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Hugh booms, "But I'm getting drained!"
I add, "That sucks. I'm sure the bank will figure it out though. Best to stay calm. Besides, the bank has to refund your money if it's a hack."
"They have. But as soon as they refund me, another hack occurs."
"Maybe you should move banks," I suggest, rolling my deodorant over my armpit.
"It's happening at all five places my accounts are at," he frets.
"Shit," I mutter, but I know he's in it deeper than he's stating. The offshore accounts don't refund your money in the event of a hack. Jones looked into it. When he confirmed, it only made everything sweeter. I guess that's the price you pay for screwing over your business partner and clients.
"Someone's after me!" Hugh claims.
"Sounds like it," I agree, knowing it'll only make him more paranoid.
"Who the fuck has the balls to come after me?" he barks.
I stare at my reflection, giddy. I answer, "Someone with big balls."
He grunts.
"I have to go. Stay calm. It'll all get worked out. If anything happens to our business accounts, notify me immediately." I hang up before he can say anything else.
I whistle as I get dressed, feeling like I just took a hit of a really potent drug. Hugh's call came after I sent him a picture of Blakely in a white bra and panty set. I wrote a little note to go with it.
Me: Maybe I'll marry her and knock her up.
A slew of pissed-off texts followed.
Hugh: I know who you are, you son of a bitch.
Me: Sure you do.
Hugh: Deliver my daughter to me tonight. Or I'm putting a hit on your head.
Me: You'd have to know who I am to do that. And you don't.
He continued tossing texts at me, even though I stopped responding. Ten minutes later, I got the call.
"You're in a good mood," Blakely declares, stepping into the closet.
I tug her into me and kiss her.
She freezes, then kisses me back.
It's something that happens more often every time I kiss her. I don't know why she freezes. She never used to. I chalk it up that I'm taking her by surprise and don't linger on it like I sometimes do. Nothing is going wrong today. I proclaim, "I am. Today's your big day."
Nervousness floods her features.
I peck her lips and assert, "Don't be nervous. You said you were ready."
She takes a deep breath, smiles, and nods. "You're right. I am."
"That's my girl!" I praise, then pat her ass. "Get ready so we're not late. Traffic's going to be a bitch." I leave the room and reply to a few emails, continuing to feel like I'm on top of the world.
Blakely appears, wearing ripped designer jeans, an oversized lavender sweater, and brown ankle boots. She chose it when I took her shopping last weekend. Her hair hangs in her natural beachy waves, and she has minimal makeup on.
"You look great," I tell her.
