Mr Garcia

I can’t even go down there because I don’t want her to see me.

I imagine her face when she finds me here, and the assumptions she’d make.

Oh shit.

“What the hell is she looking for?” I grip my head in a panic.

She moves to the filing cabinet and pulls on the drawers. They’re all locked.

She searches through the desk drawers, eventually pulling out a small set of keys.

Oh, no, you don’t. I don’t know what you’re looking for but you’re not fucking getting it. Especially not on my watch.

That’s it!

After I tiptoe over to the double doors and sneak out onto the balcony, I dial 999.

“Hello, what service do you require? Fire, ambulance, or police.”

“Hi,” I whisper. “Police.”

“Putting you through.”

The phone rings, and someone picks up, “Hello Police.”

“Hi, there is an intruder in my house,” I whisper.

“Where are you?” the man asks calmly.

“I’m outside on the upstairs balcony, and the intruder is downstairs. I’m watching them on the security cameras.”

“Do they know you’re there?”

“No, I don’t think so. Please send someone quickly. I have no idea what they are doing.”

“What’s your address?”

I quickly tell him the address.

“A car will be there shortly. Stay where you are. Is anyone else in the house?”

“No.” My heart is hammering in my chest. “The house belongs to Sebastian Garcia but he isn’t home.”

“The politician?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

A thought comes to me. What if Sebastian comes home and he finds her in his office looking through his things? He’ll go mental, and who knows what she is capable of.

“Oh my God, please hurry,” I whisper.

“Stay on the line.”

“No, I’ve got to watch her on the security cameras inside. Hurry!” I hang up and turn my phone on silent. I quietly open the doors and sneak back inside, just in time to see her wrestle with the keys. She turns back to the desk, and Bentley walks in. She kicks her foot out to get rid of him, and I see red.

Don’t mess with the dog, bitch.

He approaches her again and she kicks him. Something snaps inside me.

Fury is running through my veins, and before I know it, I’m standing at the office door.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

She’s now going through the filing cabinet. She looks up and falters.

“Who are you?” she asks,

I’m your worst fucking nightmare.

“Wait.” She frowns, trying to work out where she knows me from.

“I’m the cleaner. Get out.”

She narrows her eyes, not believing me for a moment.

Shit, I don’t actually want her to get out. I need to keep her here until the police turn up.

“I asked you what you were doing,” I growl.

“Who are you?” She sneers.

I cross my arms over my chest. “It doesn’t matter who I am. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to visit my dog.” She pushes something behind her back.

“Liar.”

Uneasiness falls over me. What does she have in her hand? Is it a letter opener?

She wouldn’t…

Is she dangerous?

Shit.

“What’s behind your back?” I demand to know.

“Nothing.”

The sound of sirens roaring up the street takes over, and as I look toward the window to see the police, she makes a run for it. I chase her at full speed, out of the office and up the hall. As we run into the kitchen, my toe catches on the rug and I fly headfirst into the granite countertop.

Searing pain tears through my skull. My vision blurs, and I fall to the floor. I hear the front door bust open in the distance.

Muffled voices.

Panic.

Pain.

Darkness.

21

Sebastian

The echo of the club connecting with the ball can be heard as it echoes around us.

Julian raises his eyebrow, smirking, happy with his shot.

“Fuck you,” I mutter in disgust.

I go through the clubs in my golf bag, sizing up the distance I have to hit the ball to. Hmm, which one?

I decide on the nine iron, I take it out and clean the head.

Spencer pulls his towel out to do the same, and he winces. He holds the hand towel to his nose and pulls it away in disgust. “Fuck, this stinks like shit.”

I take a ball out and walk to the tee off.

Spencer smells his hand towel again. “Oh, fuck me. It smells like a sweaty whore bag.”

I position myself to hit the ball.

Behind me, I hear Spencer inhale it once more. “No, sweaty ball sack. Smell this, Masters.” He holds his towel out toward Julian. “Does this smell like sweaty ball sack or sweaty whore bag?”

“How would I fucking know?” Julian asks dryly. “I’ve never smelt either of those things.”

Spencer chuckles, clearly amused.

“Shut up,” I mutter as I line my club up. I pull it back over my shoulder, and just as I’m about to take a swing…

“It stinks real bad,” Spencer says, interrupting my concentration.

I hit the ball, and it goes careering off to the side.

“Fucking hell, Spencer!” I snap. “Shut the fuck up. I’m taking off my shot because of interference.”