AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I absorbed this—disappointed. If these were the highlights, then the full profile on Dawson didn’t say anything interesting.
Me: That’s it? Did you check her accounts? Texts? SM? You gotta have more than that.
Sunny: Her security is impressive. She’s got the bank account to pay for real protection, and she does. Plus, she’s a scheming traitor. She knows firsthand what happens when you don’t watch your back.
Me: You telling me we don’t have the bank account to break her protection?
Sunny: We do but not quickly or I’d have done it already. Damien Stone and Courtney Hicks were as easy as breaking into an unlocked house. Dawson’s more a vault. Ryker says he’s still working on it.
Me: Tell him to work faster.
Sunny: Is she a threat to Angel? If you’ve got a feeling she’s about to try something, kill her. Don’t fuck around waiting for Ryker.
I grinned. No, Sunny was my favorite person. Violence first—the guy just gets me.
Me: Like I would. Don’t worry about shit over here. Feisty is in good hands.
Sunny: Did Bane finally replace you as bodyguard?
Me: Fuck you
With that goodbye, I stuffed my phone in my pocket and marched into Hollywell’s office. His shouting receptionist didn’t slow my stride. Honestly, if she’s not willing to tackle me, why does she even have a job?
“Hollywell.”
“What the—?” He dropped the phone scrabbling to hang it up. “Who are you? You can’t just—”
“I need to get around the building without getting held up by a writhing sack of tentacles in a tight dress. Give me one of those employee passes everyone keeps going on about.”
He gaped at me. “I beg your pardon? If you’re Miss Blaine’s guard, you’re to go nowhere without her. Now leave my office.”
I bored over his desk, pressing the man’s back against his seat. Some people asked how it is I—a slim, blonde beauty with a model’s face and a porn star’s ass—so easily intimidated men twice my size. Simple, it’s in the eyes.
One look in my eyes and they see the pain awaiting them if they continue on the unwise path they’re on.
I got my tenth-grade English teacher to change my C to an A with that look. Well, I was also holding a knife at the time, but it’s still all the look.
“We haven’t been introduced because I have better things to do than chat with soft-bottom dudes polishing the throne they somehow still manage to own in a female-dominated industry.”
“What? I—”
“I’m Genevieve Hunt. I believe you know me as Ava Johnson,” I breezed. “The rest of the world knows me as the golden child and favorite of the Merchant family. Now, do you take my photo here, or do I do that in the HR office?”
Plastering a smile on his face, he straightened and said, “They’ll take care of everything in the HR office, Miss Hunt. I’ll call down myself and tell them to expect you.”
“Excellent, my good man,” I mocked, putting on a high-brow accent. “Cheerio.”
Skipping out, I blew past the security guards and slipped into the elevator while the receptionist screamed I was right behind them.
After my new pass was in hand, I began a proper, thorough tour of Caddell House—clocking every exit, noting the few security cameras, and getting a sense of where everyone was.
Dawson snagged herself the junior designer title. While she didn’t have her own office on a separate floor like Kenzie, junior designers had their own shared area to work away from the interns. While the interns’ workspace...
I ducked inside, taking in the racks upon racks of clothes against the wall, cutting through the walkway, or forming couture walls around hunched-over stitch bitches and their sewing machines.
It was interesting that they didn’t call this place the Closet. It certainly looked like mine—a disorganized hot mess.
Two rows of workstations claimed free space on the floor. I watched one guy take a suit off the rack. It shared the hanger with a little velvet pouch. He emptied the pouches contents, dumping the buttons on the table. One after the other, he got to work sewing them on.
The finishing touches. The grunt work. Could the guy we’re looking for be putting the trackers in the clasps beforehand and then leaving it to an intern to sew on?
If you’re type A and a victim of sabotage, you do it all yourself like Kenzie. Otherwise, you pass this kind of thing onto the free labor. So that’s the question: Do I believe the genius that’s gotten away with this scam for months did so by sticking their trackers in a pouch and passing it off to inexperienced hands?
What if they found one of the trackers and asked what it was? What if they didn’t sew it on right and the damn thing fell off? What if Intern Bob spilled his coffee on it? Would a person that’s been so smart leave this to chance?
