Nemesis

By Monique D. Mensah

A mysterious phone call, an inexplicable inheritance, and a haunting "voice" launch Amara Hammond on a journey through her mother's sordid past. As she stands over her mother's dead body, Amara finally realizes who Nemesis is and why she's out for revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monique D. Mensah
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476446264

Monique D. Mensah

Monique D. Mensah is a native Detroiter with an innate love for the written word. She has been an avid reader of fiction since her early years in elementary school when she used to read The "Nancy Drew" and "The Babysitter's Club " series. She inherited her fondness for the arts and African-American fiction from her mother who regularly enjoyed black literature. Her mother encouraged her to read at least two novels per month with a promise of increased allowance during the summer months away from school. Monique's talent for writing was first discovered by her third grade teacher who regularly asked the young student to share her short stories with the class and sometimes the principal and other school administration during assemblies and PTO meetings. At that time she declared her dream to become a published author, as she believed it was what she was destined to be. She continued to receive praise for her writing throughout middle and high school. While attending the University of Michigan, Monique put her dreams of becoming an author on hold as she earned her Bachelor's Degree in Business Management. After graduation, she landed a job in the mortgage industry. Although the job provided steady income and a comfortable lifestyle for both her and her young daughter, she still felt unfulfilled as she realized that she always wanted something more. After being prompted by her best friend to , "just write a book", she started her first novel. Finding time during lunch breaks at work and late night evenings, Monique completed her first manuscript, Who Is He To You. Shortly after, she launched Kisa Publishing and published her debut novel. Monique now resides in Southfield, MI where she is raising her daughter and working full-time as an enrollment counselor for a private university. She also works as a freelance copywriter and copyeditor and is currently working on her second novel. Stay tuned for more drama-filled pages of literary adrenaline as this break-through author gives readers fresh perspectives and edgy plots as never written before.

Book preview

NEMESIS

NEMESIS

Monique D. Mensah

Published by Monique D. Mensah

©2012 Monique D. Mensah

Smashwords Edition

Discover other titles by Monique D. Mensah at Smashwords

THE MALIGNANT MIND SERIES:

WHO IS HE TO YOU https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9875

INSIDE RAIN https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/24554

SMOKE SCREEN https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/64574

This book will also be available in print June, 2012

For an autographed print version, visit the author's website for purchase.

www.MoniqueDMensah.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For eight-year-old Monique, who had the audacity to dream of being an author.

PROLOGUE: PRESENT DAY

Is she dead?

Amara’s sullen eyes fixated on the body, and the air evaporated in her lungs. She clutched her chest as if she could calm the thuds of the bass drum pounding beneath her rib cage. She tried to swallow, but the obstructive knot in her throat wouldn’t allow the saliva to pass. She was stifled, but somehow she knew she had to react. She had to do something—but what? What was the appropriate action? What to do first? Too many conflicting thoughts clouded her reasoning, too many fears. Once her chilled blood resumed its circulation, the feeling drifted its way back to her legs. She crouched slowly to the floor so that her face was not more than a few inches from the victim’s.

Amara shook her head to free her mind from the prison of confusion. This was no time to lose it—not now. Everything, every passing second, was critical, and her future was resting in her hands. She reached out a quivering palm, swept her victim’s thick, meticulously styled hair from her limp shoulder, and placed two fingers on the side of her neck, just as she had seen actors do in the movies. She didn’t know if she was doing it wrong or if there was anything there to feel, but she couldn’t detect the light thuds of a pulse. She didn’t feel anything but cool, clammy skin beneath her fingertips. To be certain, she tried again, this time pressing harder into her neck, determined to draw some kind of conclusion. Nothing.

Hey, Amara whispered. Can you hear me … ? She shook her by the shoulder, but she didn’t wake. Her sleepy russet eyes, glazed over lifelessly, remained steely, her body wilted. Amara’s futile attempt to wake her was terminated by a single tear that she quickly swiped with the same hand she had used to grasp her shoulder. She refused to allow the severity of the moment to muddle her judgment. As she wiped her own face with her fingers, she felt a warm liquid smear just above her cheekbone. When she inspected her fingers for the source, she found them covered in blood. Shock halted a reaction as she stared absently at the dark crimson liquid that had begun to ooze from the side of the victim's head and onto the marble floor, seeping into the crevices between the tiles and slowly forming a puddle between her neck and shoulder.

