Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

I’m about to take control. Have access to all files. Piece everything together, if I can. About the company, about the deals. About the night my parents died.

The night I survived against all odds.

My bodyguards follow us as we are shown into a cluttered office and seated in old leather armchairs. They stand guard at the door as we are offered coffee, juice, water and a constipated-looking woman pushes a bunch of papers in front of me and a pen under my nose.

“Mr. Jordan,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. The Mr. Jordans of my life were my dad first, my uncle afterward. “A pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Ms. April.”

“A pleasure,” I mutter, though I don’t feel it.

“It’s a simple process,” she goes on in the same monotonous voice. “We went through the bulk of the paperwork while you were away. I assure you everything is in order.”

While you were away. The rushing in my ears gets louder. While I vanished and nobody knew where I was.

Raylin reaches over and touches my knee, bringing me back to the now.

“I have collaborated with Jordan Enterprises for decades,” the woman goes on, obviously interpreting my silence as hesitation. “My colleague, Mr. Shin, and myself,” she nods at an elderly man in a brown suit who has just appeared through a door at the back of the room, “head this office, and it is in our interest to have you as our client, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Mr. Jordan,” the old man says and his almond-shaped eyes drill into me until I look away. “Welcome back.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if I had someone I could trust with me right now, someone knowledgeable about such things as fucking wills and goddamn legal documents?

But there isn’t.

Just sign the fucking papers, goddammit.

Grabbing the pen, I sign everywhere where a little red cross indicates a need of my name. Page after page I scrawl my name—Troy Jordan, the ghost of the boy who should’ve died fifteen years ago in a horrific accident—until I reach the end of the third package, and I stop.

I glance up. “What now?”

“Now,” Ms. April says, coming around her desk and picking up the papers, “you are the owner of Jordan Enterprises and of all their assets. You have the majority of shares, and you’re head of the board. The directors are, in fact, waiting for you right now.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”

“There is also,” she says, going back around the desk and pulling a drawer open, “a copy of your uncle’s will. He wanted you to receive it the moment you come into your inheritance.”

Right. Like I haven’t read it. He left me the house in Boca Raton. I know.

She puts it on the desk, right in front of me and I sigh. Whatever. I grab the envelope and shove it into the pocket of my jacket.

“Anything else?” I clear my throat, my hands shaking on my knees. “I mean, is this all?”

“That’s all.” She smiles a bright, brittle smile at me, and I don’t know. I should be glad, but man, this is fucked up.

How can this be all?

Raylin gets up, and I follow her example. Moving in a daze, I walk back to the elevator, back out of the building, back into the green car.

Everything’s okay. No bombs going off, no bullets smashing through the windows. Another quiet, smooth ride. I’m frowning at my reflection in the darkened glass, wondering why I feel slightly let down.

Then I glance at Raylin, and the world rocks back into balance. Everything will be fine. For the first time since I can remember, I may actually start to believe it.

That’s when my cell phone rings, and it all goes to hell once more.

Of course it does. What did I expect? Only get this: now I’ve managed to drag into it my friends, too.

Fucking A.

RAYLIN