Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Without fail, every interview request has been met with a firm no, but I’ve never allowed that to dissuade me. It’s nothing more than a rinse and repeat game I’ve been playing with Stone’s lawyer these past few years. So, imagine my surprise when I log into my newest email account, first thing on this dazzling Tuesday morning, to find confirmation of my interview with the one and only, notorious murderer, Stone Blackthorne.
I think I’m going to wet my pants.
Either that or I’m going to throw up, which is unfortunate because then I’m going to have to swallow it back down to save face in front of my colleagues. That’s not exactly how I planned to spend my morning. My colleagues already look down on me for being the young new girl, and honestly, I’m not even new anymore. I’ve been here four years already.
When my job was posted online, they were searching for a young and innovative junior to join the team here at Pulse Media, and I couldn’t resist applying. I thought this was my chance to finally make a difference in the world, but the joke’s on me because what they really wanted was a glorified coffee runner who could also do their grunt work. Despite my contempt, I stuck with it, and now, after four years of working my ass off, it’s finally about to pay off.
I stare at my computer in awe, scanning the words from Charles Wentworth, the bigwig at Wentworth Lawyers and Associates. “Holy fucking shit,” I murmur, bracing against my small desk to keep me upright. “There’s no way this is real.”
A laugh tears from the back of my throat, and I lean back in my swivel chair, unable to believe what I’m seeing. “Keep it down, Miss Ashford,” a shrill voice barks from across the room. “Some of us are actually trying to work around here.”
I groan and roll my eyes before sending a sharp glare across the top of my cubicle toward the office dinosaur, Janette, otherwise known as the self-appointed, do-gooder hall monitor, and designated pain in my ass. She and I have never gotten along, and if I cared enough, I’d probably try to mend the burned bridges, but alas, the last fuck that I gave has unfortunately shriveled up and died.
“Suck a fat one, Janette,” I grumble, hitting print on the email and pushing up from my desk, ignoring the audible gasp that sails across the office.
I all but dance across the scratchy commercial carpet and snatch the email off the top of the printer. Pausing to glance over it one more time, elation pulses through my veins like a well-deserved cocktail on a Friday afternoon.
This is actually insane.
I’ve never been one for luck. I’ve always worked hard for everything I have and don’t believe that luck is something anyone possesses. Hard work is rewarded, but this. Surely this is luck. What else could it be? Apart from soul-shattering persistence finally paying off.
As I whip around to head toward my boss’s office, I find myself face-to-face with Janette, her overpriced designer pantsuit making my Goodwill outfit seem pathetic. Her hair is blown out, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the three pairs of reading glasses decorating her body. One pair is on her face—the only pair she actually requires, in my opinion—the backup pair sitting atop her slightly graying head, and the third pair dangling from a string around her neck. I swear, she only wears them to get under my skin. Who the hell needs that many pairs of glasses in a day? I understand having a spare pair hidden away in your handbag or desk drawer. But three? Three? It’s absurd!
“I’ve had just about enough of you, Aria Ashford,” she mutters, clutching a yellow slip of paper between her manicured fingers. “I’m writing you up.”
“Wow. What’s that? The third yellow slip this week? I’m sure Jedd will get right on it. Just after he gets through the last fifty yellow slips you’ve submitted.”
She gasps, her face going red, and I go to step around her, more than ready to bust down Jedd’s door to wave this email in his face and prove once and for all that keeping me on the payroll was worth it. Only Janette steps with me, blocking my way. “I’ll see to it that you are appropriately reprimanded for this,” she snaps. “That kind of language won’t be tolerated. This is an office space, not a . . . a frat-house.”
I let out a sigh and fix her with a hard stare. “Do you ever get sick of being such a goody-two-shoes fucknugget who gets off on the HR handbook? You know, it’s completely okay to just come to work, do what you’ve got to do, and mind your business.”