Shot in the Dark (Blackbridge Security #2) - Marie James Page 0,4
not a head case or anything. I just prefer to make friends with people online. Ones I don’t have to worry about knocking on my door on a Friday evening, insisting I go to a bar or club with them. No, my friends are much like me. They stay at home, have food delivered, and play games until the sun starts to come up over the horizon.
Most work from home, also like me, and rely on energy drinks more than what can be considered healthy.
I eye the treadmill like it’s a venomous snake ready to strike, but I climb on anyway. I told myself I’d make it forty-five minutes today, but I’m only doing thirty since I had to take the stairs. Granted, the two-minute walk doesn’t come close to the time I’m cutting off, but I run my life, not this stupid machine.
Setting a timer on my phone, I take my sweet ass time putting in my headphones and connecting my Bluetooth to the television on the wall. I hate watching the news, but the angry old man seems to be enjoying the bullshit they’re spewing this morning, so I’ll martyr myself and just deal with it.
A slow walk transforms into a slow jog, and I know without even looking at my timer that I’ve been at this mess for well over an hour. At least that’s how my body feels.
The gods must be on my side today because my phone rings, the sound echoing in my ear so loudly that I nearly trip and eat the rubber under my feet. I struggle so long to get my balance and turn off the machine, that by the time I answer the phone, it’s already gone to voicemail.
Having barely escaped death, I step off the machine and power it down. The old man across the room is glaring at me as if my almost demise is putting a damper on his ability to lift the three-pound weights in his hands. His face screws up, and it’s clear he’s seconds away from pointing to the NO PHONE CALLS sign hanging on the wall, so I do the only thing I can manage which is giving him a weak smile, a half-assed wave, and I walk out of the gym.
I call my bestie Sarah back. When she answers, instead of saying hello, I say “You just made an old man hate me.”
“How is that possible? Everyone loves you.” If I had to guess, I imagine her rolling her eyes.
She is a loveable person. One of the very few friends I have that actually has a social life outside of her computer. Thank God she lives in California because if she were closer, she’d be one of the friends showing up on Friday nights that I’d have to avoid.
“This old man hates everyone,” I grumble.
I don’t know this for a fact, but he doesn’t seem like he’s had a pleasant experience in his life from the scowl stuck on his wrinkled face each time I’ve seen him.
“Why are you up so early?”
“It’s not early. It’s after ten.”
“After eight,” I mock as I collapse on a bench in the hallway.
“I know you’re not a morning person, but you were on my to-do list this morning.”
“I’m on a list?” I mean, I’m sure I’m on numerous lists, but Sarah isn’t the type to come after me for uncovering information people don’t want me to find.
“I made a note late yesterday to reach out to you about the package.”
And that’s not the least bit vague. “The package?”
“The one I sent you?” She snickers, and even after my half-hearted attempt at exercise today, it’s still too early to deal with her perkiness. She better be glad I love her so much.
“I didn’t get a package.”
“It says delivered yesterday morning. Don’t they call you when something arrives?”
“They do,” I hedge.
My apartment complex is very efficient. At least that’s what they call themselves when they notify me of something arriving that won’t fit into my small mailbox. I’m certain it has more to do with their annoyance of something not belonging to them taking up space behind the front desk, but I tend to lean toward the cynical side of life.
“And they didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
I wipe my hand over my face, surprised to pull it away damp. Sweat means hard work, so I refuse to feel guilty about my workout being cut short. Sweat means tacos for dinner, and I live for the chance to devour half a dozen or