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Blaine arched a brow, sighing as he held out my pistol and a clean hand towel. “Are you seriously not going to kill him yet?”
I grabbed the towel, wiping my hands off before taking my gun. “I'm nowhere near done with him,” I sneered. “I’m going to need that information from him soon.”
He nodded, as I dropped the towel to the floor. Without another word, I spun to leave them to clean up the mess I had just made. Whatever Jesse knew had to be of use to me. He was not the type of guy to just fire off useless information, but I knew he wanted me to suffer.
I had no time for any games right now. Keeping Isabelle safe and continuing to keep my promise to her father, was my focus right now.
I arrived in my bedroom, immediately marching to my bathroom. Turning on the hot water in the shower, I stepped in to clean myself and think. The soothing water cascaded down my body as I washed then rested my forehead against the wall reflecting back on the timeline of events.
My mind shifted to Isabelle, daydreaming about her in the shower with me. I sighed, grabbing my shaft, and stroking several times before frustration overtook my mind once again. I groaned in anger as I finished rinsing my body then went to bed. Work would come early.
This morning, as I opened my eyes, I instantly became startled. Jolting my body into a sitting position, I held the blankets tightly around my chest. I sighed as I recalled relocating to the penthouse yesterday. I was in a completely new bedroom, in a totally new environment with an entirely new life, or so it seemed.
I rolled over, glancing at my phone. Picking it up, I textedSiras promised.
Good morning, this is my a.m. check in. Have a great day! :)
I put my phone back down then went to shower. Deciding to skip my run today, I thought I would just hang out around my new apartment. As I was brushing my teeth, I heard my phone ring, so I quickly skipped into my bedroom, picking it up without seeing who it was.
Hello?I answered.
Hello Miss Ayala, this is Samantha from VCG International. I have your application and resume in front of me. I was calling to see if you would like to come in for an interview today,she quickly blurted all at once.
I'm sorry. How did you get this number? I queried.I don't mean to come off rude, but this is a brand-new phone and number.
It's the only number we have for you, she announced.
Okay, yes ma'am. Sure, I would love the interview, I beamed.
Does 4:00 p.m. work for you? she requested.
Yes, absolutely thank you! I danced in place.See you then.
Of course,Ms. Ayala. I will send you over the address in your email.
I hung up. What was that? How did she know my name? I did fill out some applications, but none of them had my current phone number on them. I sighed. I quickly threw on some comfortable clothes then ran downstairs.
The aroma of bacon and coffee filled the air, reminding me of my early childhood. My mother would always cook a large breakfast on the weekend. I smiled, reminiscing as I cautiously approached the kitchen. I assumed maybe Joseph had felt inspired, but I gasped when I stepped through the archway to see the back of a man at the stove. The man turned around with a pan in his hand and memories flooded back, to when Sir and I were in the kitchen late at night, not that long ago.
“I will be your personal chef,” the stranger greeted me with a grin.
I took a deep breath, sighing in relief when I realized it was not the same voice from the house. He was definitely the same shape from what I could tell, but it was unquestionably not him. I waltzed to a bar stool at the island and perched on the seat.
“Hi,” I smiled, “I'm Isabelle.”
He stepped over to a pitcher, pouring a glass of orange juice then placed it on a cocktail napkin in front of me. “I’m Michelangelo.”
“Oh, my favorite turtle,” I blurted awkwardly.
I took a sip of my orange juice, but immediately placed my lips back onto the rim of the glass, letting it dribble back. I silently gagged, wincing as I wiped any residue off my lips with my thumb. Michelangelo looked on with wide eyes at my rude display.
“But it is fresh squeezed!” he defended.
“It's probably great,” I nodded, still trying to rid myself of the taste. “I'm sorry but I just brushed my teeth.”
He smirked, turning back to the stove. I rolled my eyes at my terribly rude reaction, but there was no hiding it. Orange juice and toothpaste were never a great combination.
“Donatello,” he murmured with his back still turned toward me.
