“See ya then.” The line went dead and I tossed the phone back on the bed. I was less than impressed by whomever that was on the phone. How about a little more friendliness? Jackass. How the hell were they getting clients with people like that answering the phone? Maybe selling was my best bet.
Lying back on the bed, I stared up at the ceiling, a noticeable war of confliction battling inside of me. My life was nowhere near what I thought it would be. I thought I’d have a family by now. I thought I’d be happily married. I thought . . . so many things. Closing my eyes, I willed the worry away, telling myself that tomorrow was another day.
I was in the back office when she walked in, all frail-looking, and with her blonde hair tied up in a bun. She was hot in a subtle way. I watched her over the video monitor as she held her jacket in front of her and scanned the pictures on the wall. Why was she twisting her face when she looked at the photos of me? I wanted to murder Marcus for scheduling her so early. If we’d had more than one client to take up, that would’ve been understandable, but to schedule one person for a dive at this hour was a waste of money and most importantly my time. But on the bright side, this was an ample opportunity to watch Marcus in action. I lived for this shit.
Sitting in my ratty office chair, I propped my feet up on the desk and watched.
No one was up front when I walked in. I decided I’d wait a few minutes before calling to the back. At least their poor customer service allowed me an opportunity to check the place out a bit. Holding my jacket tightly to my abdomen to hide my shaky hands, I scanned the photographs on the wall. Most were crooked. Several were warped inside of the frame. The walls were off-white, with random stains here and there. The place was a shithole.
“Se?ora,” a deep, accented voice called to me. When I turned, my brows rose in temporary shock, but I quickly schooled all my features. An elf, he’s a freaking elf . . . shit . . . you’re not supposed to call them that. A little person? I shook my head as I worked hard to look at him without staring. I didn’t want to gawk . . . it’s not like I thought less of him or something because he was little. I wanted to look at him with respect, yet not seem too . . . stare-y. Was that a word? His thick, dark mustache didn’t quite match his blonde hair, which he wore slicked back. He wore what looked like a jumpsuit, like you’d see in a movie like Top Gun, only pint-sized.
“Um,” I cleared my throat, “hi. I’m Clara.” I reached down with my right hand and his smaller one accepted it before bending slightly to kiss it. Was he for real? He’d just kissed my hand . . . what the hell?
“My name is Marcello. I will be your instructor.”
School your features. School your features. My instructor? As in this man, who was significantly smaller than me, would be the one I’m strapped to when I jumped out of the airplane? My heartbeat increased tenfold.
“Now, I tell you this,” he continued, speaking in broken English in his thick accent, “I the best jumper you ever meet.”
Oh my God. He’s serious. I’m supposed to jump out of a plane with him? Shit.
My mouth opened to protest, but what were the right words? How could I get out of this without completely offending him? Don’t you think you’re a little small for me? didn’t quite sound like it would go over well.
“Now, you come stand here.” He pointed at the space in front of him where he now stood in the center of the room. Reluctantly, I obeyed as I racked my brain for a way out. Stomachache? Yeah, I could say the nerves got to me . . . that should work.
“Sir, I think maybe I’m not ready for this. I’m terrified of heights and I’m not feeling well all of a sudden. Maybe I’ll come another day.”
“Ohhhh,” he uttered with a deep chuckle as he pried my coat from my hands and tossed it on the table behind him. “You be okay, I promise. Marcello never lose his jumper yet.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He wagged his stubby little finger at me. “Today, we live!” he exclaimed. “Now, put this on.” He tossed something at me and after I shook it out, I realized it was a jumpsuit for me. “Go on,” Marcello insisted.
My brain was yelling, “Flee,” yet my body kept going along with everything, unable to stop myself. I got one leg in over my shoe, then the other until I managed to put my arms in. “Here, let me help you,” Marcello called out as he grabbed a bar stool from the corner and dragged it over, setting it in front of me. Awkwardly, he attempted to climb up, until finally, exasperated with the effort, he flopped down on the seat and looked at me.
“You mind giving me a hand, here, Se?ora?”
Without thought, I rushed to help him, wrapping my arm around his waist and hoisting him up. He was surprisingly heavy for his size. Once he was standing on the stool, he slicked his hair back with one hand and adjusted the collar of his suit with the other. “Gracias.” He nodded.