She hopped up from the floor. The house that had been home to Amara for the last eighteen years was now congested with an eerie unfamiliarity. It was bigger, darker, colder. The usually insipid moonlight, spilling inside from the towering windows, illuminated the foyer in a dusty gray, like a classic black-and-white film. The body was the only thing plainly visible as the moon’s taut beam hit her like a spotlight. Amara scanned the foyer, her eyes landing on the decorative table and the accessories that once topped it, which now lay wounded on the floor. She winced at the shroud of fragmented glass scattered by the front door like a dismantled puzzle.

Then … it finally hit her. Something inside her awakened and panic consumed her. She’s dead!

Amara paced the floor frantically past the body. It was time to think. The tip of her bare foot grazed the woman’s fingers and Amara skipped backward like she was discovering the body for the first time. A bolt of rationality struck Amara. The police! I have to call the police! Speaking aloud to herself seemed to ignite her reasoning. She turned quickly on her heels and raced down the hall to action.

Breathing hastily through her nose, she snatched the phone from her dresser and dialed 9-1-1. She shifted her weight from one leg to the next and back again in a dance of anxiety until a dispatcher finally answered her call.

Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?

Amara walked out of her bedroom and back into the foyer. She’d heard the greeting, but she couldn’t speak.

Hello? Are you there? What is your emergency?

Amara opened her mouth, but her voice defied her and nothing came out.

The dispatcher grew impatient on the other end, and it was made clear in her terse tone. Hello? Hello? Nine-one-one, emergency. Is anyone there?

Umm … ye—yes, I’m here, Amara finally managed.

The dispatcher sighed loudly. What is your emergency, ma’am?

Umm … someone has been shot. The declaration sent a gush of tears down Amara’s face, saturating her T-shirt.

The dispatcher, now more alert, asked, Do you know who the victim is or who was involved?

Amara glanced at the .380 pistol, resting on the floor a few inches from the body. I shot her. I … I think I killed my mother.

ONE MONTH AGO

ONE

The attorney impatiently tapped a pen on his worn desk as he mulled over the brief that his new law clerk had prepared for his client’s upcoming hearing. It was riddled with typos and grammatical errors that Nelson should have learned to avoid in the third grade. He sighed heavily as he circled a misspelled word. I might as well just do the shit myself. His foot inadvertently kicked the overflowing wastebasket tucked into a corner beneath his desk, and the contents, mounds of balled paper and some of the leftovers from his lunch at B. Smith’s, spilled onto the tattered carpet. He gave the trashcan another healthy jab with his foot just to express his rising frustration. A glob of sour cream landed on the tip of his shoe, but he didn’t bother to wipe it off.

He pressed the intercom button on his phone and waited for his clerk to pick up. Nelson, please come in here to discuss this brief. He ended the call abruptly and leaned back, causing his chair to whine in response. He smoothed a hand over his bald head and exhaled from his puffed cheeks. He was contemplating, for the second time that day, moving from D.C. back to his hometown of Detroit. He eyed the Africa-shaped picture frame perched beside his computer monitor, boasting a picture of himself and his mother at his U of M Law graduation. The frame was the only reminder he held of the Afrocentric lifestyle he so proudly promoted in the early to mid-nineties. It had been years since he had worn a Kufi hat, and he didn’t even know where his black leather medallion was anymore. He chuckled at the thought of his former self. His Afrocentricity had proven to be nothing more than a fad, just like that asshole Preston Cartwright, had accused.

Seconds later, Nelson knocked on the office door and then entered without an invitation. He pushed his rolled sleeves farther up his forearms and flashed a nervous smile that turned his ruddy cheeks even redder. The attorney noted that his dirty-blond spiked hair was crisp with gel, a grooming practice that he had warned his intern not to repeat. Nelson, I found seventeen errors in this brief. And I’m not even talking about all the legal terms you’ve used in the wrong context.

Aw, I’m so sorry, Bossman.

The attorney winced at the mention of the nickname he’d forbidden Nelson from using, but he decided to let it pass for the moment. They had more pressing matters to discuss. He shook his head and sighed in exasperation, unwilling to give up on the young student. Come have a seat. Let’s go through it together.

