I was quite disappointed with the amount of feedback for last chapter. Over four days it managed to scrap in four reviews (one of which was my bestie whom hardly ever reviews), whereas in less than 24hours King in His Own Lunchbox pulled in five. If interest in this story doesn't increase I'll be scrapping it. Don't get me wrong, I'll probably keep writing it and sharing it with Shreek, but I won't be posting it. Hopefully this chapter intrigues you a little more.

Chapter 2

The sun beat down, bringing its heat full force as it cast a perfect halo around the latest beach-bum surfer-dude to walk past out little set up. Mom was on her back, attempting to read her new true crime novel without casting a shadow across any part of her anatomy. It was a futile endeavour dictated by the delicate balance between the distance Mom could see without the aid of her reading glasses and the angle of the early afternoon sun. Beside her, I was sitting up, reapplying my sun block and trying not to gawk at all the rippling abs on the beach around us when she finally gave up the battle. She dropped her hand, still holding the book, to her side with a muffled thud.

"I give up," she informed me, though I barely heard her over the music blaring in my ears. "Talk to me."

"Hmm?" I hmmed, removing the ear bud from one ear. It wasn't that I needed her to repeat what she'd said, but if she realised that I could, in fact, hear her over my music, it would take away my excuse to ignore her when she was telling me to do the dishes. Or take out the trash. Or clean my room.

"I can't read," she explained. "Let's talk."

I thought for a moment, handing her the sun block so that she too could reapply. "Explain to me why we're here," I requested in the most polite way I could think of. Previous mental attempts, tainted by frustration, had included words that would surely have gotten me grounded. Definitely not the best option for a vacation.

Mom surprised me by putting on her best whiney voice. "Do I have to?" I gave her a look similar to the one she always gave me when I whined, and she sighed. "Alright, fine. It's a family matter."

Did someone die? was my first thought. I wasn't aware of any family that lived out here, but then its not like I know the entire family tree off by heart. "What kind of family matter?" I eventually asked, having swallowed down all the uncalled-for grief. Wait until you have a reason to before you get all worked up.

"A sensitive one," she said evasively. So it could have been a death. Deaths could be sensitive matters. I waited for her to explain further, but she didn't.

Starting to get a little worried, I pulled the ear bud from my other ear and set the iPod aside. I turned to face her more full and read the apprehension in her expression. "What's going on, Mom?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, screwing up her nose, and started fiddling with the links of her simple, silver chain bracelet. It was the last gift Dad had given her before he died. "This isn't the right place," she said softly, almost to herself rather than me. "Or the right time. Or-" Her hands were wringing together in her lap as her stress levels climbed. "Your father promised that when the time came he'd be the one to tell you," she explained, sounding slightly apologetic. "This isn't fair. It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Before she could start yelling to the heavens in an effort to scold my father – something she'd done several times in the months following his death – I cut in, seizing her hands and making her look me in the eye. "You don't have to tell me right this second," I told her, though I wished for once she would abandon her everything-has-to-be-planned-in-advance anxiety and just say what needed to be said. "Take some time. Calm down. Organise what you're going to say. Plan how it needs to happen." I gave her a reassuring smile. "I can wait. Just promise you'll tell me soon?"

"You're sure?" she asked hesitantly.

"I totes am," I said, grinning from ear to ear. She always got a kick out of me speaking IM, said it reminded her that I was still young and that young people were confusing.

A small smile was forming on her own lips as she replied solemnly, "IDK WTF I would do without you."

"Mom!" I exclaimed, shocked into laughter by her statement. "Do you know what you just said?"

She gave me one of those looks. "You better believe I know what I just said," she informed me. "So you better start leaving out the F."

"'Kay," I giggled.

Mom didn't think she was cool or hip or anything like that, and she didn't try to be, but honestly, I think she's just about the coolest Mom there is... when she's not stressing about little insignificant details, that is. She's strict without being overbearing, and sure, she can be a little up tight, but I'm pretty sure my free spirit requires some reigning in from time to time. Plus, she's reliable, and reliability is a highly valued quality in this age of divorce and absentee parenting.

*o*

We spent another hour or so at the beach before finding a room in a nearby hotel so that we could relax and chill for the evening. I was sprawled across the double bed while Mom showered, my iPod plugged firmly into my ears as I scrolled through Facebook updates on my phone when the bed started to vibrate. It took me a moment to realise that it must be Mom's cell phone and then another while to actually locate the thing in the bottom of Mom's handbag, by which time it had stopped ringing. I set it down on the bed and was in the process of re-plugging my ears when it lit up and started vibrating again.

