Free Caged by Stephie Walls Page B

who treat Tonya like shit. She’s good as gold, and if you can’t get along with her there’s not much hope for you.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Two
     
    The first thing I see is her high heel-clad foot hit the pavement. The second one joins it as she stands from the seat. She’s tall and thin with legs that go on for a mile. Sliding my gaze up her stems, I note the smart black skirt perfectly tailored to fit her body, the billowy white blouse that seems to hover over her skin instead of actually touching it, then her long, lean neck. She has on huge sunglasses popular with the ladies these days hiding most of her features, but her nose is slim and straight. Her dark black hair tied back at the base of her neck. She is the picture of perfection, but looks brutal as hell.
     
                  Pushing off the car, I walk to her, extending my hand, “Sasha Maxwell.” I introduce myself.
     
    She lifts the glasses from her face with her left hand, extending her right with a snide grin, “Sasha, huh?” She doesn’t wait for a response to the arrogant way she snarled my name, “Claire Weston.”
     
                  Times like these I hate my parents for giving me a name like Sasha. As a kid I was the butt of jokes until I reached an age and size that people were afraid of me. My six-foot, two-inch stature holds my two hundred and fifty pounds on my frame and doesn’t leave much room for people to joke about my name anymore. Clearly, this woman is not intimidated by me, nor is she impressed.
     
                  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Claire.” I look directly into her eyes showing her I’m not overawed by her either and notice the warmth radiating from the green looking back at me. The rest of her is stern and cold but there’s a softness behind the mask. She doesn’t return the sentiment. I drop her hand, “Where would you like to start? Inside or out?”
     
                  “Out.” She answers tersely, tucking her shades into her designer bag.
     
                  I show her around the property trying to point out property lines, courtyards, and anything else that might be appealing, but not knowing what she’s considering the building for makes it difficult to help her get a vision in her mind of what this could be. My attempts at luring her into conversation fail miserably as she responds with curt, one-word answers. After a few minutes, I quit trying to engage her, and simply point out what I can. I t’ s a waste of time to exert any more energy on this woman or property. Completing a lap around the building, I take the key out of the box and open the front door ushering her in. The bitch steps on my foot with the heel of her goddamn shoe as she walks past me. I bite my lower lip to keep from shouting the obscenities on the tip of my tongue, and I swear I notice a smirk on her face.
     
                  As the door closes behind me she utters the first complete sentence I’ve heard from her mouth, “Wow. It really smells in here.”
     
                  “The stench from the fire still hangs in the air. The building has been closed up since the incident. Open windows and doors would clear it out fairly quickly since all of the surfaces are hard.”
     
                  “I don’t think all the Febreeze in the world could take this away.” She turns up her chin as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to end up with a migraine before this over.” She’s not talking to me as she voices her opinion. I get the impression she’s used to saying what’s on her mind and people cowering to please her. She’s barking up the wrong tree if she thinks I give a shit what she thinks. Frankly, her snotty attitude and incessant complaining may bring on a headache of my own.
     
                  I take her through the open rooms, pointing out the enormous windows almost reaching