Page 56 of Play Me
“Hart mentioned you had an assistant. How’s that going?”
A grin tugs at the corner of my lips. “Oh, it’s going.”
“A truce it is. But the first time you turn around and bite my head off for no good reason, I’ll have Gianna taser you.”
Brooks waits for an explanation, but there’s not one that comes to mind that accurately depicts Astrid Lawsen. She’s frustrating and a giant pain in my ass, but she’s also surprisingly great at her job. I can’t lie. My schedule is packed and a little overdone, but I’ve been more prepared the last couple of days than I’ve been in my life. Every morning when I wake up and have my coffee and reach for my supplements, I think about how nice it is just to have it all at my fingertips.
That would be easy enough to explain.
The other parts of her?Not so much.
I don’t want to be curious about her—I want to dislike her and forget her—but Astrid is a porcupine. She’s sharp and dangerous on the outside to protect what I suspect is a delicate and vulnerable inside.
And that’s too complicated to get into with Brooks.
“I’ll get with you next week,” I say, heading toward my bedroom.
“All right, my man. I’ll talk to you then.”
“Bye.”
“Later.”
The line disconnects, and I turn off my screen. Before I can toss it on my bed, it rings again in my hand. I look down at the name and my stomach sinks.
I take a deep breath. “Hey.”
“Sorry to call on a Sunday.”
“No worries, Joe. What’s up?”
Papers shuffle. His breathing’s labored, which makes me wonder how much longer he can do this before he drops dead.
“Did you get confirmation on the money?” he asks. “Because you’re already late making the payment.”
“I sent you a text about it on Friday.”
“You know I don’t text, kid. Don’t waste my time with that shit.”
I roll my eyes. “My agent worked some magic, and the money will be in my account on Tuesday morning. I’ll transfer it to you as soon as it hits.”
“Good. Because they’re going to want their chunk by the first and, right now, I don’t have enough to give them.”
I sit on the edge of my bed and sigh. My stomach sours as I deal with the mix of emotions that erupt every time Joe and I have this conversation. They come so fast, one after another—grief, guilt, and anger. More guilt. More anger. So much resentment for so many things.
But resentment’s the worst … because despite all the money that I’ve made, it’s why my checking account barely has a five-figure balance. And all I own is my truck.
“You’ll have it,” I say in a monotone voice that sounds hollow, even to me.
“Call me when you send it.”
“Okay.”
The call ends as abruptly as it began.
I stare at the wall, letting myself feel what my mind is processing. The therapist I saw for a while in Denver suggested it. If you allow yourself to feel things, your body doesn’t have a chance to get emotionally constipated. She thought mymigraines were my body trying to expel the emotional shit backing up inside me.
That sounded like horseshit. But when I started just letting myself get angry or upset, the intensity of those things did lessen over time. Maybe that’s a small win in all of this. I have to just live with it.
