You bet I’ll help them relaunch their company.
Medical advances were the one good thing that came out of the Second Civil War. Namely, Nz822—the one created to lessen a soldier’s downtime after an injury. One would think they’d have found a cure for cancer or diabetes. Or at least a more efficient way to deal with certain diseases. But like with everything the government controls, it boils down to profit. Fuck the people living with chronic illnesses.
We’re the collateral damage in their game of greed.
Frustrated at my inability to focus, I think the problem is that I’m trying too hard. Zefra-D wants simplicity. Something clean. Bold but subdued—and yes, to me, their requirements make sense. It’s also something I’m confident I can create. But I got too excited and threw everything at this, which resulted in a mess.
Time to step back and take a breath. Slow my brain. They hired me for a reason—because I can deliver something brilliant.
The design is there, in my brain.
I need to find my calm and put my talent on the screen.
Damn near choking on fumes because I devoted yesterday to painting the living room, I push away from the desk. I stand and stretch my stiff body before grabbing my cell phone. There are at least a dozen messages from Kerri. Her parents are sweethearts, and I adore them, but they gave her so much shit for spending the night in Mayhem. They smother her out of worry, and although I think they shelter her and her younger brother way too much, I’m not too proud to admit I’m jealous.
My mother gives me hell over everything I do because I’m a disappointment.
Kerri’s parents do it from a place of love.
Tremendous difference.
I answer Kerri’s texts, then leave the spare bedroom I set up as my office. With a cheap white desk I bought at a thrift store and a comfy leather chair, it’ll be an ideal space once the decorating is done.
Realtors say location is everything, and I’m inclined to believe them. The cozy craftsman may be a fixer-upper, but it’s midway down Sunset, right off Main Street, and smack in the center of town. I can spit and hit the red-light district while still being far enough away to enjoy the quiet.
I check the CGM app and note my number, weaving around the brown sectional as I cross the living room to the kitchen. This is the only room that’s up and running at full capacity. With finger stick monitors stashed everywhere if the CGM fails, I keep my health a critical priority. Food was once super stressful. Now, the process of carb counting is second nature. Also, I’m not what someone would consider a “foodie.” I can eat the same things for weeks, sometimes months, without getting bored. Give me few healthy carbs, some veggies, dairy, a piece of fruit, and I’m happy.
A balanced diet and exercise keep my body running right, and my endocrinologist thrilled.
Once small dose of insulin and I’m good to go. I drop the used syringe in my sharps container and begin the countdown. The medication works within thirty minutes. With that in mind, I make myself a grilled cheese sandwich using low-carb and low-calorie wheat bread and cut an apple. Half now, half I store in the refrigerator for tomorrow’s lunch. I eyeball two tablespoons of peanut butter and take my food outside to eat on the front porch.
A blanket of heat and humidity slaps me full in the face when I step outside. I plop down on the porch swing and balance the plate on my thighs as I rock, enjoying both the gentle movement and the distant sounds of life drifting down from Main Street. I missed everything about Mayhem, and although my house needs a ton of work, I wouldn’t trade it for the grandest estate in Brighton.
I finish lunch and set the plate next to me on the cushioned swing seat. What I should do is get back inside and work on the logo because I’m under deadline. Instead, I let my eyes drift closed and savor the moment. The smells and sounds and sunshine and the sweetest sensation of finally being… free. It’s fantastic to be home after seven years of feeling lost. It’s incredible to be back where I belong—
—the fuck?
My eyes fly open when the aggressive rumble of an engine breaks the tranquility of the moment.
Good Lord, and I thought my Dodge Charger was loud.
I hop off the swing and dart to the railing as a white Super Duty pulls into my driveway and parks behind my car. The driver’s door opens and out pours Havoc. Like, literally. The man moves in stealth mode. And he looks aggravated. No shocker there. I don’t take his expression personally. A scowl has been his go-to expression since we were kids. Hopefully, my plan for him and Kerri will give him a reason to smile. Doubtful, but I find no harm in trying.
“Found me, huh?”
“It’s Mayhem, Faith.” Havoc slices the distance between us in a few long strides. His colossal body is encased from neck to foot in black, and I can’t help but worry he must be near heat stroke in those jeans and boots. At least he’s wearing a tank top today, but still. It’s topping out at ninety degrees, with the humidity factor at about a million. I wonder how pissed he’d be if I toss a glass of cold water in his face if he passes out. “No one is hard to find here.”
“I won’t pretend you dropped by for a social call.”
He lifts a single dark brow. “Clever girl.”
I let out a loud sigh, aware of how much skin I’m showing in torn denim shorts and a gray crop top with bright sunflowers front and center. Although Havoc never acknowledged me as an actual female when we were younger, his discerning gaze fries me as it roams my body. They settle on those sunflowers, sitting directly over my boobs, for a fraction of a second too long.
On instinct, I cross my arms over my B-cups. “What could the Unholy possibly want with me?”
“Let’s talk inside.”
My stomach drops to my feet. “Well, that doesn’t sound good.”
