Marley’s eyes widen in horror as she listens. “What?” she mouths. “He called him stupid?”
“No job is worth your self-respect, Fletcher. Do not go back.”
“Mom, shut up. You’re making it worse. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
“Fletcher.”
He hangs up.
“That’s it,” I snap. “He’s gone too far this time.” I down my drink and slam my empty glass on the table and stand. “Meet you back at work. I have an appointment with Tristan fucking Miles.”
“Oh shit. Good luck.” She winces.
I punch my fist. “Bail me out of jail, will you?”
She giggles and raises her glass at me. “Yes, okay, what account do I take the bail money out of?”
“You’ll have to rob a bank.”
“Roger that.”
I storm out of the restaurant on a mission. Tristan Miles is looking for a fight, and he just found one.
Nobody calls my son stupid and gets away with it.
I march up to the reception desk in the Miles Media building.
“Hello, may I help you?” The young girl smiles.
“I’d like to see Tristan Miles, please.”
“Did you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry; that will be impossible.”
“You tell him Claire Anderson is here to see him.”
“I’m sorry—” she continues.
“Tell him,” I interrupt her. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”
She and the other receptionist exchange glances, and she dials a number. “Hi, Sammia. I have a Claire Anderson to see Tristan Miles in reception.”
She listens and then holds the phone down. “She’s just checking.”
I can hear my pulse as it pumps boiling blood around my body.
Boom . . . boom . . . boom.
“Okay, thank you.” She types something and hands over a security card on a lanyard. “You can go up. Hector will accompany you.”
“I can find it myself,” I snap.
“Nobody goes to the top floor without a security guard.”
He’s going to need one. “Fine.”