Nelson took one of the mismatched chairs on the opposite side of the desk, propping his elbows on the desk and flopping his head casually into his hands—something else his mentor had warned him against.

Okay, we don’t have a lot of time. The hearing is on Monday, so we only have four days to get it together.

Three.

What?

We have three days. Today is Thursday, the fifteenth.

The attorney took the pen he had been toying with earlier and used it to scratch his chin through his thick goatee. The fifteenth? October fifteenth … His eyes widened as something occurred to him. Nelson, we have to do this sometime later.

Well, I leave at three-thirty, Bossman.

The attorney was already standing, shooing Nelson away. We’ll get to it. Please, just give me a moment.

Confused, Nelson shuffled out of the office, relieved that he had dodged another lecture on grammar, syntax, and proper form.

As soon as he’d heard the door latch closed, the attorney rushed to the safe in the east wall. Almost twenty years had passed, more quickly than he would have liked, but he had never forgotten his promise. Every year, October fifteenth served as a countdown to the day when he would finally be able to display his everlasting loyalty and love for the only woman who’d ever been worthy of them. He’d stored the package she’d given him that night inside the safe the day he’d inherited the office from his late employer and mentor. It had remained there, untouched, until this day, the day she had instructed that he open it.

As he keyed the code to the safe, her sweet face entered his thoughts. Few days had passed that he hadn’t thought of her: her laugh, her smell, her eccentricity. He loved it all. And a small piece of him died that fateful night that never seemed to be more distant than just a few days ago. His hands trembled as he held the package between them. He made his way slowly back to his chair and unwound the twine that held the flap of the manila envelope closed. A brazen chill ripped through him as he felt her presence surround him. After years of wondering, guessing, waiting, he was finally face-to-face with his promise. He slid the stack of papers out of the envelope and a small key clanked on the surface of his desk. He clamped a hand over it to prevent it from falling to the floor. He took a sip of the neglected coffee that was now growing cold as he carefully read the letter clutched between his fingers.

"My African King,

How are you doing out there in D.C.? I know it’s not the glamorous life you dreamed of when you were studying law at U of M, but you just hang in there; your time will come. I promise."

He gasped. How in the hell could she have known where I would end up? Her revelation shook him, but he was too intrigued to stop after just the first few sentences. This, whatever this was, was more pertinent than he had ever realized. He swallowed hard, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and continued with a twinge of fear in his bones.

"I first want to thank you for being a true friend to me when I had no one else. You will never know how lonely I was, absent of true friendship, love, and loyalty. But you had always been true. You were the one person I knew I could trust with this information.

Please read the following pages in their entirety. I will describe to you the specifics of the last three months of my life. Leave no doubt in your mind that everything documented here is true, despite how disturbing it may be. Please do not question the validity of the source of my divine knowledge; just accept it for what it is—the absolute truth …"

He felt an undeniable heat rise beneath his skin as he read her heartbreaking fifty-page revelation. A furrow distorted his brows as he digested every word, and a single tear streaked his face when he’d finally reached the last page several minutes later. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt as the heat became nearly unbearable.

She’d told him a story as if her life was the muse for a bestselling author’s latest release. But more compelling than her detailed narrative was the conclusion. Her instructions had been precise, and after harboring an unfulfilled love for this woman for what seemed to be an eternity, he silently vowed to carry out his assigned mission with a convicted determination. Step one was to be completed today. He would not fail her.

I love you, he whispered, with a striking intuition that she could actually hear his confession.

TWO

Preston Cartwright loosened his tie so that it hung loosely around his neck and over his custom-tailored shirt like a slack noose. He huffed loudly, sending a whiff of Glenlevit swimming through the air. The forty-year-old scotch lingered for a few moments before surrendering to the overpowering musk that permeated the office through the scented oil lamps perched on the walls. He fondled the snifter on his desk with his right hand, shifting it in slow counterclockwise circles as he swished the drink in the glass to release its full bouquet. In his left hand, he clutched a detailed report that did nothing to add pleasure to his taxing day. His grimace deepened as he tightened his palm into a fist, crinkling the report into a ball like a used tissue.

