The Marine (Black Hawke Security #3)

CHAPTER TWO

PAYTON

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W here are my damn shoes ?

I spy them under the chair in my bedroom and dive for them. Then hop on one foot as I pull on the black pumps, and race across the other side of my bedroom, reaching for my purse.

I slept in.

To make things worse, today is the first day of a new job. And I need this job. Or rather, I need to keep this job.

I fell asleep without setting my alarm last night, so was blissfully dreaming about lying on the beach in the Bahamas when I suddenly bolted upright.

I don’t know what woke me, but I’m grateful.

Now I have exactly ten minutes to get to my workplace. The good news is I live in an apartment building about seven blocks from the StoryCraft offices. The bad news is my hair is still a little damp and I haven’t had any coffee yet.

I tug on my black blazer and yank my shoulder bag over my head. Then grab my tinted lip gloss off the dressing table and race out of my bedroom.

The first thing I did when I woke was push the button on my De'Longhi coffee machine, so the delicious aroma has filled my apartment. One day I’ll own a Keurig, but not until after I’ve paid my student loan.

So approximately seventy-five lifetimes.

Or so it feels.

It could be worse, I remind myself. Much worse, and it still could be. If I lose this job, my father will make me pay back half of my marketing degree (he paid the other half) and the first year of law school.

Yale Law School - I’ll let you do the math.

That was the deal.

A renegotiated deal.

I changed degrees, and he was highly disappointed in me. Let me backtrack a little. Both my parents are lawyers and we all thought I would be too. Now Dad is a judge and when I told him I didn’t want to continue, I think it broke his heart a little.

But my father is not a soft man, so his reaction was a surprise. Oh, I knew he’d be unhappy, which was why I spent months keeping my thoughts to myself and then when I finally decided and told my then boyfriend, Asher; I was extremely nervous.

More on him later.

When I confessed, they were shocked and asked a lot of questions. Including what I wanted to do next. When I said marketing, Dad didn’t look impressed.

“Hey, I could have said I wanted to be a stripper,” I said with a cheesy smile.

“Well, at least you don’t want to be a comedian,” Dad deadpanned.

“Are you sure about this?” Mom asked.

I nodded.

“I’ve been miserable all year,” I told them. “My grades are suffering, and I can’t see myself being a lawyer.”

“There are a lot of things you can do with a law degree,” my father tried.

“Dad. I... It’s not who I am. A marketing degree is a great foundation if I want to work for a good company or start my own business one day.”

“And do what?”

I threw up my hands. “I don’t know. I’m twenty!” I cried. “Just because you knew what you wanted to do. Most people don’t.”

“She’s right, Jerry,” Mom said in support.

His frowning face watched me for a long time before the ultimatum arrived.

“Fine. But here are my terms,” he said.

Did I mention my father was a judge? He wasn’t about to agree and let me walk away lightly. I had known this, but I was still surprised by what came next.

“Do your Bachelor of Marketing, but you must remain at Yale. Your mother and I will pay for it, but if you don’t complete it, you will pay back the entire amount and the first year of law school.”

My mouth fell open.

I’d always believed my parents were paying for college. They told me they would, and I worked hard to get into Yale.

“Plus,” Dad said. “When you graduate, I want to see you stay in a job for two years. You need to stick to something.”

“Oh, come on,” I cried, looking at my mom.

“That’s the deal,” my father had continued.

“This isn’t encouraging her, Jerry,” Mom had finally piped up in support.

He grumbled, then started on his fingers. “Guitar, hip-hop dancing, photography – and do you know how much cameras flipping cost? – and what happened to becoming a fitness trainer? Then you finally agreed to study law.”

In my defense, no one had told me how early trainers started in the morning. I don’t rise before the sun. Not for anything.

Not even coffee.

“I don’t have the flexibility for dance. You should really take some responsibility for that. After all, I’m half your DNA.”

“Again, thank goodness you aren’t looking at stand-up comedy. Yet.” His brows lifted.

I flopped back on the sofa.

“Great. So finish my degree and I have to stay in my first job for two years,” I clarified. “If not, I have to pay it all back, including the first year of law school.

“With interest,” Dad said, standing.

“What?”

