A Bitch In Time (Marina: Part One: Naughty Nookie Series) Read Online Free Page A

years, right?  We all knew, but we didn’t want to say
anything.  Didn’t want to upset you.”
    And like that, the difference all makes sense.
    For the last twelve years,
I’ve mourned Jimmy’s passing.  As though it were yesterday and not more
than a decade.
    But not this year.
    This year, I just got on with
it.  Like it was any other day.
    The realization has a sharp
pain splicing through my stomach.
    “Thanks, Lou.  And
yeah.  Twelve years.”  I nod; my head won’t stop the rocking motion
for a few seconds.  Almost as though it’s soothing to my muddled senses.
    How have twelve years passed
since I last saw Jimmy and yet, I didn’t even mourn him on the day of his
death?  I try to think, try to remember if I even thought of him that
day.  If he crossed my mind at all.
    That I can’t say a definite
yes or no has me feeling sick.
    “If he’s worthy of you, honey,
then do what you have to do.  Tell me if you need some time off, whatever,
I’ll rearrange it.”
    Before she can reply, I stalk
out of the room, ignoring her concerned shout.  My ears aren’t working, my mind isn’t fully functioning.  As soon as I’m outside, I press my
back to the wall and let it support me.
    Before I have a chance to get
my head around the revelation that my memories of Jimmy, his importance in my
life, are taking a back seat to my desire of being with Nate, my cellphone
buzzes.  The slight vibration
makes my hand tingle and jolts me from my thoughts.
    “Peeping, Anna.”
    That’s code for, ‘I can’t
talk.  I’m peering into the in-use rooms to make sure all is safe and
well.’
    “The Russians have sent
another message.”
    Just what I needed.

Two
     
    Shit.
    There’s always something else to dampen your day.  Or in this case, year.  A serpent in my paradise,
the local Russian mob have made it their business to try and buy me out of this
lucrative little set up I’m running.  No is not an answer they appreciate.
    In fact, appreciate is the
wrong word.  They’re deaf to any response they don’t want to hear.
    My teeth grind down to the
point of pain, but I hiss out, “There in two secs.”
    These guys have always been a
nuisance, but they’re getting worse.  As much as I hate to admit it, I’m
starting to get scared.
    Fear isn’t an emotion I’m used
to experiencing.  It isn’t in my nature to be frightened of
anything.  I was bred to be strong, independent, and fearless.  My
genes wouldn’t allow me to be anything other than bull-headed and take-charge.
    So, to be on the other end of
the scale, to feel as though I’m being herded in a particular direction,
doesn’t make me a happy chappy.  In fact, it pisses me off.  But
there’s nothing I can do, just wait and see what goes down.
    Accustomed to controlling my
world, waiting around feels like a death knell.  Something that can only
be deemed as appropriate, considering I received my first threat two days ago.
    The situation is rapidly
spinning out of control and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
    My footsteps are heavy thumps,
not the quiet whispers they should be as I retreat from the peep-hall toward
the outer offices.  I’m hard-pressed not to slam the door, but training
stops me.  We sell fantasies here at Papillon and bouts of adolescent
door-slamming and foot-stamping are not part of that package.  
    More’s the pity.
    My office is large; more of a
sitting room than anything else with all the comforts of home, because this is
where I live. 
    It’s split into two
parts.  One part is the work area.  A large oval walnut desk occupies
half of the space, ridged at the back and raised so that there are five
compartments running along the outer rim of the table.  Behind it is a
custom-made ergonomic chair that looks like it belongs back in Regency England
without the spine trauma.  It cost a fortune, but it’s comfortable thanks
to modern technology, and fits in with my décor.  An old-fashioned