Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 117408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I walked out of our apartment and down the narrow hallway toward the elevators. I rode the shaky elevator down three floors and walked out into an outdated but still-homey lobby. I glanced at the wall of mirrors as I walked by, making sure I wasn’t wearing my pants inside out or even wearing pants at all. With how scattered my brain was, I wouldn’t put “walking out in underwear and unaware of it” past me.
It was only when I was sitting in my car and buckling my seat belt that I realized she hadn’t said anything to me as I left. No “good luck, I love you” or “let me know how it goes.” Nothing.
Had she even said goodbye when I shouted it by the door?
Maybe our relationship isn’t even salvageable…
3 Gabriel “Fox” Morrison
The hot summer heat was thick, even at eight in the morning. Like an extra layer of clothing, it stuck onto the skin and made walking outside a nearly impossible task without a cool bottle of water in hand.
Thankfully, the only walking outside I had to do today was from my car to a brand new-and very well-air-conditioned Stonewall Investigations.
Our new offices were located only a few blocks away from the global phenomenon that was South Beach. Being a walk away from Ocean Avenue was convenient, seeing as the food was great and there was always something going on, the streets constantly packed with bikini-clad women and shirtless men working on their tans. Tall, thick palm trees lined the street and swayed in the gentle sea breeze, seemingly unbothered by the intense heat slamming down on the city.
Stonewall wasn’t located on the main street, but we still got a ton of foot traffic. Especially since parking by the beach was reserved for people who were masochists and enjoyed visiting a circle of hell. Everyone else parked a little farther out and walked, passing by our quiet little street on the way to their sandy destination.
Currently, a troupe of sorority girls, all wearing white crop tops with their sorority letters emblazoned across the front in big pink letters, were making their way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, beach-bound.
It is a good beach day.
In front of me was Stonewall Investigations. The waiting area resembled a quaint guest house, and flanking either side of the guest house was a couple of two-story buildings that held the different offices for the detectives. It wasn’t imposing by any means, but it also felt special.
The entire structure used to serve as a set of beach houses for a family from Australia, but they had decided to sell, and Zane Holden, founder of Stonewall Investigations, jumped on the offer. He gutted the entire thing and turned the structure into one of the nicest office spaces I’d ever seen. Not that I’d seen many, but still, I imagined it had to be one of the nicest.
The entrance from the street was a small cobblestone walkway that was lined with vibrant green bushes and colorful tropical plants, adding pops of oranges and reds and blues. There were two wooden benches on either side of the path, with a bubbling fountain next to one of the benches. A gray kingbird was perched on the branch of a growing orange tree, calling into the air with a melodic trill.
I could still hear the sorority girls laughing about something as I walked down the path and toward the bright red door. There was a small rainbow flag waving gently in the air, a small symbol that said we welcomed all. No matter your stripe or your color, you came through those doors and you were guaranteed help.
Next to the flag, above the entrance, was a sign that read Stonewall Investigations. Hand painted on a polished wooden sign, it never failed to give me a good feeling whenever I spotted it.
I walked in through the doors and was greeted by a smiling Holly Barrios, her short ponytail done high and tight today, making her big brown eyes pop even more so than usual.
“Morning, Mr. Morrison!”
“Call me Fox, Holly.”
“Right, got it.” And then as if she were trying on a new sweater: “Fooox.”
“Exactly,” I said, cracking a smile. “Good morning, Holly.”
The waiting room was painted a calming white, with exposed brick throughout which was supposed to be a subtle callback to the New York headquarters. There were a few flourishing plants in pots wrapped in gold paper. A couple of them hung from the tall ceiling, absorbing light from not only the windows but also the skylight that let in the morning sunlight. It made the space feel even more open and airy, a peaceful respite for anyone who needed one.
There were a couple of comfortable gray couches and a few stacks of magazines, along with a communal iPad for anyone who wanted to use it, and down the hall straight ahead were two wide doors that led out to a beautiful courtyard, which had plenty of shaded spots to sit.