Bottom of the Funnel, 22: The Ties that Bind

Angelina’s hair caught the sunlight in a bright, crisp halo around her springy dark curls. She watched the people at street level while collecting her thoughts. “You don’t mind talking about this,” she asked, her back to me.

I leaned nonchalantly against her coffee mug on the work table by her windows. “I’m cool with it if you are.”

“I mean, with me. Alone.” She turned to me, arms crossed, and looked down nearly the full length of her body at me. “Without Amy-Leigh or Madelaine to protect you.”

I pushed from the mug and took up a defiant stance. Difficult, as I only came up to the marketing director’s navel. “I don’t need anyone’s protection, I’m my own man. Say what you’ve got to say.”

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