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“Fighting for the good guys…”
When the ad transitioned to one for toothpaste, I turned away and continued walking to the address Damien gave me.
The doorman tipped his hat to me as I approached, and I walked into the lobby.
“I was beginning to think you were quietly quitting on me.” Damien suddenly stepped behind me.
I turned around and did a double take. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit. Instead, he’d exchanged it for a black T-shirt that clung to his muscles, and grey sweatpants that exposed the edge of his hard and chiseled “V.”
“If this stakeout will be longer than usual, I need to run home and grab a change of clothes,” I said. “You could’ve told me to dress comfortably.”
“It probably will last a while.” He smirked.“My apologies.”
“I’m being serious,” I said. “I thought you were past the petty stage.”
“This is where Ilive, Elizabeth.”
“What?”
“I figured we could work here tonight, if that’s alright with you.”
Oh…
He sent for the elevator, and it arrived with an attendant within seconds.
“Good evening, Mr. Carter,” he said, “and Mr. Carter’s guest.”
We stepped aboard and as the car rose, I eyed Damien through the mirrored glass—wondering how many other women he’d taken home before me.
“Zero.” Damien stared back at me, seemingly reading my mind.
“Huh?”
“Mr. Hanson,” Damien looked into my eyes through the glass, but he was speaking to the attendant. “How often do I bring coworkers or guests here?”
“I believe this is the first time I’ve seen you bring anyone here, sir.”
Ding!
The elevator stopped, and Damien pressed his hand against the small of my back, leading me through an open doorway.
His grey and white living room was larger than my entire condo, and his panoramic windows let in all the lights from Times Square.
“I need to make a few phone calls,” he said. “Feel free to take a tour.”
Setting down my briefcase, I walked down the hall, opening every door I passed. After reaching the master bedroom, I found myself in a closet that put mine to shame.
His tailored suits hung from labeled hangers, his ties and watches lay in neat rows atop a center table, and his collection of Italian leather shoes were enough to fill a custom boutique.
Straight ahead, tucked behind a rack of ties was an open glass door. I squinted and I spotted a desk.
“Why would you put an office in your…” My sentence stalled as I stepped inside.
This wasn’t an office.
It was an obsessive shrine…
Newspaper clippings clung to every wall surface—some yellowed and frayed, some copied, some in perfect condition.All of them featured variations of the same story with varying headlines.
