Chapter 13 - Unnecessary problems and packages

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I tap my fingernails impatiently against the wooden desk at work, replaying this morning over in my head. Damien’s whole body was tense and his eyes were glued to the ground, saying nothing, as I told him everything that has happened in the past week. He looked angry. We came to work in silence and he stormed off into his office, asking to not be disturbed.

“Zoe, can you actually do some work? Or, are you planning on sitting there staring at the glass door all morning?” Ashlee says, dropping some mail onto my desk. “Open these and sort them.”

I look blankly at the pile in front of me; opening mail is the least of my worries.  The glass entrance door opens with a swish and 3 men in black suits walk stiffly to the desk. They look relatively young, but strong. They are all standing straight with their hands behind their backs and faces so blank that they could win a poker game.

“Welcome to Strikeout Publishing, how may I help you?” Ashlee greets them, her face reddening slightly as all the men give her the up and down. One of the men turns his gaze on me, his jaw hardening. He snaps his head back towards Ashlee.

“Yes Ma’am, we’re here to see Mr. Hunt,” the man says, tightening his tie and staring her down into submission.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, he just called us,” he responds coolly. “It was a matter of urgency.”

“Oh, one moment please,” Ashlee responds, scuttling off to Damien’s door.  The men look at each other and one of them raises his eyebrow, clearly not impressed about something. Ashlee returns looking flustered. “You can go on through.”

One of the men nods his head and leads the way through the second set of doors. I look at Ashlee with a questioning look.

“What the hell was that all about?” I ask, picking up a piece of mail to open.

“No idea. Mr. Hunt wasn’t in a very good mood though. Apparently, I’m supposed to read his mind and know when to send people through,” she responds, her voice laced with contempt.

I glance over at the men disappearing into his office. The glass door slides back into place, hiding them from view and muffling their voices. Who are they? They are in there about 5 minutes when my phone rings. It’s the intercom. I snatch the phone up.

“Zoe, get in here. Bring your phone,” Damien’s voice snaps down the line. I murmur and okay and place the phone back with shaking fingers. I root through my purse and take out my cell phone; its screen is lit up and I see I have a missed call from my mom. Shit. It’s been a long time since I’ve called her. I should really do that later.

My shoes clatter loudly on the floor as I make my way to his office. I push on the heavy door, trip over my own feet and practically fall into the office. I recover well, I think, and turn my gaze to the four men in front of me.

They are all seated on the couches, around the table, which is covered in photographs and papers. Damien collects the photographs, pushes them into a folder and passes them to one of the men with a nod.

“Zoe, I wanted you to officially meet Rhode, your personal chauffeur. He will be picking you up from home and bringing you to work, as well as taking you home afterwards. If you need to go anywhere else, shopping for example, then you will call him for that too,” Damien says, gesturing at a young man on the end of the couch closest to me. He jumps up with lighting speed and holds out a hand to shake.

“Rhode,” he says with precision, his shake strong and purposeful, “nice to meet you Miss Strand.”

“Likewise,” I say, surveying him with my eyebrows furrowed. He is tall and muscular with a strong brow. His red hair is cut short and I can see a sprinkling of freckles on his nose. He has a kind face but a stern look about him. I turn to Damien and I’m met by his cool gaze. “Forgive me, but I don’t really need to have a chauffeur.” He doesn’t look surprised at my response but he runs a hand through his hair, not saying anything right away. Rhode shifts his weight uncomfortably and clears his throat. The room is quiet and tension is palpable.

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