Page 46 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

Me: I may be a little obsessed with a woman who happens to have that occupation.

Walker: Is this like that song “I’m in love with a stripper?”

Lincoln: Sounds similar.

Me: …

Ari: That was oddly appropriate, Logan.

My phone rang, and my eyes widened. It was Lincoln.

“Hey,” I said, ignoring the fact that there was a little squeak in my voice. He probably…hopefully hadn’t noticed.

“Does this love interest belong to an organization, or does she work on her own?” he asked without any introduction.

“With an organization,” I responded, looking at the page again.

“Okay,” he said, talking slowly like I was dim-witted. “And did my PI get you the contact for the head of that organization or the scheduler?”

Kill me now. Maybe I didn’t deserve Sloane on account of being a fucking idiot.

Good thing I didn’t care about things like that.

I glanced at the paper, and there was an email address:[email protected].

“There is.”

There was a long silence. “I hope you’re typing out your email right now.”

I was not…only because I wasn’t sure what to say. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“And, Logan.”

“Yes?”

“Do whatever it takes,” Lincoln said. And then he hung up.

I typed out an email, and a minute later I was in business—uploading all my information that would no doubt get me in a whole lotta shit if it ever got out. Which, I assume, was the point.

I kept repeating Lincoln’s words in my head, though.Do whatever it takes.

* * *

SLOANE

The sound of Tyler retching echoed through the bathroom door like some grotesque symphony that I couldn’t escape. I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the muted TV, my stomach churning in solidarity. He’d been at it all night, a miserable mix of groans and curses, punctuated by the occasional thud as he probably tried to stand and failed. At one point, he’d stopped even trying and just lay on the bathroom floor, his weak shouts for water going unanswered. Not by me, anyway.

It wasn’t in my job description to play nurse for my clients…unless that was what they were into. I shivered thinking about one of the costumes I’d had to wear in the past for a very, very old man.

Another moan from the bathroom, and I scooted back in the bed, turning up the television loud enough to drown him out so I could watchTop Gun: Maverickfor the fiftieth time.

Morning came, and Tyler stumbled out of the bathroom looking like death itself. His face was pale and clammy, his hair sticking to his forehead in sweaty clumps. He glared at me as if his misery was somehow my fault.

“You could’ve at least gotten me a Gatorade,” he snapped, his voice hoarse.

“You could’ve at least not drank yourself to death,” I shot back, crossing my legs and giving him a pointed look.

His nostrils flared, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he muttered something under his breath, grabbed his gear bag, and stomped out the door, still looking like he was going to keel over.

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