Clinton doesn't stop by yelling Lester's name. This time, he threatens Lester, ordering him to meet within a few minutes. It takes a minute to realize it's a voicemail, but the damage is already done. I can see the embarrassment in Lester's reaction: he smiles sheepishly, his hand runs through his hair, his flushed gaze is fixed on me. His lips press together as if he's trying to say, 'I've got to run,' but he doesn't know how.“It's fine,” I say, chuckling, before he can summon the courage to talk. He watches me as I put my thongs back on. Sliding my gown back on, I add, “I'm even late. I'm supposed to be—”I get interrupted by Clinton's second voicemail, as he tells Lester to come meet him for the third time. Lester's already in the sitting area, taking his phone while Clinton keeps barking out threats. Suddenly, I stop hearing Clinton's voice.Puzzled, my brows lift as he dashes back towards me as if he's forgetting something, which I know he isn't.“I'm sorry I forgot to do that,”
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