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“If you can just make sure she rests,” I tell her. “When I’m at work. She has a tendency to do too much.”
Natasha nods. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“Very well. I’ll keep this between us.”
I didn’t ask her to.
“As you wish.”
She nods and she’s gone.
I’m alone again in my study, and the pain pills have begun to kick in. They’re taking the edge off, at least. I can breathe around the pain now.
I answer a couple of e-mails, waiting to see if I get even more relief as time passes. I don’t.
With a sigh, I eye my grandfather’s bar on the other side of the room. A throw-back to times lost, it’s a full-bar.
Without giving myself a moment to second-guess, I cross the room, pour a couple fingers of scotch, and gulp it down.
That should help.
And it does. Within minutes, the pain has dulled. Hopefully, enough to sleep. I make my way quietly back to my bedroom, slip in next to Mila, and drift off to sleep.
* * *
“Mr. Tate, your two o’clock is here.”
Sasha’s voice is loud on my phone’s intercom. It snaps me awake, because I’d almost dozed off. Sleeping only a couple of hours because of pain sucks balls.
“Thank you, Sasha,” I answer, punching at the button. “Send them in.”
I don’t even know who my two o’clock is. That’s how dim-witted I feel today. I rub at my eyes, and then rub at my knee.
I’m a fucking mess.
“Dude, you look like shit.”
Gabe strides in, with Brand on his heels. They are both dressed in slacks and button-up shirts.
“You’re my two o’clock?” I roll my eyes and stand up. “I thought it was a real meeting.”
Gabe stares at me indignantly. “We are a real meeting. We have fourth quarter profit and loss statements to go over with you.”
“Snore,” I tell him.
“Why do you look like shit?” Brand asks me curiously, as he sets his briefcase down on my conference table in the corner.
“I didn’t realize that I do.”
“You do,” he assures me.
“You still hurtin’?” Gabe asks, his brow furrowed. “I’ve got the name of a damn good PT if you want it. He can get you straightened out.”
