Page 100 of Bossy Hero

And now I have a daughter to deal with too.

Deal with?

Fucking hell, Alan. Did you really just think that? Do better.

Shaking off my distressing thoughts, I storm across my office and stare out the window. Bracing my arm on the cool glass, I survey the back of the building.

Seagulls fly toward the beach, leisurely enjoying the perfect sunny day. A squirrel races up a tree in the far corner of the lot. The leaves and fronds on the pair of palms dance in the crisp, coastal breeze.

It’s so damn peaceful out there this morning. The opposite of what it’s like at Redleg HQ and inside my mind.

Tomer shuffles into my office, his boot heels clicking together audibly.

Rather than raging at him like I want to, I concentrate on my breathing and count to ten.

Using every ounce of self-control I have, I force my mind to go blank so I can talk to him without screaming.

No matter how hurt, betrayed, and angry I am, I never want to yell at Tomer or put my hands on him. He’s had enough of that for one lifetime.

Most of my kids have.

Time to start picking up the pieces. Same as I always do.

Still facing the window, my thoughts turn to my daughter’s well-being.Fuck, that sounds strange. “Is she okay?”

In his typical monotone delivery, he replies, “She will be. She’s strong.”

Well, that’s good to hear. But not what I meant.

As is often the case, he misunderstands what I’m asking.

Tech, safety, intelligence, military strategy? He’s absolutely on the fucking ball. But people? Miles away from the ball field with no way to get there, no cleats, and no glove.

“I meant with the getting sick,” I clarify.

“Oh. I think so. Madeline’s with her in the restroom, getting her all cleaned up.”

My heart squeezes, sending warmth to my bones. “Of course she is.”

Pausing for a moment, I attempt to get my questions in some type of order and priority. If I just start firing away, he’ll get flustered. Must lead with logic when it comes to this kid.

Exhaling through rounded lips, I start my questioning. “How long?”

“More specific,” he responds.

Come the fuck on. I’ll need to lead him there with a fucking map, compass, flashlight, and leash.

“How long have you known she’s my daughter? Assuming she is.”

He wastes no time spitting out the answer. “Eight years. Maybe nine. And she is.”

My gut twists, and my head sags. “Jesus, Tomer. Since we formed the fucking company?”

“Yes.”

Before we formed it, actually. That dates back to when we were talking about it.

As per norm when he’s in trouble, he gives me the least possible words in response to direct questions. No details or elaborations.

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