As I make my way down the stairs, I Google the address for Gunner Entertainment on my phone.
Wilshire Boulevard. It shouldn’t take me too long to get there.
I push out the door of my building and quickly cross the lot to my car. I get in and take off.
As I drive, I just get more confused, and then, quiet frankly, I get pissed off.
I mean, what the hell does he think he’s doing? He knows I couldn’t give a shit about his money. Is he doing this on purpose to mess with me? If he is, then it’s working.
Traffic’s pretty clear, so I’m there in no time.
I pull up outside the building. I’m out of my car and heading for the entrance.
I practically blow up into his building. I’m so angry that I feel like I could punch someone—preferably him.
I march over to the reception desk.
The, of course, gorgeous, mega thin blonde-haired receptionist lifts a finger, halting me, as she says into the mouthpiece, “Connecting you now.”
Then, she presses a button on the phone and flicks stony eyes to me.
I watch as she looks me up and down, a sneer appearing on her perfectly made-up face.
It’s then I remember that I’m still wearing Adam’s old Rolling Stones T-shirt and my ratty old jean shorts that I might have had since I was seventeen. I haven’t shaved my legs today, and my three-day dirty hair is in a messy knot on top of my head. I quite possibly still have ice cream on my face as I didn’t look in a mirror after cleaning it off.
Oh God.
I’ve just marched into Adam’s building, looking like a homeless person. Great. Just effing great.
“Can I…help you?” she says with as much distaste as is shown in her expression.
Maybe I should just back up and leave the building. I still have time.
No, I’m here now, and I need to know what the hell he’s playing at.
Anger wins out over vanity this time.
Just pretend you belong here and don’t currently look like a hobo.
“I’m here to see Adam,” I say with as much confidence as I can.
“Adam?” She frowns.
“Yes. Adam Gunner, the guy whose name is on that sign hanging above your head.” I point my finger in the direction of the sign.
“I’m well aware of who Mr. Gunner is and what his first name is,” she says icily. “Now, what I want to know from you is, do you have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t have an appointment—”
“Then, you can’t see him,” she says smugly, cutting me off. “No one sees Mr. Gunner without an appointment.”
She pulls her headset off, swings her chair around, and gets up, walking over to the desk behind her.
Okay, now, she has seriously pissed me off. She’s like a fucking guard dog that I can’t get past.
“Hey, Pit Bull Barbie.” I slam my hands down on my hips.
She turns slowly to face me. The look on her face is pretty pissed off.
Like I care right now.
“Are you talking to me?” Her eyes narrow, her lips twisting.
“Apparently so.” My hands leave my hips to bang down on the fancy glass top, praying to God I don’t crack it. I lean forward. “Now, be a good little receptionist and call upstairs to tell Mr. Gunner that his wife is here, and she wants to see him now.”
Pit Bull Barbie’s eyes widen at the term wife. She actually stumbles back a little, grabbing hold of the desk behind her. “W-wife?” she stutters.
She seems pretty affected by this news.
A stabbing thought suddenly enters my head.
Maybe she knows Adam like I know Adam. Maybe she’s his girlfriend—or at the very least fucking him.
Oh God.
I know nothing of Adam’s life now. He could have a girlfriend, and she could be it.
And that stabbing sensation enters my chest and centers on my heart, piercing straight through and slashing from side to side.
I have to curl my hands around the edge of the desk to stop from falling over.
“Yes. His wife.” I hear the tremor in my voice.
Come on, Evie. This shouldn’t matter to you.
But it does. It really fucking does.