Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
That’s just…kind of…the man he is.
He makes up his mind.
And that’s that.
It makes him perfect for what he chooses to do for a living but a pain in the fucking ass to pick a movie with.
Don’t get me wrong, I love A Few Good Men and Top Gun and Ladder 49 as much as the next person, but can we get a John Wick or The Three Musketeers rewatch once in a while?
Melissa Lindsay, my main assistant and biggest office rumors supplier, gestures in the disgruntled employee that was pounding on my door with one hand and cradles my caramel cappuccino closer to her red dress covered chest with the other.
“What the fuck, Carmichael?” Tyson Reynolds viciously bites during his angry stomp over to me, red words flying through the air. “Why the fuck didn’t you give me the Frost assignment?!”
Why didn’t I send him to personally guard a set of aging billionaires during their private island shopping trip?
Perhaps because all it would’ve taken for him to get distracted would’ve been a pair of bronzed tits spilling out of a tiny bikini?
I don’t need that type of strike on my track record and truthfully?
Neither does he.
Reynolds chooses not to let me answer and slams his open palms on my sleek shaped desk. “Why the fuck would you give that shit to Underwood?! He’s only been here six fucking weeks!”
Right.
But he’s also retired secret service.
Pretty sure that trumps whatever it is Reynolds thinks he’s accomplished in his lifetime.
“Why the fuck,” more splashes of red words shoot past his lips, “don’t you ever give me any good assignments?!”
I push up my bright, turquoise-colored glasses and do my best to ignore what I know for a fact isn’t there.
I logically know that bright red letters aren’t actually foaming from his mouth.
Aggressively swarming around his rectangle head and through the dark hairs of his beard.
I logically know they’re not violently crashing into my desk.
I logically know that the human body doesn’t spew words or colors; however, due to my condition, my brain is always on a mission to prove otherwise.
Or at the very least get me to acknowledge otherwise.
Which I do.
Just not around most people.
Redirecting my focus to his narrowed gray stare is preceded by me politely thanking Melissa for the hot morning beverage and dismissing her. “Mr. Reynolds-”
“Why the fuck have I been passed over for the last three top tier PS assignments?!” His balled fist pounds the open space near my toffee brown hand prompting me to mimic the action on my nearby stapler. Being taken off guard by my response stumbles him backwards and changes the shade of his words from red to pink. “Did you just try to fucking staple me?!”
“No,” I calmly retort, adjusting the hot pink tool to its rightful position, “I stapled next to you.” Once the object is properly angled, I meet his gaze again. “A…warning…staple if you will.”
The cursed grunt that he presents matches his earlier expelled shade.
Most people hear words and tones, but because I have synesthesia – a condition where my senses are crossed – I see words and hear colors.
And depending on their shades, as well as their movements, indicates how to respond.
Like now.
Most people would’ve heard Reynold’s tone and felt threatened, assumed he was in a fit of ire and ready to attack yet I saw its color, which wasn’t fire engine red so much as something you could pull out of an elementary school box of crayons indicating irritation rather than rage. And yes, his words rapidly poured from his mouth, presenting a sense of danger, but the way they stacked so haphazardly versus precise, it’s clear he’s flustered.
Frustrated.
A toddler on the brink of a tantrum that no one – self especially – is in the mood to listen to.
I didn’t get enough sleep last night for this shit.
Woes of your favorite hockey team going into OT and then having to text your dad and your best friend – who are also fans – about the whole thing, I guess.
“Mr. Reynolds,” pulling my unicorn coffee cup closer allows me a moment to steady my own voice, “I understand your current dissatisfaction-”
“You’re damn right I’m not fucking satisfied!”
“However, do you honestly believe it is in your best interest to barge in here, bark complaints at me like a pissed off pug on his way to the vet, and bang my shit around like someone going a little too hard at a Fall Out Boy concert? And that’s coming from a woman who would go a little too hard at a Fall Out Boy concert.”
Disbelief over the comparisons tumbles his jaw downward.
“You are offered assignments that have been evaluated as good fits for you but more importantly, good fits for the clients who are paying for our services.” Leaning back in my leather seat occurs between sentences. “This is not a popularity contest, Mr. Reynolds – although if it were, you would be significantly losing.”