Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 157140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“Is there a point to this besides your own amusement?” I ask with a snort.
Shit. Only fifteen years old and I’d swear she changed from a sweet little girl into this sassy creature I barely recognize overnight.
“Yeah! Dad, there must be a hundred different ways you can walk into a store, sample drinks like a sane person, and give some honest criticism without acting like a giant raging di—”
“Watch your mouth, young lady. What do you know about raging dicks, anyhow?”
She bites her lips. “Umm—nothing. Just that you’re one.”
Behind me, one of the marketing interns snickers. He shuts up the second my gaze lands on him before I shift it to my daughter.
“Consequence, Dess. Pick one.”
For a second, she looks startled before she glares at me. “Lighten up. It’s just a joke. I’m fifteen.”
“What’s your consequence, Dess? Should I decide?” I say gently, approaching her.
She looks at the phone she’s holding and back at me with a heavy sigh. “Guess I’ll be staying home tonight and reading...”
“Good call, baby girl.”
Honestly, it’s not much punishment. The girl lives, eats, and breathes books, but a night in will keep her out of any other trouble.
She scowls at me and returns to her seat.
Giving my tie a quick pull, I turn back to face the barista—Wayne, I think. “Your friend had a point, even if she delivered her feedback with the grace of a wolverine.”
“Honey badger,” Destiny coughs from the corner.
I ignore her.
“It’s my fault, Mr. Lancaster. I’ll be sure to lock up next time before any confidential business—assuming you don’t fire me today,” he adds nervously.
I hold in a laugh.
“Relax. I’m not firing anyone. It’s no one’s fault but hers that she’s a walking hand grenade. More importantly, like I said, she had a point.”
“She did?” He blinks at me.
I nod. “Our brand is reliable, unfussy fuel for every professional on the go. It’s been like that for four generations of Lancasters, even as the brand name changed. But with the way the market keeps evolving, that won’t cut it in another ten years. We need something fresh and exciting. And before anyone suggests it, no, we’re not branching into sugar-lick fruit drinks and tea lattes like half a dozen other major chains that will remain nameless.”
“Hey, is this the Badger Lady’s brew?” Destiny calls from behind me. When I glance at her, she’s holding up a mason jar of dark mystery liquid.
The barista nods.
I double-check his name tag. Wayne it is.
My eyes fall on Dess as she pulls the lid off the glass jar and sniffs.
“What are you doing?” I call.
Only, by the time I get the words out, she’s lifting it and pressing it to her lips.
Shit. Surely she’s not going to—
The way her mouth opens tells me she is.
“Destiny, don’t you—”
Too late.
She’s damn near chugging the stuff before I can say another word.
She rocks back on her heels, coughing and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
My heart leaps up my throat.
Shit, shit.
She looks like she’s about to fall over. Every parent’s nightmare involving their kid and strange substances whips through my head.
Fuck.
What if it was motor oil?
Some sort of aged cognac?
A tobacco spit jar?
Why in God’s name does my daughter have to sample a strange jar left behind by a caustic stranger who gnawed my ear off? Who does that?
Apparently, the kind of kid I raise.
“Are you okay?” I move to Destiny in several huge strides. “Dess?”
I already have my hand on my phone, ready to dial 9-1-1.
When she looks up, she’s grinning. “Dad, this is crazy. Taste it. It’s like a mule kick to the mouth.”
Is that supposed to be inviting?
I frown.
“I mean, a cup of this stuff would probably keep me up the entire week of finals.” She cocks her head. “I wonder if she has more... I want it.”
My eyes narrow. She sounds like a junkie looking for her next fix of—what the hell was in that jar? Liquid cocaine?
“Destiny Lancaster. Didn’t we watch Snow White enough times when you were little for you to know not to eat or drink anything left behind by strange people? For all you know, she could’ve been a witch.” Psycho chick certainly had the witchy temperament.
Her drink is pungent, though. I can smell it from here.
Destiny swirls the liquid like she’s hypnotized.
“How do you feel? Should I take you to urgent care?” I ask.
“No, no. I’m fine, Dad. Really.”
“Give me your phone,” I say, already reaching out.
“What? Why? That’s not fair!” Her voice becomes shrill and whiny on the last word.
Someone has to put the fear of God into her—or at least a few hours without texting and Snapchat—but first I pick up the unholy grail and take a swig.
My employees stare at me like I’ve just flipped my lid.
Hell, maybe I have.
It’s stronger than a triple ristretto shot and nearly causes a coughing fit. I choke it down, slowly realizing it’s some sort of hell-coffee.