Miki Murder, his label’s newest hip-hop artist, had turned out to be all hype and no profit. After investing two million dollars into her rock-inspired image, her avant-garde music video, and her album production and promotion, she’d sold a lousy fifty thousand copies of her debut album, which meant only one thing—somebody was getting fired. He silently cursed the lazy so-called talent agents and promoters who pranced around the Pretty Boy Records office as if they owned the world, living off his reputation and his hard work with hardly any contributions of their own. He had started this label from the ground up, and they were doing nothing but riding his coattails, bragging to their yuppie friends about working at the hottest record company in the business. But that would all change soon. He scribbled a note to remind himself to have one of his assistants schedule a staff meeting—to ream them out and to filter out the weak links. He was tired of the incompetence, and at least one person would be out of a job by day’s end.

He’d drop Miki Murder like she had an infectious disease. He had no room on his team for mediocrity. She had to go. To calm himself from the rage that was threatening to take hold of him, he took a generous sip of scotch and threw the crumpled report in the wastebasket with a neat layup that he was sure his NBA friends would have envied.

Preston winced as the intercom’s loud chime punctuated his thoughts. Aggravated, he pressed the red button on his phone to activate the speaker. Yes, Trisha? He knew that his voice portrayed his frigid mood, but Trisha was used to it.

Mr. Cartwright—

Trisha, what did I tell you about that?!

Oh, oh, I’m sorry, Mr. umm … I mean Platinum P.

Preston released an exaggerated sigh to let Trisha know she had messed up again. "No, Trisha, that’s my old name! Didn’t you get the email last week? Better yet, don’t you watch Entertainment Tonight?"

Trisha was clearly flustered. "Oh … oh … I’m so sorry. Please excuse me, Perfect P."

That’s better. He slouched in his seat and switched the receiver to his other ear. Now, what do you want?

A package has just been delivered for you.

So, you thought that calling to tell me about it was better than bringing it in? Preston’s tone dripped with derision. Was there anyone at this company besides himself who wasn’t an incompetent moron?

Trisha seemed unaffected by his condescension. Of course not, Perfect P. I just wanted to be certain of the appropriate time to bring it in to you.

Now!

I’ll be right there.

Preston slammed the phone down without offering closing remarks. He gave himself repose by rotating his executive chair slowly, eyeing the framed platinum and gold records that decorated the perimeter of his office. The plaques, illustrations of his success, were his most prized possessions. They were the reason he had dominated the hip-hop and R&B industry for the last ten years and had grown a small inheritance into the hundreds of millions of dollars that had earned him a spot on Forbes’s Hip Hop’s Wealthiest list. He was proud of his journey, earning his way into the ranks as one of the most respected record label execs in the game, having started with only $120,000 and a dream. Yes, he was proud of his success, but he wasn’t satisfied; he never would be. He would stay hungry until they laid his rich ass to rest.

Preston’s tour of his personal wall of fame came to an abrupt halt when his eyes landed on a group picture taken just six months ago. Miki Murder sported a smile as big and bright as the sun that had failed to grace the New York skies for the past three days. She and Preston stood in front of the rest of the Pretty Boy Records talent acquisition crew, shaking hands with a radiance that only the promise of millions of dollars could place in their eyes. Preston’s gaze morphed into a hardened, resentful glare, retracting his pupils until they were cold, black stones. Miki Murder had failed him, had made him look like a failure. He hated her.

He picked up the engraved paperweight he’d received from Trisha last year for National Boss’s Day and sent it flying across the room toward the reviled picture. His office door flew open, and a startled Trisha ducked like a professional boxer as the paperweight flew right past her head, hitting the mounted picture and cracking the glass into spider-webbed shards as it fell to the floor with a muffled thud.

Perfect P, are you okay? Trisha asked with a hand over her thudding heart. She took a deep breath before easing into the office.

I’m fine. Get somebody to clean this shit up! Preston took a swig of his scotch but then frowned when he noticed that his glass was near empty. And get me some more scotch.

Right away, sir. Trisha began to scamper back out into the hallway when Preston stopped her.

Trisha! What about my package? Where is it?

She looked down at the FedEx envelope tucked under her arm and shook her head, sending shoulder-length blond curls fluttering into her face. Oh, my goodness. I almost forgot! She closed the door and headed toward Preston with the package outstretched in her hand.