"Leah Hathwick's phone," I stated clearly, grimacing and gritting my teeth as I said my next line. "Amabel speaking."

"Annabelle?" a deep male voice enquired on the other end, causing me to roll me eyes. So typical that he would get my name wrong. "You're not Leah's usual assistant."

"No, sir," I agreed. "And it's Amabel. With an M."

"Oh, my apologies, Amabel," said the voice, and he actually did sound sorry. "Is Leah available?"

"She's currently indisposed, sir," I informed him, quickly squashing the urge to add, "That's why I'm answering her phone, DUH!" Instead, I followed my usual script. "I could take a message?"

"I'd rather speak with her directly, if you don't mind."

Don't they all though, I thought. "I understand, sir. If you would just state your name and best contact number, I'll have Mo- uh, Leah call you back at the first opportunity.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line which, unfortunately, allowed me time to stress over the mistake I'd just made. It was an established agreement that I was never to refer to Mom as Mom unless the caller was a close friend or relative and therefore already knew of our relationship.

"You're not a temp, are you, Amabel?" the man asked, only phrasing it as a question as an afterthought.

I had to stifle a groan. He'd picked up on my mistake. If Mom found out about this I was totes screwed. Swallowing noisily, I answered, "No, sir."

"How old are you?" he enquired, sounding curious.

Oh, God. Can we say Grounded till you're thirty? This conversation is definitely the beginning of the end of my life. "Sixteen, sir," I said dutifully.

"Ahh," he uttered knowingly. "So you're on work experience, then?"

I was sorely tempted to take the out he'd provided for me, to say yes and end these probing questions, but the part of me that understood the trouble it could cause prompted me to be honest. "No, sir."

"Call me Lester."

"Yes, sir," I agreed, feeling flustered.

"Lester," he repeated coaxingly.

"Yes, Mr. Lester," I amended.

His voice was warm, like he was smiling and trying not to laugh when he spoke again. "Just Lester, Amabel." There was another long pause, during which I figured I should have said something, but was too panicked to think of the right words, not to mention the lump that was forming in my throat. Eventually he both saved and doomed me by asking, "Could you tell me why you're answering your mother's phone?"

"I –." I was about to give my explanation when it finally clicked in my brain exactly what he'd said. I was so toast. "It is expected that I answer her phone when she can't, sir. I am to take a message and/or contact details so that she can deal with the information as she sees fit."

"Wouldn't the same result be achieved by allowing the phone to go to voice mail?" he asked, echoing my question when Mom had tasked me with the answering of her phone two years ago.

"Yes, si-."

"Lester," he reminded me firmly. "You don't have to worry, I'm not going to tell on you."

"Mom prefers to give her clients actual human interaction wherever possible," I explained, trying not to sigh.

"But you're not allowed to call her Mom?"

"No, s-." I cut myself off, flustered by all these questions and knowing that I needed to get him to just give me his contact details so I could end this horror of a conversation. "It's more professional," I explained shortly. "Would you like to leave your name and number?"

"Just get her to call Lester at Rangeman," he requested. "You have a nice evening, Amabel."

"You too, sir," I returned, but he'd already hung up. I scribbled a note to my mother on a post-it not I found in her bag and placed the phone on top of it, all the while thinking how unusual it was that I'd never heard from Rangeman before. Mom usually shares all sorts of details with me about her clients.

As my curiosity peaked, I snatched up my own phone, logging on to the Internet and quickly typing "rangeman" into the search engine.

Did you mean Range Management?

No, Google, I did not. Just search what I told you to. I scrolled down to the list of results – a total of three – clicking on the first one, which took me to the business information for a security company. Security company? Mom's never dealt with a security before. Especially one as established as this one appeared to be. You'd think that after nearly twenty years of business, including two expansions, they wouldn't need the help of a professional organiser. They clearly knew what they were doing to have been so successful, so why contact Mom? Unless she was organising an event for them. But she usually only organised events in our local area where she knew the charities and business that would benefit from the function.

The shower turned off and I quickly got back into my sprawled position with my head dangling off the side of the bed. Mom came out a moment later, wrapped in a towel and using another to dry her hair.

"Lester from Rangeman wants you to call him back," I relayed, forcing a bored tone and lifting my head to see her. She'd stopped dead in the middle of the room at my words, staring at me in what could have been mild horror. "What?" I asked, trying for a non-caring, almost defensive tone.

