Brats in Training 3: Dangerous Dusty

BRATS IN TRAINING 3: DANGEROUS DUSTY

Tasty Teasers

STORMY GLENN

Copyright © 2012

Chapter 1

“Watch where you’re going, jackass!”

Dusty wiped the sweat from his forehead as he raced through the city streets on his bicycle. He ignored the angry shouts and the belligerent man. He was a courier, and he had a package to deliver. Come rain, sleet, hail, or the hot-ass blazing sun that was melting his brain, Michelson Inc. was going to get this dang envelope.

He wheeled through the heavy traffic and was nearly clipped on the back tire by a cabby as he rounded the corner.

“I’ll sue you if I hit you!” the cabby yelled as his fist pumped in the air.

“You have to catch me first, you—” Dusty screeched as he ran into a newspaper stand, taking a dive, and landing on his side.

Fuck, that hurt.

“Are you okay?” a man asked as he walked by but didn’t stop.

Dusty groaned and then rolled to his feet, dusting his pants off. He grimaced as he noticed that he had scraped the palms of his hands, and scratched up a few knuckles. Thank the gods he wore a helmet—although the thing sported more scraps and dings than a race car—knees pads, and elbow pads.

He walked over to his bike, inspected the wheels, and was relieved that it didn’t have any serious damage. Buying a new bike would totally suck. He had gone through three already this year.

And it was only May.

Hopping back onto his bike, Dusty started down the sidewalk, racing toward his destination. He was in a time crunch, and he needed to get this envelope to its owner.

“Get off of the damn sidewalk, you moron!”

Dusty hopped the curb, steered around Adam’s Avenue, and was one happy camper when he saw the large and looming building ahead. The investment building was made mostly of glass, had a large front courtyard so Dusty had somewhere to park his bike, and had a directory which was easy to follow.

It wasn’t his first time delivering to the firm, though.

Dusty tried to pull his leg over the bike, and ride the one pedal like he had seen the other couriers do until he reached his destination and then simply hop off of the pedal, but it didn’t work out exactly as he wanted it to.

It never did.

But he kept on trying anyway.

Dusty’s pant leg became caught on the other pedal, and he soon found himself lying on the ground, his bike smack dab on top of him, the back wheel still rolling.

Fuck, that hurt.

The people entering and exiting the building stared down at him, some even rolled their eyes, but none offered to help or asked if he was all right. But, he was used to the many bumps and bruises he acquired on his job. What he wasn’t used to was people being in such a hurry that they weren’t even kind enough to reach down and give him a hand.

It only took five seconds.

He would never understand people who ran through life without taking the time to enjoy it. Or why people couldn’t take an extra five seconds to be nice to someone else. Kindness was free, but it seemed a lot of people still passed it by.

Society on the whole baffled Dusty.

Dusty righted his bike and locked it up to the side of the door, and then hurried toward the bank of elevators. He pulled his messenger bag forward, pulled the envelope free, and then dropped the damn thing. When he bent over to pick it up, he kicked the manila envelope and watched in horror as it went skidding across the front lobby, and headed straight for the escalators.

“No!” he shouted and took off after it. If he lost the envelope, he was going to be fired. Mr. Wheeling was getting pretty tired of Dusty going back to Competent Couriers and telling his boss that he had lost yet another package.

He was skating on thin ice.

Dusty breathed a sigh of relief when a gentleman stepped on the envelope, his highly polished wing-tip shoe stopping the package from being eaten up by the silver teeth of the escalator.

“Is this yours?” the man asked as he bent at the waist and picked the envelope up.

Shit.
Dusty had delivered to this man a hundred times. Mr. Jacob Lyndhurst stood there holding the envelope, a wry grin on his face.

“Thanks,” he said as he reached up and took the manila envelope from Mr. Lyndhurst’s hand.

“Try to keep a tight grip on it, Dusty,” Mr. Lyndhurst said with a twinkle of laughter in his light grey eyes as he walked away.

Dusty blinked at the man and then pushed the guy out of his thoughts as he walked over to the elevators. There were others standing there waiting as well. The hallway with the bank of elevators always seemed to stay crowded whenever he delivered here.

He saw a woman with a stroller, an elderly gentleman, and a few men in what looked to be very expensive suits staring up at the numbers above the elevators. He really wasn’t sure how expensive the suits were since Dusty didn’t own a suit. He stuck with jeans and T-shirts.

They were much easier to replace when he took a spill and ruined his clothes.

As the elevator on the left opened, the occupants cleared out and the men in their expensive-looking suits hurried in. Dusty stepped aside, smiling at the woman with the stroller and the elderly gentleman, waving a hand toward the elevator. “Go ahead.”

He was young. Dusty could catch the next one, run down the hallway, and still make it on time. These two couldn’t.

