Chapter 2
492 Words
I drew a long breath and forced myself out of the memory.
"Sir." I pushed the door open.
A row of trophies sat on the most prominent shelf, and on the television, a highlight reel was looping through the most brilliant goals of Adrian's career. I had watched the same footage countless times when I was working with the team. On the screen, his shooting form was textbook-perfect, and the moment the ball hit the net, the entire stand was on its feet.
"That's Adrian Stone! Magnificant!"
"He's saved the team again!"
"Turn it off!" The man in the wheelchair hurled a liquor bottle without even looking. It struck the television, and the picture blinked out in an instant.
I stepped back carefully, picking my way around the shards of glass, and finally got a proper look at him. He didn't look much different from his photographs, except thinner now, with dark hollows beneath his eyes.
An elegantly dressed woman crossed the room toward me. "Adrian, this is your eighteenth nurse." She turned to me as she finished. " Good luck, Lily. You'll need it."
Lily was the alias I used at Ironside.
"Get her out of here!" Adrian slammed his palm against the armrest of his wheelchair.
'Why was he throwing me out already? Did he know who I really was?'
I glanced instinctively at his mother, Evelyn Stone. She only looked at her son, her eyes bright with tears.
"Adrian, we agreed. You can't keep going on like this."
"You need money?" His voice came out hoarser than before.
"Very much indeed," I said quickly.
"Then you ought to know what happened to the seventeen nurses before you." He sank back into his chair, his face twisted with disgust.
"You'd like me to leave right now, is that it?" I held out my hand. "The contract states that if the employer terminates the arrangement, the full fee must still be paid. Pay me in full, and I'll walk out the door this minute."
Evelyn's head snapped up, and she looked at me with what I could have sworn was approval.
"So you actually read contracts." Adrian let out a cold laugh. "Fine. You can start by clearing the field."
I followed Mr. Alfred Whitlock out to the pitch. It had been beautifully maintained. The only problem was that several hundred footballs lay scattered across every patch of high-tech hybrid turf, and the ball cart and storage bags were nowhere near where they belonged. Carrying them back one by one would be the equivalent of running laps around the field for hours.
I looked up at the second-floor terrace. Adrian was sitting there in his wheelchair with a cup of coffee, the picture of leisure. He clearly didn't think I had the stamina for this.
"Get them all in before dark," he said, looking down at me with cold detachment. "You're here to serve me, right? This is what servants do."
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