Madison Daniels: 11th October: Hello, Yahoo, I love you?

*click*

The sound on Madison’s end as she hung up the telephone, listening to it echo slightly in the room as it was slammed down on it’s reciever cradle. Her bottem hurt. Her heart hurt, and her head hurt. However her rear end was the less of the three evils, and for that, she could at least take a painkiller, which she consequently did.

It was between standing up, and reaching the bathroom that the telephone rang.

Startled, her head whipped around and she blinked at the phone, as if it were an alien or something she’d never seen and heard before in her life.

Could it be? Could Byron really be calling? Possibly to apologise? Perhaps he realised just how much she cared?

These thoughts careened through Madison’s head as she answerd the telephone with one hand, before flicking on her laptop with the other, and connecting wirelessly to Yahoo.

She’d made up her mind. She’d find an excuse, and fly out, if it were really Byron on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” She breathed softly into the telephone, her voice seeking the comfort of Byrons familiar voice. Strong, authoritarin, it was one such voice she couldn’t resist. He could have her on her knees in submission with just one firm command, such was, when her eyes slipped closed, how strong and masculine his voice sounded to her ears. It positively sent shivers down her spine.

And now, she hoped desperately that the next voice she heard was his… whispering across the thousands of miles the words that would make it all right, make it all better..

“I’m sorry. I love you. Come, visit me. I need you.”

Her fingers flew across Yahoo, trying to seek out Expedia’s site. She wasn’t even sure she was spelling it exactly right, but she got to the website in less time then it took him to answer. She’d know how much it would cost and when she could possibly fly out to see him.

Madison was a magazine editor and owner. It wouldn’t be too hard to come up with an excuse to see herself halfway across the Atlantic. Perhaps an article on clothing, fashion, and attitudes in the USA? It would be perfect, and easily knocked up and tossed out to the publisher in a couple of hours. Or perhaps something more cutting, more biting? She wasn’t sure yet.

All she knew was her future hung on the next few words that Byron would utter across the transatlantic lines.

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