Cutting the call, his tears rushed to his eyes, but not before he lost focus of that cake in that crumbling bag. Grabbing it, he hurled it against that white wall, the bag ripping, that raspberry and cream cake smashing on the wall, like a silent howl of agony. Followed by his own, ripping that silence. Wrath, tears. He slammed the phone down and pushed his fingers in his hair, clenching hard, his voice raw.
“Fuuuuuuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Pacing the kitchen as the cake slid down the wall, leaving a blood red trail in that creamy mess, thatsweet scent pervading the space. “Fuuuuck! Fuck you!” Thinking he should just break everything to pieces, his rational mind took over in all that haze.No client, no home, no wedding…“Fuck!”
Whirling to his ringtone, he went to the phone and picked it up, half-blind with tears and rage, thinking it was Trent. “You low-life fuck!”
A tiny silence, then a familiar smooth voice with that distinct posh British accent it was always carrying. “My, my… so many years working together, but I never knew this was my nickname?”
His heart dropped. “Sinclair?”
“Yes. As you may have guessed since you didn’t bother checking the caller.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Trouble?”
He didn’t want to confess to his boss, but fuck it if he wasn’t going to. “I got dumped… Trent walked out… I have to walk out… Ah, fuck.”
“Oh, unfortunate. And Mira told me you resigned your client?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. We were supposed to get married, and he was complaining about me not having time… and… uh…”
“Well, this does not seem to be a problem anymore, as I seem to gather you have plenty of time now.”
“Fuck you, seriously.”
He laughed softly. “You are a sexy man, Duncan, but I won’t fuck you. Apologies. Now, to the matter at hand. I have an assignment for you, if you wish to accept it.”
“Don’t play the James Bond on me.” Sighing, he watched the cake plop to the tiled floor.Fuck you.
“I can’t help it.” Chuckling. “A prime assignment. One of our clients requires a personal bodyguard for their offspring, a rather feisty youngster…”
“Forget it. I’m not going to babysit some spoiled, rich brat who’s half-crazed with alcohol and drugs.”
“My, my… how did you guess?”
“Forget. It.”
“I seem to recall you’re out of job, and out of your home, and single? Might as well pick up some good money. What could go wrong? Salary, lodging, and basically being paid to trail that rich brat and make sure he doesn’t drown in his own vomit or the family pool.”
“Fantastic…” He blew a breath, fed up.
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“It’s a ‘fuck you’, that’s what it is.”
“I love how American you are with your potty mouth. Oh, that is right, some French in there too, must be the combative spirit, always rebelling against common sense.”
“You’re done?”
“And your answer is?”
Duncan looked around, to that home, which was not one anymore, to their silent smiles in a happy moment frozen in time. To that cake disaster on the wall. His chest tight.Young, rich fuck. What could go wrong?“Alright.”
“Splendid. I told them you would meet them at the Cedar Hills private hospital’s detox unit.”
“What?”
“Hurry. They are expecting you.” Click.