Preston stood and waited until Trisha was close to him, then he snatched the envelope from her hand and set it on his desk without opening it or examining it for a return address.

Trisha, knowing better than to leave without being properly dismissed, absentmindedly smoothed her wool form-fitting skirt with her palms as she stood in place. Preston’s eyes followed her hands as they swept over her wide hips, advertising thick thighs and a rotund backside. Trisha, about ten years his senior, had the body of a Luke dancer. Nice … for a white girl, he thought to himself as he wondered why he had never taken note before today.

He licked his lips instinctively, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Trisha. Um … Perfect P, if there’s nothing else, I’ll go get maintenance to clean up this mess for you.

Trish—

Oh, yeah. She averted her eyes nervously and cleared her throat. The scotch too. I’ll take care of that now.

Trish … he started again, come here. Preston motioned for his assistant to close the twelve-inch gap between them, and she obliged, shuffling closer to him until they were just a nose width apart.

Yes, sir?

His hands provided his response as he reached around and gripped her backside, pulling her body to his with an aggression she wasn’t prepared for. Trisha gasped as he squeezed the fleshy part of her ass until it almost hurt. Just when she thought she had found the words to properly address her boss’s sexual harassment, he covered her mouth with his, parting her lips with his tongue. He forced her body close to his, grinding her triangle against his erection. She squirmed slightly, but then quickly gave in as their kiss changed from an unwanted advance to a strong desire, sending a warm sensation through her body and tickling her most intimate areas.

Preston ended their kiss but kept her body in his embrace. Heavy breaths and an almost tangible craving shifted between them. Trisha … he whispered.

Barely able to catch her breath, she managed, Yes … yes, sir.

He leaned into her neck, his lips brushing her ear. Send somebody in here to clean up this glass, get my scotch, and then …

Yes? she whispered.

Then bring yo’ fine ass back in here at six o’clock sharp. No panties.

She nodded mechanically.

I’m gonna bend you over my desk and fuck you until I bust a nut all over that fat ass.

A chill visibly shook Trisha as Preston released her, and she took slow and precise steps backward. Preston adjusted himself so that his erection wouldn’t tell on him before calmly reclaiming his seat and turning his focus to his computer monitor as if his lustful encounter with his assistant hadn’t just occurred. She continued to back toward the door until she clumsily collided with the wall, but Trisha was too astounded to be embarrassed. A shaky hand grasped the doorknob to her left, and she opened the door and slipped out without another word.

Preston eyed the FedEx envelope resting on his desk, wondering for the first time about its contents. There was no return address. He drained the last few drops of Glenlevit before grabbing a letter opener. He retrieved the thick stack of papers from the envelope and scrutinized them. A furrow graced his brow and his face tightened, illustrating his instant angst and growing anxiety. He shuffled through the documents, placing one behind the other as he scanned each page, thumbing through them quickly until he’d reached the last few pages. He stared intently at the typed print as if the words were capable of taking his life—and they were. His breaths quickened and his eyes widened as the realization of his fate overtook him. He stood, papers in hand, and reached toward the far right side of his desk. Losing the battle against his impending panic, he fed each page to the paper shredder, running the machine longer than necessary just to hear the soothing sound of destroyed evidence.

Deflated, he plopped back down into his seat and tried to regain some of his cool—it wasn’t working. The evidence was gone, but she was still out there. She still knew—would always know—and she wouldn’t rest. The threat would be perpetual. With a pounding heart and short snatches of breath, Preston realized that he’d never be able to escape the inevitable. His marriage, his career, his life were all over. His eyes roamed and then landed on the desktop picture of his radiant wife and their beautiful son. His gaze remained on them as he picked up the phone receiver and dialed ten digits on the keypad.

Hello? His wife answered in her usual perky tone.

Veronica, you know I love you, right?

Yes, baby, of course. Confusion blanketed her words.

You know I love lil’ Preston too …

Preston, baby, what’s wrong?

Preston could hear the emerging panic in Veronica’s voice, but still, he maintained a cool nonchalance. I just want you both to know that, no matter what, I love you with all my heart. Don’t ever believe anything else.

