Page 5 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)

Bella

MOM

remember when I told you we couldn’t get a bunny because I was allergic?

BELLA

is this another confession?

MOM

possibly…

do you remember?

BELLA

Do I remember crying for months over it? Yes

MOM

I lied

but not for the reasons you think

I genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, am afraid of them

BELLA

of…bunnies? the cute fluffy animal?

MOM

they’re not cute when they bite your face

BELLA

I don’t think they bite people’ s faces mom

MOM

4 year old me was in fact attacked by not one but 2 bunnies

BELLA

did you steal their carrots?

Mom?

hello????

did you get distracted by carrots?

I t’s a week later and I still want to bang my head against a wall.

Or scream at whoever was responsible for such a horrible job market.

But then the barista places down my refill of my cinnamon vanilla latte, and after a sip, I may be pissed off at the world and my lack of job prospects but at least there is still cinnamon and great baristas.

But the feeling is short-lived. The second I finish my latte, I instantly want to pummel my computer screen, though that is the reason I’ve been coming to this café every day.

When I was at home with no one around to stop me from, say, taking a hammer to my laptop or sending a nasty email to Steven the nepotism employee at my old office who gets away with feeling up women because of his last name, I decided to make the smart decision and job hunt in public.

Where I would second-guess my intrusive thoughts.

I’m just hoping this period of my life doesn’t end with me in a straightjacket and criminal charges.

My phone vibrates across the coffee table. I’ve never snatched it up so fast in my life. My heart is in my throat and hope is blooming in my eyes, until I see my mom’s name flash across the screen and disappointment sinks into my stomach, quickly replaced by guilt.

I’m not disappointed it’s her, per se, I’m disappointed it’s not a company offering me a 401k and a salary. That, and I’ve been dodging her calls during the day, choosing to talk over text because I’m a coward and I don’t want to see her stress when I relay the news that I was laid off.

So, I just…don’t.

Turning my back on the bustling café behind me, I put on the cheeriest voice I can manage and hit accept.

“Hey, Mom! Is everything okay? I’m just about to head into a meeting.” I pause. “This isn’t another confession, is it?”

The barista that walks past side-eyes me, her friendly attitude leaving as she witnesses the blatant lie roll off my tongue. I give her my best ‘don’t judge’ look. Except all it does is send her running.

Great, now I need to find a new café.

“Hi, love. Sorry, I won’t keep you long,” she says with a small chuckle. “And no, I’ve restricted myself to one confession a day.”

The sound of her voice calms the rapid beating of my heart. When we’re on the phone like this I can pretend she isn’t sick. I can pretend that she hasn’t lost twenty pounds due to chemotherapy. I can pretend her skin is still radiant and glowing and not a dull gray.

I can pretend she isn’t dying.

Because out of everything that has changed, her sweet voice has remained the same.

Perhaps I should record her talking while she’s still…

Emotion clogs my throat at the thought.

“It’s all right, I’m not in a rush.”

The guilt that hit me before doubles down. I despise lying to her.

“I was just wondering if you’re still coming over for dinner.”

There’s a slight change to her tone that makes me pause. My body tenses, and that sense of calm she installed moments before vanishes.

“Of course I am. Why? What’s wrong?” I lower my voice, not wanting the judgmental barista to find out I’ve been lying to a cancer patient. “Is it the chemo from Monday? Are you still feeling sick?”

It’s a foolish question; she’s always feeling sick. However, the day after chemotherapy is always the worst, and if it’s a particularly heavy dose, she won’t feel well until four days later. But it’s Thursday and she should be feeling some improvement by now.

“No, no, I’m feeling slightly better. The nausea has finally subsided.”

I should feel relieved but I can still hear the slight edge in her voice, can practically feel the tension radiating off her through the phone.

“What is it, Mom? Do you want me to come over now?”

“No, honey! Stay at work. I don’t want you to miss any more days than you have to.”

If only she could see my grimace. “It’s fine, really. I can be over shortly.”

“No, Bella, you need that job. Don’t give them a reason to let you go.”

Now I really want to slam my head against a wall.

Clearing my throat, my eyes slide to my computer as a ping comes through. “If you insist,” I murmur, half paying attention once I notice it’s an email notification.

My heart soars as I read the title.

