Strapped by Nina G. Jones Page B

the total...$3387.52.
    I enter the house with the bags and walk straight into the office. Mr. Holden is on the phone. He looks up to acknowledge me without skipping a beat with the person on the other end. The call is clearly business. I place the bags on the desk with a loud thud.
    “I’ll be here tomorrow at nine,” I say firmly and turn on my heels without giving him a chance to respond. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his eyes widen. I am out of line, but it feels right. If he wants to play games, I can play them too.

Chapter Six
    I take a detour to my office to do some reading alone. I am in a sour mood and I don’t feel like answering Rick’s questions about my day. Mr. Holden has his fortress in the woods and thanks to him, I now I have one high in the sky.
    The 45th floor is ghostly by the time I arrive in the evening. I eat some soup I purchased at the 24-hour diner down the street. At first, I read at the desk, but then I spy my white loveseat and it beckons me to snuggle up with a book. My book of choice: one about anxiety disorders that I picked up with the business materials the other day. I can only hope this helps guide me through the labyrinth of Holden’s behavior.
    The glare of the sun wakes me from my unplanned slumber. The book I was reading is resting on my chest, and I have a terrible crick in my neck. When I register where I am, I jump up from the couch completely disoriented. What time is it? I look around trying to desperately find a clock. I dig into my purse for my cell phone and it’s dead. I run over to my unfamiliar desk and I spot a very futuristic mini clock. 8:47am... Fuck! I slide on my shoes and take a quick look in the small mirror on my wall. I smooth out my hair, grab my purse, and run.
    “Bye Marsha!” I yell as I run past the front desk, no doubt she is surprised to see me. I pop in a piece of chewing gum and plug my phone into the car charger. Shit! I want to speed to work and a seasoned driver would be able to do so with Ladybug (that’s what I call her), but I am still getting used to driving this thing. My iPhone is so dead, it takes about 5 minutes to even turn on and is followed by the familiar pings of text messages.
    Rick:
    Lala? Where are you. Are you ok?
    —
    Lala, I am worried. Can you text back? Is something wrong?
    —
    Lala, call me, please. No one knows where you are
    Then I see a text from Kristin:
    Kristin:
    Where r u? Rick just called me and said you never came home. We’re worried over here. Please let us know you r ok.
    I can’t manage the car and text them. They will have to wait at least 20 more minutes until I can get my hands free . I am such a jerk. Once I hit the freeway, I am a mad woman until I have to abruptly slow down for an accident. I hate being late. I hope being early the past two days will make up for this. The clock on the dashboard reads 9:10 am. I left on a rather ballsy note last night and who knows if Holden was already thinking about reprimanding me. Now he has a reason to be a total jerk. By 9:12 am I am practically at a standstill. I know I should call him, but after last night, I fear that the interaction will be painful. As I look down at the phone, debating with myself, it rings. The caller id says Taylor Holden. I let it ring once, take a deep breath, and answer, expecting either anger or a cool reprimand:
    “Are you okay?” He almost sounds frantic.
    “Ummm, yes. I’m sorry I overslept. It won’t happen again.”
    “I know. I mean you didn’t have an accident?” I am puzzled for a second and realize he must think I could be in the accident that is clogging the freeway. I can’t help but feel the concern in his voice is a bit of an overreaction, but I feel it is my duty to assuage him.
    “No. I am fine. It’s okay. I am stuck in the traffic, in the aftermath of the accident.”
    “The news helicopter showed a red car that looked just like yours. The wreck is terrible and they said a young female was the driver.