Page 22 of Shark’s Edge

“I have a theory about anger, Ms. Gibson.”

“Please, enlighten me.” She swiped her cheek with the back of her hand. One quick wipe on each side while she glared at me.

“Anger is fear’s alter ego.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Shark.”

“Maybe not of me, necessarily. But of the situation? This situation?” I couldn’t stop myself from wiping the last tear that rolled down her flame-red cheek. It evaporated from the heat of her skin as quickly as it was shed.

“Fear, anger, excitement . . . no matter what you call it, Abbigail, they’re all forms of passion. And to be good at something? Whether it’s feeding people, housing people, or hell”—I chuckled—“even moving freight across the ocean. To be the king of your kingdom, you have to do it with passion. That’s what gives you the edge.”

I stepped away from the door and pulled the large panel back, holding it open while the captivating girl gathered her bearings and realized she was being dismissed.

“I hope you have a productive weekend, Ms. Gibson,” I said in place of goodbye.

“Uhhh, yeah, you too.” She shook her head slightly, still seeming to be working out what had just happened as she went.

The door closed, and I sat down to eat the lunch she made for me, grinning from the knowledge that her careful hands created my meal. Her sexy fingers manipulated the ingredients along with her intelligent mind that combined flavors and textures to assemble—honest to Christ—one of the best sandwiches I’d ever eaten.

To the extent that I was inspired enough to pull out my phone, snap a quick picture of the empty plate, and send it to Little Red along with a text message. How I had her cell phone number was inconsequential. I was a very resourceful man when properly motivated.

Lunch was outstanding. Thank you.

The throbbing ellipses appeared almost instantly, signaling her impending reply.

My pleasure. I aim to be king.

“Uuugghh.” I groaned loudly. The wrenching pain in my abdomen had gone from uncomfortable to unbearable in an hour. I dialed my sister’s cell phone for the fourth time only to end the call quickly, rush to the bathroom, and drop to my knees in front of the sleek porcelain bowl.

Dry heaves. Nothing was left. I’d lost all the contents of my stomach over the past forty-five minutes. But the sensation to retch continued. My guts felt like they were turning inside out and trying to make a break for it through my esophagus.

Food poisoning. It was the only thing that made sense. I felt fine otherwise. No fever, no chills or body aches.

As if cursing the gastro-gods, my lower intestinal area gurgled and cramped. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, wiping the sweat beads from my brow. I hadn’t had “the spinners” since my frat days. Another gurgle rumbled through my bowel, and then sixty more minutes of just trying to stay out of the bathroom long enough to call my sister for help.

What had I eaten? Typical oatmeal for breakfast. The food service I had delivered to my home left portioned servings, marked with color-coded labels for each day. I’d felt fine after eating it.

For lunch, I had the fantastic turkey club Abbigail Gibson brought in. I ate every last crumb of the sandwich and didn’t touch the salad. She took the offensive dressing out with her. I was all about eating healthy, but I wasn’t a damn rabbit. Who the hell ate dry lettuce? I was so swamped the second half of the day; I hadn’t even indulged in an afternoon pick-me-up.

It had to have been the sandwich.

I redialed Pia. I was going to need to go to Urgent Care at the very least, and I’d already sent my driver home for the night. I knew I was becoming dehydrated, though, and there was no way I could get behind the wheel.

The line rang twice before she answered. “Hey, brother. What’s going on? You okay? It’s pretty late for you to be calling, no?”

“Hey. Yeah, need some help.” I groaned, trying to tone down my reaction to the pain.

“Dude . . . ” Nope, she saw right through me. “Are you okay?” Her voice rose with concern.

“I think I have food poisoning. I need to get to the ER or Urgent Care—ugh! I don’t know. Something.” I was whining as only I could do in the safety of her presence.

“All right, all right. Calm down. Let me see if Millie can come stay with Vela, and I’ll be over. Sit tight. No pun intended. Okay,” she snickered. “Maybe a little bit intended.”

“Piiiiaaaa!”