms. Burke?”

“Please.”

It’s going to be a long day.

*

Twelve hours later,
I’m on my way home and Jack’s got a draft of the report on his desk. He’ll hate it, but it’s better to give him a product that needs a lot of work than to give him nothing at all. He’s not difficult to manage once you understand him, but I think most of my predecessors—my many,
many
predecessors—were scared off before they had the chance.

Not me. I’ve got my sights set on running the place one day. Of course, I’ll have to change the name. Jack Valentine Associates has a nice ring to it, but I think Burke Consulting Group sounds better. I’ll get rid of the heavy wood and leather bank décor and go more airy and modern. But I’ve got a few years to plan my interior decorating. Jack’s still got two kids in college from his second marriage. Or are they from his third? I can never keep track, although I know he’s on wife number four. Candi—with an
i
that I bet the vacuous woman dots with a fucking heart. Thinking about her bottle-blonde head and unsubtle boob job make me cringe. There you have reasons number seventy-eight and seventy-nine why I’ll never get married: becoming that or being left for that.

At any rate, I think I’ve got, at most, seven years before I’m in Jack’s corner office. Which is reason number three: it’s hard to sit behind that luxuriously big desk if you’ve got a husband and kids on the other end of your phone. I know people do it and do it well, but it can’t be easy and it’s not worth the bother to me. I didn’t bust my ass at Princeton and Columbia to change diapers, oh no.

I spend the rest of my drive mentally redecorating Jack’s office and selecting the color scheme for my business cards. By the time I’ve parked my car in the garage, stumbled into and out of the elevator, and made it down the endless hallway to my apartment, it’s eleven thirty, and I debate whether or not to call Rey. After a minute of half-hearted agonizing while I kick off my shoes and hang my bag by the door, I dial. If he’s busy, he’ll let it go to voicemail, but it’s rare he doesn’t take my calls. Sometimes if he’s in the middle of a training, but often even then.

“Kitten, I’m glad you called. I’ve been waiting on you.”

“I hope not. I should’ve texted to say I’d be late. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve been looking forward to talking, that’s all. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”

“Hawaii’s a good start. What else have you got for me?”

“Y’ever play with a Cris Ardmore?”

I pause for a second. “No. Would I know him by any other name?”

“Nope.” I hear his smirk all the way from the Castro, and I know why. He knows it annoys me when people play with ridiculous fake names (e.g., Strider the Hobbit), which is pretty hypocritical but can’t be helped. I have huge respect for anyone who plays with their real names. “He goes by Cris. No
h
.”

My nose wrinkles.

“No
h
, huh?” The respect-o-meter has gone down. That’s almost as bad as Candi with an
i
. Why no
h
? I shouldn’t be too harsh. His parents could be dingbats, and I shouldn’t fault the guy for that. God knows I’d get scrapped from just about anything if having sane parents were a requirement.

“Give the guy a break, India.”

“You know me too well. Tell me more about this Cris Ardmore.”

“He’s on the big island, been active in the scene for a long time there and on the West Coast. I asked around—no one’s got a bad thing to say about the guy. Safe player, knows the rules, keeps his subs happy.”

“Why haven’t I run into him before?”

Rey pauses, and I wonder if his hesitation is from reluctance or because he’s so damned delighted with himself he wants to make a royal pronouncement.

“He’s monogamous with his subs, and he just ended a five-year contract.”

Holy. Shit.

“I get to be the rebound fuck?” I squeal with delight.

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re the best! How did you pull this off?”

“I know a guy.”

“You know
all
the guys.” I hold my phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pour the last of a bottle of Malbec into a glass. “But seriously, you’re amazing. What do you want? I’ll do anything.”

He laughs. “Why don’t you wait until you get back to sell your soul to the devil?”

“You’re hardly the devil. I’m about to sing you the fucking Hallelujah chorus.”

“And you’d sound like an angel, but we don’t have time. Matthew is putting together a dossier for you. In the meantime, anything specific you want to know about the illustrious Mr. Ardmore?”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-nine.”

Well within my range.

“Do I get a picture?”

“You do.”

“Is his contract weird?”

“I don’t have it yet. He has to write one.”

That’s not unusual. Most of the guys Rey finds for me don’t keep contracts like this on hand.

“Was he surprised to get your call?”

“They always are.”

I snort. I know.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Reyes Llewellyn Walter. I could kiss you on the mouth.”

“Monday night. We’ll see if you still want to kiss me or if we’ve moved on to the punching phase. For now, go change into that sexy lingerie I know you wear when I’m not there and get some beauty sleep. Don’t want to be all puffy for—”

“Cris Ardmore,” I breathe, my mouth caressing his name. The more I say it, the more I like it. I don’t even notice the missing
h
much anymore. Yes, Mr. Cris Ardmore sounds promising.

*

A good thing,
too, because the rest of my week is a fucking misery. The report gets done well and on time, but not for the lack of everyone and their mother trying to fuck me over. Tuesday went a lot like this:

“Janis, I don’t care who you have to screw to get those numbers. Hell, I don’t care who
I
have to screw to get those numbers, but I need them by close of business, or we’ll all be fucked and not in a nice way.

“Look, this is my job on the line, but it’s your life. If this doesn’t work out, they know it’s not our fault and you’re going to flat-out lose the units. They’re going to take your funding away, Janis. Every penny. Is that how you want to go down in history?

“Every single motherfucking last housing authority is watching you and I would suggest not making any more of a hash out of this than you already have. Get me the goddamn vacancy numbers by the end of the day, or I’ll make the call to Cooper myself.”

I slam the receiver down and am surprised by a slow clap coming from my door.

“Well done, Ms. Burke. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You know I do, Jack. I just like to save it for special occasions, not wank off every day like you.”

Thankfully, he laughs like I thought he would. I’ve caught him in a good mood. His hair’s only slightly disheveled, and his tie’s still on.

“What’s up?” I ask, not bothering to take my feet off my desk.

Jack launches into concerns about some of the other projects we’re working on. I take notes on things I need to take care of and issue assurances on what I’ve already dealt with. It’s not the longest laundry list he’s ever had for me, and everything should be taken care of by the time I leave.

He says on his way out, “You sure are earning that three-day weekend you talked me into.”

“I always do.”

“Yes, you do.”

Though I technically only get two weeks of vacation per year, I’ve talked Jack into giving me three for all intents and purposes. He doesn’t seem to care as long as it doesn’t interfere with my projects. Not to mention he can see the difference when I get back. I’m more focused, more patient, work longer hours, and don’t flinch no matter how harsh he is. All in all, well worth it for him.

I check my personal cell when he’s gone, and there’s another text from Rey:

LMK when you’re home. I’ve got a messenger in a holding pattern.

Fun. This must be the dossier on Cris Ardmore. That will make for some interesting reading while I lounge in the tub with a glass of Pinot tonight. But first…

“Lucy!”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

This budget for the City of La Jolla is a certified disaster, and it needs to be dealt with before I can go home. I don’t bother to start looking at the spreadsheets until Lucy delivers what may as well be manna from heaven. She might be incapable of anticipating my needs, but the woman makes a damn good cup of coffee. I take a sip and dive in, emerging seven hours later with my rank gym bag and my ubiquitous roller bag stuffed with my laptop, notes for tomorrow, and a draft of the LAHA report Jack will scream at me for the second he gets me on the phone.

I text Rey as soon as I get home, and ten minutes later, there’s a hipster with gauged ears and too many tats at my door. I guess Rey really did have him in a holding pattern. I give him a bottle of water and a nice tip before I send him on his way, and then slip into my waiting tub and get some more info on Mr. Ardmore.