Baby? Baby—

Preston placed the receiver back onto its cradle. He stared blankly at the wall before him. After a few seconds of silence, he reached to his left and opened the top drawer of his desk. He fingered the cool metal before lifting it from its resting place and smoothed its width with his left hand. His arm rose slowly. Darkened eyes wandered back to Veronica’s picture. A single drop of sweat rolled from the crease in his forehead. He closed his eyes …

An ear-piercing BOOM! exploded in the office as Preston pulled the trigger of his silver Luger. In an instant, the gun slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. His head jerked left from the impact before resting on the back of the chair as his limp body slumped into his seat. Splotches of red now decorated the white-and-gold décor that Preston had warned his staff not to smudge with their filthy fingerprints. His ringing phone went unanswered as his wife tried desperately to reach her dead husband.

The door flew open and Trisha’s shrill scream filled the room, sending everyone on the sixteenth floor rushing to Perfect P’s office to get a firsthand account of the commotion.

Gasps traveled throughout the crowd until someone finally made the declaration aloud. He’s dead! Perfect P killed himself!

THREE

Come on! Let’s get it! I know you can do it. Pump it, pump it, pump it!

Shut up … you overzealous … bitch! Paige shouted between huffs. She hiked a perfectly toned leg in the air, parallel to her hip, slicing the air with a fierce kick. After enduring forty-five minutes of June Mitchell’s intense aerobic workout, she was about ready to collapse. But not before she finished the last set and sent June straight to hell with telepathic condemnation.

Come on! Kill those calories. Can you feel it?!

The more that six-packed, flat-assed fitness fanatic yelled at Paige, the more determined she became to shut her up. Five … more … minutes. That was all she had to do; just five more excruciating minutes until the DVD was over and she could silence June’s loud mouth with the simple push of a button. Sweat slid from every crevice of her body, pooling and spreading through her erogenous zones. Her lips formed an O as she forced air from her mouth, squatting low with her legs spread far apart, forming perfect ninety-degree angles. Her skin hugged her rib cage, and her stomach went concave as she sucked in as much air as she could manage. A forceful exhale contracted her tight abdomen and pumped her up for one more round.

Paige stole a quick peek at the calorie counter strapped to her wrist. She’d burned 650 calories in less than an hour. She had exceeded her goal, but she wouldn’t stop until June gave her permission.

Don’t quit on me now. Up!

Paige lifted her bent leg into the air and brought her elbow down to her knee as she balanced a seven-pound weight in her hand. Clenching her teeth, she forced a deep squat in perfect formation. She lifted her leg for one last round, but when her foot landed on the floor, it hit something hard underneath. Paige stumbled backward, scampering to catch her balance. She dropped one of the weights from her hand and she yelped as it landed on her toe. Her housekeeper hopped backward, snatching back the vacuum Paige had tripped over, avoiding a collision with her employer, who was now glaring at her from the floor.

Paige massaged her foot to soothe the piercing pain in her toe. Rhonda! What the hell are you doing?!

Rhonda continued to sweep the floor with the new silent vacuum Paige had her pick up from The Sharper Image just a week ago. She passed a lazy glance Paige’s way and raised a nonchalant brow. "I’m cleaning, Ms. Hammond, just like you asked me to do … on my day off." Rhonda whipped a loose braid from her forehead before gliding the vacuum away from Paige, toward the back wall of the rec room.

Paige remained on the floor, cradling her foot and rocking back and forth in pain. I asked you to clean the entertainment room! What the hell are you doing in here? Didn’t you see the mess those slobs left in there?

Come on! One last time. I know you have it in you! June Mitchell belted from the surround-sound speakers.

Shut up! Paige screamed at the TV.

Rhonda yawned. She flicked the switch to turn off the vacuum and placed a stiff hand on her voluptuous hip. Her other arm rested on the top of the vacuum handle. Yeah, I saw it.

So … why the hell are you in here bothering me? You made me fall, for god’s sake! Paige scanned Rhonda’s ill-fitting jeans, faded T-shirt, and scuffed sneakers. And where is your uniform?

"Hmph, I figured working on my day off, I’d get to wear whatever I please."

And the entertainment room?

I’ll get to it.

Paige eased herself up from the floor,