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My dad married her three months after my mom died. Told you I was unlucky. We lost Mom to type one diabetes when I was ten. My dad was working nights, so the two of us were having girls night in. She and I were going to snuggle up and watch Beauty and the Beast right after she had a quick shower. She kissed me on the top of my head and told me to work on my spelling until she came down. Twenty minutes later, I realized something was wrong and went up to find her. By then it was too late. She was already gone.
That’s when Lorraine swooped in and snapped up my dad. He was a cop. A good one. And a great dad. Generous, but careful enough with his money so that we had a pretty nice house and no debt. Lorraine and her boys moved in, all traces of my mom immediately disappeared, and I was suddenly part of our ‘new family’. Three years later, my dad died. He got shot trying to break up a domestic disturbance.
And that was that.
I was alone with Mother Mary, Huey, Dewey, and Ewey (the one who always had a finger jammed up his nose).
As soon as I finished high school, I packed my lacy unmentionables and got the hell out of Virginia for good. Gray Boobs has left the building. I went to Washington University where I got my degree in economics, then managed to score my new job. I work for Theo Breckenridge—you know the one—the man who owns half of the western seaboard, the airline bearing his name, and most of the skyscrapers in downtown Seattle.
Mr. Breckenridge put an ad in the newspaper (seriously, the freaking newspaper) looking for a ‘bright, fun assistant’ and I answered it. It had nothing to do with my degree, but after six months of trying to find work and discovering that an economics degree is basically useless in the real world, I was willing to do just about anything to avoid going home again.
I’ve been working for him for almost a year now, and it’s been incredible. First of all, it pays well as far as assistant jobs go. But it’s the perks that really make it amazing. Mr. Breckenridge is eighty-five years young, and he’s trying to decide which charities get his billions. I know that sounds kind of sad, but it’s not. First, he’s super healthy and with it, so it could be another decade (or even two) before he says his final farewell. Second, he’s so happy that it’s impossible not to feel good when you’re around him. He’s a bit of a dirty old man, and he makes passes at me here and there, things like, ‘would you like me to share my endowment with you, Tabitha? It’s very generous.’ Wink, wink. It doesn’t bother me though because he’s harmless, and he’s only joking.
Besides, it’s kind of flattering in a weird way. This is probably because other than my ancient boss, I’m not exactly popular with the men folk. I’m pretty average looking—I’m a curvy, short girl with auburn, naturally curly hair that has to be kept at chin-length or it goes hog wild. I’m also super awkward around men and end up tripping over my own foot or spilling soup all over my lap. This actually happened once on a blind date. Tomato soup. Date over.
Anyway, I’m sure I could do better with them if I weren’t so awkward. But I am, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to change it.
Okay, back to the perks. I get to travel the world checking out organizations that apply for his grants. I examine ten charities per year and Mr. B chooses one that gets the big money. And I mean big, like with eight zeros at the end of a two.
Because of this, everywhere I go, I get wined and dined by desperate
people who would rub my feet if I asked (which I would never do because I’m not a total hag, and also my feet are super ticklish). They show me around, I carefully go through their books and create a report for Mr. Breckenridge.
So far in the past year, I’ve been to Japan, France, Slovenia (which is beautiful, by the way, and you should totally go), Iceland (amazing!), Peru, and Canada. (Side note: It’s true that Canadians are always super nice except for when they’re in line for double-doubles at Tim Horton’s and they’re late for work and you are at the front of that line asking too many questions, like, ‘what’s a double-double?’. Turns out it’s a coffee with two creams and two sugars.)
Okay, back to our story, right now I’m on the trip to end all trips, the one I’ve been waiting for my entire life. In exactly eleven minutes, I’m going to land in the very best place I can imagine. Tanzania. There is a conservation program there that submitted an application and I am about to spend three glorious weeks in the freaking Serengeti! I’ve spent the last twenty-two hours at airports and on planes, and I’m pretty sure I have noticeably bad B.O., and I haven’t slept a wink, but I don’t care. I’m filled with the most exciting energy I’ve ever known.
Africa is my dream. I’ve always—and I mean always—wanted to go there. Other girls played Barbies, but I played ‘safari adventure girl’ in my room by the hour. I even had one of those pith helmets. My mom bought it for me for my eighth birthday, along with a set of real binoculars (which are in my carry-on). The Lion King was by far my favorite cartoon growing up, and I’ve watched Out of Africa at least fifty times. And that video with Taylor Swift and Scott Eastwood (yum!)—you know the one—it makes me swoon every damn time I watch it. And now I get to be Taylor. Well, sort of. I’m not gorgeous like her, but still. Don’t laugh, but I even bought a big yellow gauzy scarf to hold up in the wind. I doubt I’ll actually do it, but you never know.
Two
GUNNER
“Yeah, I’m here.” I roll my eyes. I’m standing outside at the airport. It’s hot as fuck and I’m on the phone with my sister, Alicia, who loves micromanaging the shit out of everyone and everything. “Plane’s on time. She should land in ten.”
“Did you remember to bring water?”
“Yes, I picked up a pack of them on the way. They’re on ice in the jeep.” I try to control the edge in my voice because I know she’s just nervous. Everything makes her nervous, which is a strange quality for a woman who lives smack dab in the middle of the Serengeti, but she was born that way. I can still remember her tiny little fists balled up as she wailed night and day. I was only three at the time, but she cried so much that it’s burned into my memory.
To be honest, I’m not exactly what you’d call calm today, either. Today matters. I’m picking up a woman who, in the next three weeks, is going to decide if our wildlife conservation program will be given a grant big enough to keep us going for a lifetime or if we have to keep limping along with the resources we’ve got.
“What about some flowers? Maybe you should see if you can get some—”
“I’m not buying her flowers. For Christ’s sake, Alicia, this isn’t a first date.”
“Fine. It’s just really—”
“Important. I know. Believe me, I want this to work out, too.” I run a hand through my hair, and my gut tightens a little thinking about what’s at stake. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise. See you in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. Drive safely.”
“Yup.”
The plane lands right on time, and I watch as the stairs are wheeled into place, and the first of the passengers appear. It’s tourist after tourist, cameras already strung around their necks, safari hats on, looking tired from their long trip, but excited at the same time. I stand by the doors to the tiny airport, feeling like a total jackass holding a sign that says ‘Tabitha Gray’. I look like one of the tour guide surrounding me. But I’m no tour guide. I’m an ex-Army Ranger. I spend my days and nights armed to the teeth, chasing down poachers and securing our twelve-thousand-acre park.
I could never be a guide. I don’t have much use for most people. People lie and betray each other. Animals, though, them I understand. You know exactly where you stand when you’re staring down a lion. There’s no question of what they want from you.
A family gets off the plane—a mom, dad, and two surly looking teenagers who have clearly had so many things handed to them on a silver platter that nothing impresses them anymore. As far as I’m concerned, they can turn right around and go home. Then I see a young woman at the door to the plane. She’s a curvy little thing with reddish-brown, curly hair, cowboy boots and a short, flowy dress. My cock twitches at the sight of her. I hope to hell she’s Tabitha because I could use a few weeks pumping her full of lead.
