Page 99 of Shade
I’m bright and chipper when I wake up in the morning with a renewed sense of determination.
Fuck that shit.
I’m tired, hungry and scrambling around the guest house to pack my bag for Paris because guess who didn’t pack last night?
This dummy.
Do you see me there? The one trying to brush out her curls while brushing her teeth at the same time?
What a nut job. Not only do I practically deep throat my tooth brush by accident, but I also get toothpaste in my hair and shirt. Looks like a fucking cum stain.
Do I change my shirt?
What the fuck do you think? I ain’t got time for that bullshit. I’m late!
Rushing into the main house, it smells something similar to a locker room with bodies on the couch, floor, even the damn table in the kitchen. Andthatdude doesn’t even have pants on.
You look away, don’t you? I don’t blame you. I nearly vomit.
I’m only in the house a minute, maybe less with my bag in hand, the bible phone in the other with a reminder from Willa.
Willa: Do not be late for that flight.
Crap. I check the time. It’s roughly a thirty-minute drive to the airport, but that’s not to say there won’t be traffic. It’s a little after eight and the flight leaves at 10:20 a.m. We might be fucked.
But hey, look at it this way. If I get fired on day one, guess who gets to have sex with Shade.
This girl.
A man walks in the front door. I recognize him as Brad. The bodyguard. “Van’s ready,” he notes, reaching for my bag. “Where are the guys at?”
That’s a good question. I don’t see any of them. Anywhere.
“I. . . um.” Fucking fuck.
He laughs and swings his burly arm around me. “We got this, Northwest.”
Oh look, I have a nickname already. Perfect.
Just as I’m thinking I have to venture upstairs and yank these guys out of bed, Tiller comes downstairs, no shirt on, in his underwear rubbing the side of his head where it looks like he has road rash on it. At least he has his bag in his hand though. He’s just missing the clothes, but this I can work with.
Brad chuckles, taking his bag from him. “What happened to your face?”
He shrugs, his phone in his hand holding his attention. “Roan hit me with a cheese grater.”
“Why?” I ask. “And where’s the other two?”
“I think I was supposed to catch it,” Tiller remarks, stretching his arms up over his head. It’s all an act to draw my eyes to his chest and stomach. I think. Mostly because he winks. “And you might have to go get them out of bed.”
“You do it,” I demand, like I have authority.
He laughs in my face, dropping his arms. “Nah.”
Damn him.
I think about going upstairs when Roan appears, knocks the cup of coffee Tiller’s now holding out of his hands and then moves toward the fridge. The cup Tiller was holding crashes to the ground and sprays hot coffee and ceramic shards across the stone floor.
Tiller glares. “Ya motherfucka.” But then reaches for a new one like it’s not that big of a deal, or it happens so often it doesn’t bother him.
