Page 5 of All Twerk, No Play

Ugh, small businesses were peanuts compared to enterprise-level corporations, but I'd agree to get out of that bungalow.

“We can accommodate them in this larger space.”

He dropped his arms in defeat. “Fine, call him.”

I moved to another private office, glancing out the window at the view I hoped would be mine. I suppressed all my emotions to navigate this conversation with pure logic—if he sensed any weakness, the pressure to move back to Manhattan would only escalate.

I tapped the second name on my speed dial.

He answered on the first ring. “Arthur Blackstone.”

“I sent you a listing: 6400 square feet, three stories. Decent parking, half mile from Broadway. We’d split the top floor, second-floor in-place lease, and strong candidate for the ground floor vacancy.”

A soft hum, a few clicks. “Start at 4.2, walk at 4.8.”

“I would have gone to 5.”

Another hum. “You must like it. Do you have the cash? Or want an early birthday present?”

I chuckled. Ordinary girls might get jewelry or perfume as gifts … but he always told me I’m extraordinary. “I got this one. Thanks, Dad.”

I told Lawrence, “Tell the developers I’ll give them 4.2 million for the whole property.”

His jaw dropped open. “It’s … it’s not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, for the right price,” I countered. “If we can get occupancy within a month, make it 4.4. Cash.”

I wanted this building. Now.

Lawrence recovered from his surprise, mouth lifting into a smug grin. “I’m sure we can work something out. Now should you and I get drinks to celebrate?”

“Cool it, Larry,” Alexander growled.

Lawrence looked chagrined before his gaze turned lusty again. “When I woke up this morning, I never dreamed my new client would be a beautiful girl with millions in cash.”

I bristled at being called a ‘girl’—the only worse insult would be ‘Vickie.’ I bit back a retort as his eyes dropped not-so-subtly to my cleavage. “When I know what I want, I don’t hesitate.”

"Learn to Fly," Foo Fighters

Cruz

“Ihateyousomuch, Cruz!” Kate howled as sweat trickled down her face.

“You know I love hearing you say it,Conejita,” I retorted with a shit-eating grin. It was a cold February morning, so our group of 20 worked out on the concrete slab outside the state park’s warming hut instead of our regular field, covered in a thin layer of frost. “Anybody else hate me? Raise your hands.”

Their annoyed breaths created clouds of exertion as they tried to lift their arms—not easy when their elbows were locked behind their backs.

“Joke’s on you, haters. Raised hands make partner wall sits harder. Your anger fuels my success!” I released a throaty villain laugh.

“I should have smothered you with a pillow on the submarine,” Bobby Pike muttered … but that was bullshit. We’d been too exhausted to plot murder during our four years on the USS Kentucky ballistic submarine.

God, I didn’t miss those endless days underway. When I’d been on the sub—sleeping on the middle bunk stacked three high, showering in a stall six inches too short, working 18-hour days for months without sunlight—this had been my dream: working outside, making my own hours, playing amazing music, training kickass people. Making my own decisions without commanding officers bossing me around.

I tilted my face gratefully to the overcast sky … before returning to my regularly scheduled trash talk. “Pike has ushered us into the death threats portion of the class. Anybody else?”

“I’m gonna build a Time Machine,” Kevin Rodriguez growled, “travel back 27 years, find your dad as he’s ready to blow, and spit in his face.”

"Points for creativity!" I held up a high five, then pulled it out of reach.

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