Mom patted my leg. “We are not charging our daughter interest. Darling, you need to think carefully before you make this decision.”

“You know, this is part of me figuring out who I am as a person. It’s normal.”

“Christ, next she’ll tell us she wants to be a shrink.” Dad walked out of the room shaking his head while Mom and I began to giggle.

“Laugh away, but I’m not funding any more of this finding yourself rubbish. That’s on your dime now,” he called from the hall.

Then his head popped back around.

“Finish your marketing degree, Payton. Do at least two years in a job, then I’ll wipe your debt. Until then, you’re liable. Can I assume you learned what that means while you were studying law at damn Yale?”

More giggles.

“I hear you, Daddy,” I replied. “I promise.”

“I just want you to stick to something.” He shook his head. “You’ll be surprised what you learn about yourself when you are forced to commit.”

I hated that he saw me as some flake, when I really was just trying to figure out what I loved. Mom and I had talked for an hour after and she said she believed in me.

So I’ve been on a mission to prove to my father I could do this.

I graduated and then found a great job in Philadelphia. A year into the job, when I was nearly free of the financial burden hanging over my head, the PR agency sold and most of us were made redundant.

I freaked out.

The first thing I did was head home to speak to him in person.

“Dad, I didn’t resign, so this doesn’t qualify as me quitting,” I’d argued. After all, I’d been raised by two lawyers so I knew how to defend myself.

In my family's kitchen at least.

“I accept that,” Jerry Mills had said. “Find another job in thirty days and I will overlook this small blip.”

“I will,” I said. “So, one more year.”

“No. The clock starts again at day one,” Dad said, and even my mom looked shocked.

“What? No, that’s unfair,” I cried.

“Life is unfair. Stay in this new job for two years. That’s the deal.” Dad shrugged.

I had started to think repaying him was the easier option. Then I remembered how many hundreds of thousands of dollars it was and zipped my lips.

In any case, I had needed a new job so it was a moot point. Finding one that I loved and wanted to stay at for two years was the challenge.

Last week I had finally found something.

It was almost fateful. My bank balance was getting extremely low, and the idea of having to move home was getting worrisome. One of the account managers at StoryCraft had suddenly left because she’d won seventeen million dollars in the lottery.

Lucky for some.

When they asked if I could start straight away, I said yes and was offered the job.

“You don’t have as much experience as we would like for this client,” Alexandra, the owner, had told me. “But I’ll shadow you to make sure everything runs smoothly. This is one of our biggest and most important clients. They have an important launch happening in September, but you starting immediately gives us time to train you.”

I was excited.

StoryCraft is a well-known and reputable marketing agency. It felt like the opportunity had just fallen in my lap. And now I am running late on my first day.

Ugh.

I am so angry at myself for not setting my alarm.

I fill my coffee mug and run out the door. Downstairs I hit the pavement and walk/jog the seven blocks.

When I step inside the doors of the StoryCraft offices, my armpits are sweaty, and I know my hair is frizzy because I didn’t dry it enough.

Great.

“Hi Payton, please follow me,” a woman a few years older than me in a tight black pencil skirt and fitted matching blazer, says. Her smile is tight as she tucks a laptop under her arm.

“You’re a few minutes late,” she says loudly as we pass through an open plan environment. Faces lift and watch me, and I wonder if anyone is going to introduce me.

I send a few smiles out, but none are returned.

Oh, god, I hate it here.

“Is there somewhere I can put my bag down?” I ask as we turn a corner and head toward the meeting rooms.

She glances over her shoulder as we stop by a door, then suddenly stops and opens it, reaches into the cupboard and grabs a notebook and two pens.

One blue.

One red.

Then thrusts the stationery and laptop into my arms. I nearly drop it all as I juggle them, along with my sticky coffee tumbler.

“They’re waiting for you in room four,” she says and walks away.

My mouth parts in surprise as I watch her leave.

“Wait,” I call out. When she turns, I ask, “What is your name?”

“Karen.”

Of course it is.

I glance down at the items in my arms and catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of one of the glass walls.

Crouching, I drop everything onto the floor and pull my bag over my shoulder.

Shit.

The front of my shirt has a huge coffee stain.

Then the door to the meeting room opens.