Page 119

If he didn’t answer the door, why wasn’t it acceptable to go through the window if it was open?
Or maybe it wasn’t open. I don’t remember.
Two
The waiting game I don’t play
Haveyou ever wondered what hell feels like?
I actually haven’t. I never really had the desire to find out.
By noon, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it’s like. I can see it at least. And let me tell you, it’s awful.
Think of the worst day you’ve had, then multiply that by a hundred. That’s hell. I’m teetering on the edge of hell, balancing the tightrope and hoping I don’t fall off.
After I gave Frank a copy of the petition to dissolution of marriage, I headed back to the office to check on Kennedy and maybe see if by chance Madison called there instead.
My office is in downtown Phoenix. For a while, Brantley and I worked out of my house, but it got to be too chaotic once Callan started walking so I rented a space on the first floor of a fancy high-rise. I’m cheap. I don’t like to spend money where I don’t need to, but when your toddler son begins taking work orders and construction plans to use as his personal coloring pads, it’s time to move your office. I’m also glad I did because once Noah was born, there’s no way in hell I could have imagined trying to work in the same house as that little monster.
“Is the inspector finished up at the Aster house?” I ask Kennedy, our office manager. We call her the office manager strictly by her request. I don’t pay her office manager pay. She’s the only one in the office. How can you manage an office if there’s nobody else in it?
That’s a conversation for another day.
“No. Didn’t show.”
“What do you mean he didn’t show up?”
Kennedy barely looks up at me, her stare strangely focused on her phone. Nothing new there. I swear it’s glued to her hands. “That’s what I’m saying, Ridley. The inspector didn’t show up. B and Trey stayed there all afternoon.”
It’s noon. How that adds up as all afternoon isn’t right, but we don’t pay Kennedy for her math skills. We pay her because she can file paperwork, answer the phone politely and actually schedule appointments without fucking it up. You’d be surprised with today’s workforce. Or maybe it’s just me who’s completely blown away by the lack of accountability in today’s youth.
I once hired a kid to do tile work, and he showed up to the jobsite and wanted to know about health insurance his first day. That wasn’t so weird. Me catching him making a family of snowman out of grout, that’s weird. Wanna know the worst part?
He laid the tile all right. Guess what his design resembled?
A dick. A big fat dick made of mosaic tiles. Luckily we were able to fix it but I swore off hiring anyone for like a year. I’ll admit though, the dude had talent to be able to do that.
“Hey.” Kennedy finally glances up from her phone, popping bubbles with her gum. “Can I have Friday off?”
Never mind the fact she’s popping her gum, and she knows I hate that, but how can she possibly think I can function enough to contemplate three days from now? Doesn’t she know what I’m dealing with?
Right. No. She doesn’t. Unless Brantley told her, which he wouldn’t. Brantley’s secretive and for no reason whatsoever. If there’s ever anyone you can trust not to tell your secrets, it’s him.
I glance at Kennedy. “Did Madison call the office today?” Since I left the salon, I’ve been dealing with the city of Scottsdale on some building permits I filed three weeks ago, and they’re giving me the runaround about them. But I know for a fact Madison hasn’t called my cell phone.
Kennedy shrugs, pushing her glasses up her tiny nose. “No, I don’t think so.”
Kennedy’s attractive. Not in the way you’d think. She’s kind of awkward in a sense. Nerdy even. A petite girl who wears these thick black-framed glasses, jet-black hair she usually has up in a bun, I’ve frequently had to kick Trey out of the office because he fantasises about her playing naughty teacher to him.
Before you go thinking I have a thing for my secretary, knock that shit off. She’s nineteen. I’m not a creep. I’m twenty-eight. I have rules. And also—this is kinda up in the air right now—married and have morals.
Speaking of being married, guess who still hasn’t answered their phone?
Yep. Madison.
I’ve called fifty-two times.
How can she still be with that client? It’s been like what… I’m not the greatest at keeping track of time here but I’m pretty sure it’s been three hours. Who pays for a massage that’s three hours long?