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My computer alerts me of a new chat message. Roman has a messenger system set up for us, so he can ask us for things while he’s in meetings, on the phone, or just too lazy to pick up the phone to call.
Miss Johnson, your instructions for the day are as follows:
Pick up dry cleaning from Martin’s Cleaners and take it to my apartment. June has the address and security code details. On your way back, I need documents collected from Brian Cellars and Holton Sharp. You will find their addresses on file.
For lunch today, I will have a Salmon Poke Bowl from Lee Wha Kitchen.
I expect you back at the office by 12:30 pm. My driver is waiting downstairs for you.
I trust you find these ‘orders’ clear.
Mr. Judge
Pft. My immediate thought is that I’m being punished for my big fat mouth! He must be really pissed off as he is addressing me as Miss Johnson. He has never been so formal with me, and then he signed the message with Mr. Judge, after telling me not to call him that. Contradiction much!
My second thought is, who the hell has a personal driver? Of course, he does. Rich pompous Roman to the core.
Well, at least I get to be out of the office for the morning and out of Roman’s way, which is probably exactly what we both need.
Downstairs, Roman’s driver is waiting for me just as I was told. Somehow, he knows exactly who I am and starts walking towards me as soon as I step off the elevator.
“Good morning, Miss Johnson. I am Pharrell. Follow me, please.” He speaks in a very professional but friendly manner, yet I get a rough around the edge’s vibe from him. Almost like he’s out of character. I smile and nod as I observe him. He’s a lot younger than I expected. Tall, dark skin, and cleanly shaven, with impeccable taste in a suit. Immediately, I know Roman has dressed him, just as he has me, which makes me wonder what Pharrell’s backstory is. Is Pharrell another one of Roman’s charity projects like me and June?
I am led to a sleek black Mercedes without any further words. The car is pristine like it just rolled off a showroom floor. It smells like vanilla and spice, not at all like the new car smell I expected. As we take off through the business district of Boston, I feel important. This car, these clothes, are not at all what I have ever experienced. I sit straighter in my seat, feeling a wave of newfound self-confidence. Is this what it feels like to be wealthy?
“How long have you worked for Roman? I mean Mr. Judge.” I quickly correct myself. I see Pharrell’s small smile through the review mirror at my slip-up.
“Two years, ma’am.”
“Oh, please call me Indie.”
We pull up outside the dry cleaners. “First stop,” he simply says before quickly exiting the car. I sit confused for a moment.
What the hell is he doing? Where is he going? My questions are quickly answered as he comes to my door and opens it for me. I feel like royalty, until I’m quickly humbled again by walking out of the dry cleaners with Roman’s clean laundry.
Back in the car, I try to think of something to say to Pharrell that doesn’t sound like an interrogation but fall short. So, I remain quiet. We enter an underground car park of a high-rise apartment building in the heart of Seaport. I’ve lived in Boston my entire life and have not been to this part of town before. This area is reserved for the wealthy and esteemed.
Stepping into the penthouse suite, my jaw drops. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls surround the entire perimeter. Black marbled floor blends effortlessly into the kitchen island that I doubt has ever had a dirty dish on. This place is like stepping into a showroom. Meticulously placed cushions are on the leather sofa that appears like it’s rarely been used. An oversized Turkish woven charcoal rug in front of it lines up perfectly with the pattern of the marbled floor. I’m frightened to even breathe in here. I might disturb the perfection.
I’m drawn to the window wall like gravity. I don’t even realize I’ve walked across the room to it until I get there. Roman’s apartment overlooks the harbor. The view is simply breathtaking. I never knew Boston was such a beautiful place. It's mid-July, so the weather is warm outside, and the sunshine adds to the beauty of this place. I can only imagine how wonderful the city would look from here under the night sky.
Although Roman’s apartment is stunning, it lacks personality. There’s absolutely nothing intimate about it. No personal items are on display, and the owner's identity is hidden away. I suppose, in a way, that reflects Roman in a nutshell.
I walk through the apartment until I get to the main bedroom. Roman’s bedroom is as black as his soul. There’s a deep charcoal paneled feature wall that backdrops his oversized bed. The bed frame is fit for a King and Queen and is larger than the living room of my apartment. Plush padded headboard with vertical stitching, it’s as sophisticated and masculine as the rest of his palace. There are no personal items on the bedstand, no books, and no dirty underwear on the floor. Everything looks as new as the day it was made.
Venturing into the walk-in closet, I halt at the entrance. Good Lord, I’ve stepped into an episode of Get Organized. Shirts and pants hang with each hanger evenly spaced into groups of individual colors. Shoes are displayed like artifacts, and ties... so many ties. I feel like I’m in an elite store rather than someone's closet.
Carefully, I unwrap the dry cleaning and make sure I place the crisp clean shirts and suits away to match colors and return to the kitchen to look for a trash can to discard the plastic. I find it quickly under the sink and notice a bunch of empty takeaway containers sitting at the top. I knew he wouldn’t cook for himself.
I may not have a lot of things in my life, yet I have never felt as lonely as I do standing here in Roman’s apartment. There’s an eerie quiet. A solemness about it that I can’t quite shake. This place doesn't have the remnants of good memories or love; it’s just void of emotion.
After picking up the documents from Brian Cellars, Pharrell escorts me into the building where I’m to collect papers from Holton Sharp, and once I’m inside, I understand why he insisted he come with me. It’s a shady-looking tattoo parlor.
The young man at the front counter peers up from his phone. If this dude went through a metal detector at an airport, it’d take him all day to remove all the piercings from his face. His arms have ink scribbled all the way up them. I say scribble, because it resembles some form of a young child's drawings, which I’m certain he thinks is actual artwork. I’m all for tattoos. In fact, I think the right design in the right place on certain men looks sexy. However, this man is nothing short of grotesque. I don't know how he even eats and breathes with that metal on his face, and his face is half-colored in black with ink. No pictures, no words, just half a black face. I’m not sure what message he is trying to get across, but if it’s disgust, it’s working.
“Can I help you sweetheart,” He places his phone down and looks at me head to toe, licking his bottom lip, making me want to sink myself into a big pool of bleach. Gross
“I’m here to collect some paperwork Mr. Sharp has for Roman Judge.”