"Nothing," she blustered, blinking and shaking her head. "I just wasn't expecting a call from Rangeman so soon. I caught me off guard." And then she did something I hadn't seen her do since just after Dad died. She tugged her right earlobe; a sure sign that she wasn't telling the truth.

I couldn't not pick her up on that.

"What are you lying about?" I asked slowly, sitting up to look at her properly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she evaded, looking anywhere but at me.

"You just tugged your right earlobe," I told her. "That's a sure sign that you're lying. What's up?"

She dropped her hair towel to the floor and began pacing across the room, wringing her hands anxiously and avoiding my gaze.

"What is Rangeman?" I asked.

"A security company," she said automatically, confirming my research.

"Are they a client?"

She paused, glancing at me. "Yes, they are." Tug.

"No they're not," I countered confidently. Sometimes it's like our roles are reversed; me calming her down when she got anxious or stressed, even making dinner when she was too busy and consumed by her work to do so. "If they're not a client, why are they calling you?"

"A business matter," she said, resuming her pacing and scratching her neck. Not quite a lie.

"But not your business?" I guessed. "They don't require aid from your business. You require aid from theirs?" Her eyes darted to me as she changed direction, but immediately slid away. I could see the wheels turning in her head as she alternately tugged her ear, scratched her neck and wrung her hands. That was as good as any verbal confirmation she'd ever given me. "Why do you need help from a security company?" I asked softly, suddenly feeling very small and vulnerable, like a child. I wrapped my arms around my knees in an attempt to comfort myself.

Hearing my voice change, she came and sat down next to me on the bed, pulling me into a slightly damp, but still reassuring hug. "Don't worry, baby," she whispered into my hair. "You're safe. Nothing's gonna harm you, Amabel. There's no need to be scared."

I looked up into her brown eyes, drinking in the comfort they always brought me. "You'd tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn't you?" I asked.

Sending me a warm smile, she tucked an errant curl behind my ear and kissed my forehead. "What do you want for dinner?"

It didn't escape my notice that she hadn't actually answered my question, but I let it slide as my stomach growled, causing both of us to chuckle. "There's a pizza place down the street," I suggested, disentangling myself from her grasp. "You get dressed. I'll go get a couple of vegetarian pizzas. We can sit on the bed and channel surf."

"That sounds nice," she agreed and retrieved her purse from her bag, handing to me. "Make sure you get drinks as well."

I paused just outside the door on my way out, listening to Mom type something into her phone. There was a moment of silence and then she was greeting Lester. I wanted so much to stand there and eavesdrop on my mother's conversation, but I really did need to get the food. There was only so long the monster that was my growling stomach would wait before it started gnawing on nearby organs. So I set off in search of the little pizza I'd spotted earlier, still wondering why we were here and what kind of business Mom could possibly have with a security company in Trenton.

"Deep thoughts?" the counter guy asked, startling me out of daze. How long had I been standing there blankly?

"Sorry," I mumbled, scratching my forearm. "I have a lot on my mind."

"No kidding," the well tanned blonde agreed with a smile. "What can I get for you?"

"Two vegos, a cola, and a lemonade. Take away," I recited our usual order.

"Any garlic breads of desserts?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No thanks."

He rang up my order and I paid before taking a seat on one of the stools nearby to wait. I was texting Soph and Carls when the counter guy came out and began wiping down the tables around me. He kept glancing over to me, making me self conscious.

"Is there a problem?" I asked without looking up from my phone, playing at not caring.

"I was just wondering if you were here alone," he mentioned casually.

I quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "Clearly not, you're here as well."

"Smart," he commented. "I like that." He grinned, showing perfect rows of pearly whites that seemed to glow in the surrounding tan skin. "I meant, is there someone waiting outside for you? A friend or parent?"

"It's just me," I admitted against my better instincts. "I'm staying just down the street."

"You walked up here on your own?" he asked with a weird look on his face. "How far?"

"It's a couple of blocks," I told him, utterly perplexed. It wasn't even dark yet. What kind of danger could there possibly be? "I'll be fine."

He shook his head in dismay just as my order was placed on the counter. "I'm taking my break," counter guy told the woman with a suspicious glance toward the front window of the restaurant. "I'll be back in ten."

Please take two seconds out of your day to review this story. Your feedback is invaluable to the author.