Gravel-Crunch
A short story about one Anna Sinclair.
You don’t have to read my other Anna Sinclair stories to get this one (imho)— but if you’re the kind of person who likes to do things thoroughly, (and/or you just want some background,) you can check out everything I’ve written about this character on this list here.
Warning: alcohol
“Hello?”
“Miss Sinclair?”
“Yeah?” she scuffled her boots through the stick-crunch gravel beneath the swing set.
“It’s Mr Burrows. Of Burrows, Hipkiss, Jones and Miller?”
“Oh. Goody,” she rolled her eyes; she was on the phone, he’d never know.
“Anna,” gentle, fatherly; old bastard.
“Oh so it’s ‘Anna’ now, is it Mr Burrows?” she tapped her half-empty vodka bottle with her fingernails, pushing herself a little on the swing; making her own shitty symphony with glass-tap and gravel-scrunch.
“Don’t be like that.”
“Don’t see how it’s anything to you.”
“Anna — ”
“What do you want Mr Burrows?”
A tempered sigh came through in response. She could practically see the old battleaxe pinching his nose in frustration. He was probably sat in his office, behind that…
