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“You need to be careful, Nebraska. You’re playing with fire, and trust me sister, once that fire is lit it will burn out of control.”
“I don’t—”
“Zane. Lewis,” she enunciated slowly. “Everyone knows to stay away from him and you waltzed your happy ass into his office today. Not that I wouldn’t have followed Easton Spears into an Afghan cave if he promised some happy-ending fun before we met certain death. But, Zane? No, boo, you fucked up with that. Now you have Kira Winters or Cain or whatever her last name is now digging places you don’t want her to dig.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“Everything’s fine and did you just call me ‘boo’?”
Big fat lie. Nothing was fine.
I knew going to Zane would be more trouble than it was worth. But I needed Maddon to believe I was willing to do anything he asked.
“I don’t know how you think that when we’re talking Kira here. Garrett, and I’m not throwing shade, he’s got it going on, and can find ninety-nine percent of shit you don’t want him to find. But Kira, that woman has a god-given talent to find that one percent Garrett can’t. And that one percent is always what fucks you.”
I knew this.
It was always the smallest detail you couldn’t hide that screwed you in the end.
“Are they still watching me?”
“Yes.”
Thought so.
The Uber driver had exited the Honda and was staring at me over the roof of the car.
“I don’t have any bags,” I told the gentleman. “Sorry, I’m speaking to my grandma, she’s very ill. I’ll be off the phone in just a second.”
“Lies,” I heard Stella mutter.
“I have to go but never call me boo again. You’re closer to fifty than you are fifteen; it doesn’t work for you.”
“What about nob? Does that work? Or how about, flange?”
“If you were hot and British I’d say yes, but you’re American and I don’t have time for you to break out into your fake British accent to sell the lie you’re from some small village in the West County of England. My Uber driver looks pissed and I have to go.”
Stella being Stella—in other words completely ignoring my time restraint—continued to berate me. Also Stella being Stella—in other words, thinking she was hilariously entertaining (which was the truth most of the time, just not when I needed to get into an Uber idling at the curb at a busy airport or when she was getting me drunk to pry secrets out of me) —did this in a proper British accent.
“I warned you, never to get on Zane’s radar. Whatever happened today, landed a red bullseye on your forehead.”
Shit. This was really not good.
“Listen to you sounding all classy and cultured.”
She switched back to irritated-American, “Nebraska—”
“I get it. Thank you for caring. We’ll talk later and I’ll fill you in, but right now I have to go.”
Suddenly the line went dead.
This was Stella’s typical send off—she hung up instead of offering a farewell.
I got into the backseat of the Honda, muttered my apology, then confirmed for the driver the hotel I was staying at.
