Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“Frantic? Since when does Mag get frantic?”
“I don’t know, but he was as close as he ever gets,” he says, this tightness in his normally warm voice.
Okay, now I’m doubly worried.
“What the hell happened?” I whisper.
If Snarlypants wants to be forgiven for skipping out, it better be good.
“I don’t know, exactly. Bossman just said ‘I have a personal emergency and need my assistant ASAP.’ I told him I’d pick you up,” he says.
“Personal emergency?” I echo.
“He wouldn’t say more,” Armstrong says with a shrug. “Your guess is just as good as mine.”
“Jesus. I mean, you’re sure he’s not pranking us both?”
Armstrong shakes his head.
“Nah. He’s not the kind to punk. Not like this.”
“What have other personal emergencies entailed?” I ask.
“He’s never had one till now. The boss must really trust you, Brina,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t think he’d call anybody else for an emergency.”
I let that sink in, chilled to the bone, even in the toasty car.
“We’ll see, I guess,” I say.
“Are you two fighting?” Armstrong asks.
Crap. Does he know something?
“Um, no,” I say. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Mag just thinks he owns the world, and we’re all his pawns. I’m sure he thinks he’s having an emergency, but it’s probably something ridiculous like he can’t find his TV remote or something.”
Don’t be so harsh, Brina, I tell myself. He sounded desperate on the phone. He could be hurt.
But I have a new question for Armstrong.
“If you knew this was some kind of sick joke, you’d tell me, right?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be involved with a prank between two folks I have to work with,” he says with a smile. “I’ll tell you one thing, he’s never used the word emergency before in all my years working for him. I’m worried about the kid.”
Kid? What kid?
My stomach sinks with those words. He could be talking about Mag since Armstrong’s an older man, but I’ve never heard him use that term.
Weird. I just don’t get it.
As pissed as I am, I don’t want Mag hurt.
Technically, I don’t want Magnus harmed at all unless I’m the one doing the harming. A nice swift kick to the balls is probably warranted after everything he’s put me through.
The car stops in front of a luxury building close to the office.
Armstrong pulls out his wallet and hands me a white card. “His penthouse is on the top floor. You’ll need this to get in the elevator, but I’ll need it back the next time I see you. Security protocols, you understand.”
I nod. “Thanks, Armstrong. Have a good night.”
The building has a doorman, who nods and opens the massive glassy door like he’s been expecting me. I’m not sure why I expected anything less.
The place looks like a palace reaching into the sky. The floors are granite and the lights are crystal. I flick the white card in front of the electronic box on the elevator, and it opens. A panel of glossy buttons faces me. I hit forty-seven, the very last number.
It’s only then that I realize Armstrong didn’t give me an apartment number.
Crap. I pull out my phone to text Maggot—after this stunt, I think Paige’s name for him was appropriate—but there’s no signal in the elevator.
Awesome.
Once I’m in the hall for the forty-seventh floor, there’s only one set of double doors.
Silly me. I don’t need an apartment number because he owns the whole floor.
I knock on the door, and Mag pulls it open a second later.
I barely hold in a gasp.
The man looks like he’s been through a war zone. His tie is undone, hanging around his neck. His shirt is untucked, wrinkled, and the cup in his hand isn’t The Bean Bar. Harsh lines cut through his handsome face and shadow the sharp, bony edges of his chin, and those brilliant blue eyes seem more like dim stars drowned by the city lights.
“W-what happened?” I stutter.
He takes my hand and pulls me across the threshold.
“Inside. We’ll talk about it in here.” He closes the door.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, my voice hard, giving him pause.
He doesn’t drop my hand; his fingers just tighten around mine.
“Are you upset with me?”
“Does a porcupine have quills?” I snap. “Tell me what’s going on or I’m leaving.”
I jerk my hand out of his and place it on my hip. I cock my head and stare at him.
“I’m sorry I left you like that,” he admits, genuine sorrow in his voice.
At least we’re past playing dumb.
“Where did you go, Mag?” I ask, my voice softening. “And why did you get so serious all of a sudden? You look like you just got back from a freaking funeral.”
“I was at the hospital.” He puts a finger in front of his lips like he’s shushing me.
What. Is. Going. On?
I open my mouth, confused and sad and angry, sicker than I’ve ever been of games.