Playing with Fire
PENELOPE
I’ve never been mistaken for being America’s sweetheart or anything, but that morning, the fires of Hell were more gentle than I was.
The morning air was crisp, and so was the sound of my footsteps as I stomped recklessly to the front door of the governor’s house.
Calling ahead to her office, I was invited to her household after I pressed the urgency of the issue.
I was forewarned.
She might be on a personal call, yada, yada, yada. I didn’t care. She could fire me for all I gave a f**k.
I needed to speak to her. And I needed to speak to her right the f**k now.
Bundled in heavy clothes on her front porch, I dug my fingers into the fabric of my leather coat while I waited, admiring the multi-colored leaves of the dying trees as a November wind whipped acros
