I fix my elbows on the cool glass of my desk, resting my face in my hands.
I knew I shouldn’t have taken on another hockey player. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I push off the edge of my desk to my feet, stretching to the ceiling as my head spins, trying to puzzle out another way to fix Benjamin’s problem.
Tempting King to break some sacred superstitious vow wouldn’t work anyway, right?
Although, the way he pumped that monster hard-on against me earlier suggests otherwise.
There’s a knock, and for the first time since I started taking clients here, I hesitate.
A peephole might not be a bad idea, but for now, I press the button and Mr. Hart swings the door wide, a creepy smile on his face per usual, striding into the office like he owns the place.
The sound of my brother choking up lingers as I plaster a controlled smile on my face, working out where I left off with Mr. Hart’s last session.
He’s certainly not a favorite client. His wife has him coming to me, trying to get him to understand his emotional disconnect, but if he doesn’t stop the passive-aggressive innuendo, and the lack of sincerity in his answers to my questions, this will behislast session.
“Come in,” I say, struggling to focus as the reality of how much my brother owes sinks in.
I need money and fast. Would Milton have more hockey players to send my way?
Even if he did, and they would pay double what I usually charge, it would take time to come up with that money.
Would they really kill him? Does that sort of thing really happen?
“You okay, sweetheart?” Mr. Hart eyes me, as he bends his left arm, pretending to check the time, making sure I see his Rolex like he does every session.
I nod, my game face solidly in place.
This client is a billionaire, and he probably drops a hundred grand in a night at the casino without a twitch. My split-secondthought of manipulating him into funding Benjamin’s debt turns my stomach.
Also, in an unexpected twist, after what happened with King, the idea of being with anyone else suddenly feels impossible.
“Let’s get started,” I say, moving to my desk and tapping on my keyboard, taking a breath as I pretend to look over my notes from the last session. “Follow me and we’ll get—”
An ear-piercing screeching explodes from above, cutting me off.
Strobe lights flash as the tortuously screaming alarm disorients me. Loud noises and flashing lights flip my panic switch as I slap my hands over my ears, struggling to catch myself.
“What the fuck?” Mr. Hart yells, looking up and around, then back at me, his face contorting in an angry grimace. “They testing the fire alarm today?”
Before I answer, freezing water rushes out in spirals from the sprinklers embedded in the ceiling, dousing us both as I release a high-pitched yelp and dart around my desk toward the door, my hands still plastered against the sides of my head.
“We need to get out. This isn’t a test!” I scream over the blaring alarm, but Mr. Hart is already at a dead run, swearing and cursing about how the water is going to ruin his suit, trying desperately to put his comb-over straight as he bolts, not looking back.
The alarm rages, vibrating into my chest as the spraying water becomes a deluge. My computer, my desk, my furniture, everything is soaked in seconds.
I shiver and struggle to breathe through the water streaming down my face, although I don’t smell smoke. The chaos of the alarm and the lights has me squeezing my eyes shut, poking my index fingers into my ears, begging for it to stop.
It’s a fire. Emee, you have to move.
What if I can’t make it out?
Everything I’ve worked for is here.
A dark voice inside my head breaks my trance.
Run, Emee. Run.