APPLICATION RESPONSE

I bite my lip to stop the squeal from escaping, but suck in a sharp breath as I pierce the skin instead, a metallic iron taste dancing along my tongue.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“Hmm?” I hum half-heartedly as my mac conducts the spinning wheel of doom.

Stupid cafe internet connection.

“You made a noise. Bella, is everything all right? Jason isn’t giving you a hard time again, is he?”

I click on the email and lie again. “No more than usual but everything is fine. I just…I stubbed my toe.”

A throat clears behind me. Turning, I find the same barista from before looking down her nose at me while she clears a table.

It takes everything in me not to scream, I’m lying for a good reason! But I don’t think that will help my case at all .

“Okay, love. Well, I was just calling to check if you’ll be here for dinner. I’m going to go lie down.”

The exhaustion suddenly in her voice is evident, sending a pang through my chest.

“Okay, Mom, I love you. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Love you too, love.”

Once the line disconnects, I don’t give myself a reason to fret about the sudden dip in her energy levels. Not when the solution to so many of my worries sits in my inbox.

Please be something good, please be something good, please be something good.

My hopes crash and burn as I open the email to find that, in my drunken haze, I applied for an assistant job. Groaning, I drop my head into my hands and bite my lip once again to stop myself from screaming.

It’s one thing to be working for a corporation that has a dick for a manager, it’s another to feel like I’m being paid to be someone’s bitch.

After my stint in college where I was a part-time assistant and the asshole made me feel like I was dirt beneath his feet, I would rather jab wooden skewers into my eyes than do it again.

With the salary, I would have to take a second job, work extremely long hours, and then how would I manage two schedules around my mom’s doctor appointments?

She doesn’t have anyone else to take her and I can’t ask Layla’s parents for any more help, not when they’re fighting for their daughter’s health.

It would be a paycheck, yes, but it wouldn’t?—

My thoughts come to a screeching halt. So suddenly, in fact, I swear I even hear tires squeal in my mind.

Now I know why either Layla or I applied for the position.

The salary mentioned is astronomical, so astronomical I have to triple-check not only the email but the original job listing.

This can’t be right. That much money is ludicrous for an assistant job. There is generosity, and then there is insanity. It’s practically throwing money away. No one is that good at being an assistant.

Perhaps it’s someone famous ?

That would be just my luck. Find an amazing job that pays incredible amounts of money but work for an egomaniac.

Scrolling through the email thread, I read the bottom where a woman named Lucy says she wants to set up a meeting this afternoon. Checking the clock, I note it’s only half past noon. I send off a quick response to say I’m available whenever it suits her.

I hurry over to the counter and order another cinnamon vanilla latte, thankful the barista with eyes and ears that see all my wrongdoings is off somewhere else.

My phone pings in my hand as I raise my credit card.

RE: APPLICATION

Can you be here in thirty minutes?

Lucy.

“Make that a cup to go, please.”

T he first thing I see once I’m buzzed through the security gate is a long driveway, covered on either side by a line of beautiful, thick trees. Rolling grass spreads out on either side with the parameter of the land bracketed by a tall stone fence.

Whoever owns the house is big on privacy, based off the immense security presence at the gate and the way I still can’t see the house—shrouded by the trees—from where I idle slowly along the driveway.

Perhaps that’s why the assistant job pays so much.

Maybe it’s to ensure I don’t go running around Colorado spilling this person’s secrets.

Or it’s a crazy serial killer who gets you to work for them for insane amounts of money to buy your silence and turn your cheek the other way when you hear screams from the basement.

My foot slams on the brake.

I’ve been watching far too many true crime documentaries.

Shaking myself out of the stupor my imagination sent me into, I continue forward, unable to hold back my sharp gasp of shock as I round a bend in the driveway and the house finally comes into view.

It’s exquisite.

A large two-story structure, painted white with gray trim work and tiling, sits among the land, the view of the mountains in the background.

God, I’d love to work here.

Serial killer or not, that view alone and the serenity and quiet the land offers send such a calmness through my veins something deep within me wants to stay here forever.

I park the car right as a tall, lanky blonde steps out of the house. I open my driver’s side door as she waves me over, a grin etched across her face. She holds out her hand for me once I step onto the front porch.

“You must be Isabella. I’m Lucy.”

Her grip is firm as I clear the steps. “Nice to meet you, Lucy. You can call me Bella.”