“I need the board of directors to vote me in, Gran.” I say it gently because Gran doesn’t have a lot of experience in the boardroom. She likes to say she knows an asshole when she sees one, though, based upon the thirty years she spent cleaning toilets before my mom married my dad.
“Hmph,” she grunts, crossing her arms across her chest.
I understand her frustration. I have enough cash to last us for a year, if I’m careful, but if I let a year go by without confronting my uncle, I’ll have lost. I’m sure that he tampered with the brakes on my dad’s Maybach. That car was only three months old so there should’ve been no failures. It’s not like that car is mass-produced. Only a few thousand of them are made every year. They’re supposed to be as safe as a presidential limo, yet my parents died, careening off an overpass. The press said it could’ve been a murder/suicide, but what would be the reason? They loved each other from the moment they laid eyes on each other twenty-four years ago. Sure, it took a whole year to convince my mom that the rich kid from the North Shore who showed up at her door every night bearing expensive gifts wasn’t in it for just sex or conquest, but because he truly loved her, and he was so persistent she eventually gave in to her own feelings. Nine months later, I was born. I mourn them, but right now I’m more angry than anything. Plus, I need to be strong for Gran, so I’m shutting away all those bad feelings and focusing on what’s good in my life. Gran’s alive. I’ve got enough funds to take care of us and I’m looking into ways to oust my uncle.
I start to shove things into the bag when I see an unfamiliar box. “Huh.” I pull it out and inspect it.
“Those for my nose?” Gran asks. “They look a little big for me. I like the small pink ones.”
“I know.” I reach down and pull out the ones she likes. “I bought you these.” They’re for her nose bleeds. She gets them frequently and there isn’t anything like a tampon to staunch the flow, which makes sense since that’s literally what they’re made for—only not for the nose.
“Then what are you doing with those?” She eyes the box suspiciously. “You got a medical problem I don’t know about?”
“No, Gran.” I shout out a laugh. “I’m healthy as an ox. These—“ I shake the box—“are my ticket to love.”
Her eyes narrow even further. “Did you drink something already? It’s not even four in the afternoon.”
I get up, place the contact pads on Gran’s shoulder and hand her the pain machine. “Nope. I’m completely sober. I met the woman I’m going to marry at the grocery store and now I have an excuse to contact her.”
“Oh?” Gran perks up. “What’s her name?”
“Dunno,” I say with my head bent over my phone.
“Whaddya mean you don’t know? How’re you contacting her on that phone of yours if you don’t know her name?”
“I have her phone number.”
“How do you have her phone number?”
“It was out there in the universe, Gran.”
“I feel like you did something wrong.”
I give her a wink. “Not yet, but I hope to soon.”
Chapter Four
Birde
I blow a piece of hair out of my face as I stare down at the books. My hand is starting to cramp. I really have to talk Higgins into letting go of this old style of accounting. It is way more work than needed. A hair tie falls onto the book. My pencil stops moving across it.
“I’ve been looking for that.” I snatch up my hair tie, trying to pull up my wild mass of curls. I never know what I’m going to get with my hair. Sometimes it starts off great but as the day goes on it can get out of control depending on the weather. You can go from freezing cold in the morning to sweating by noon. The Midwest weather can be killer on us curly-haired girls. “It’s my last one.”
“You always say that.” Higgins chuckles as he sits down in the chair next to the office desk. “You left it with this.” He slides my cell phone across the desk to me.
“Thanks.” I ignore it. I always forget about my phone. I stay away from social media and only use the thing to randomly Google things or check my emails. Other than that it isn’t needed. Now my laptop is another story. That is my lifeline to school and my reality TV addiction. I can’t make it long without those. They are necessities.
“How’s it going?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
“My hand hurts,” I tease. Who writes this much? I end up having to plug it into the computer anyways but if this is how he wants it done then this is how I’ll do it. I go back to working because I’m almost done. Well, with the handwritten part anyway. Mr. Higgins’ computer is older than mine and slower than he is.