“Could you hold the door please?” the woman asked the men already on the elevator, but they acted as if she were speaking a foreign language. As the doors began to slide closed, leaving the woman behind, Dusty reached out and laid his hand on the doors, stopping them from closing.

“There you go.”

“I have a meeting to get to,” one of the suits snapped.

“And it will still be there,” Dusty mumbled.

Men in suits intimidated Dusty to a point, but a woman and a baby being snubbed ticked him off. He’d deal with their angry glares if it helped her out.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, smiling at Dusty, and then she glared at the men on the elevator.

Her appreciation was all worth it.

Dusty hurried onto the next elevator, holding the door for the elderly gentlemen, and then pressed the button marked
5
. He hummed to himself and wondered if his fish had enough food as the elevator smoothly glided toward the fifth floor.

Once the doors slid open, Dusty stepped off…and then tripped. The envelope went flying from his hand as he fell on his face.

Fuck, that hurt.

“Are you all right?” the receptionist asked as she stood behind her desk, peering over at Dusty with wide eyes.

“Yes,” Dusty replied as he picked his dignity up from the floor and grabbed the envelope. He smiled politely at—Dusty checked the nameplate—Karen. “I have a package for Mr. Sheffield.”

Dusty reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the clipboard with the signature forms attached, handing it over to Karen.

A finely plucked eyebrow rose as she stared at the sad state of the papers attached to the clipboard. Dusty had dropped the clipboard so many times that it had its own set of bumps and bruises.

“I need you to sign for—”

“Karen, I’m done with interviews for the day. Send anyone else who shows up home,” a man said as he walked out of his office.

“Yes, Mr. Sheffield.”

“Is that for me?” The man turned toward Dusty, nodding his head toward the envelope clutched in Dusty’s hand.

All Dusty could do was stare into the most dazzling amethyst eyes he had ever seen. The man walked toward Dusty, and his powerful, lean, and sinewy body moved with ease. When Mr. Sheffield stopped, Dusty realized that the man towered over him by at least eight inches.

Wow
.

Mr. Sheffield snapped his fingers in front of Dusty’s face. “I asked if that delivery was for me?”

Dusty blinked a few times, and then felt his face heat to a level that rivaled the sun’s rays. “Oh, yeah, it is.” Dusty swung the envelope up and whacked the man right in the nose.

“Oh, my god!” Dusty blanched, horror filling him. He was sure to lose his job after this.

“Mr. Sheffield!” Karen screeched.

“Damn it!” Mr. Sheffield grunted as he placed a hand over his nose and then pulled it away, obviously checking for blood.

“Are you okay?” Dusty asked, taking a step forward and reaching up…tripped, and slammed his hand into Mr. Sheffield’s nose.

“Fuck!” Mr. Sheffield shouted.

“Oh, hell,” Karen murmured.

“I’m so screwed,” Dusty whispered.

Dusty covered his mouth with his hand, staring with wide, horrified eyes as Mr. Sheffield leaned on the receptionist’s counter.

“Are you—”

“Stay back,” Mr. Sheffield warned as he held a hand up to ward Dusty off. “If you try to help me one more time, I just might need an ambulance.”

Dusty stuck one foot out, leaned very slowly toward the counter, and placed the envelope on the smooth surface, making sure he didn’t touch the man. “This is for you, sir.”

Mr. Sheffield’s amethyst eyes widened slightly, and then his hand slowly lowered from his nose, his eyes raking Dusty from head to toe. “What’s your name?”

Oh, hell.
Mr. Sheffield was going to sue Competent Couriers. Dusty was about to lose his job. He immediately began to think of who else might be hiring as he answered the injured man.

“Dusty, sir.”

Now the amethyst eyes lowered, almost to slits as Mr. Sheffield took a step closer to Dusty.
Oh, crap.
The man was going to sock him in the nose. Dusty took a step back, raising the clipboard in front of his face as he cowered. “I bleed very easily, sir.”

“You what?” The tone was filled with bafflement.

Dusty lowered the clipboard and stared over the edge, seeing the confusion in the man’s eyes. “I said I bleed very easily, sir. So, if you are going to bop me on the nose, you might want to put a towel down on the clean carpet first.”

Mr. Sheffield glanced over at Karen and then back at Dusty, his posture stiffening as his hands slid into the front pockets of his creased slacks. “I wasn’t going to hit you, Dusty.”

“Oh,” Dusty said as he leaned forward and very carefully placed the clipboard on the counter. “If someone would be so kind as to sign the form, I can get out of here.”

Mr. Sheffield glanced at the clipboard, wearing the same puzzled look Karen had worn when looking at it, and then cut his eyes back to Dusty. “How did you hurt yourself?”

Dusty was lost. What in the heck was the man talking about?

“Your hands.”

Dusty lifted his hands up and glanced at them, seeing the scrapes and scratches decorating them. Some of the marks even had crusted blood. “Oh, I fell, sir.”

“Are you always this accident prone?” Mr. Sheffield asked.