“One. Neal is a special case.”
Terrance looked uneasy, but he knew better than to protest. I paid him too well for him to do anything other than say, “Yes, sir.”
As he was leaving, another member of my staff came in,my assistant, Dewayne. He was one of two privvy to everything. Him and Jules.
“Your mail, sir.” He placed the assortment of envelopes on my desk and turned to go.
“Hold on, Dewayne.” I put up a hand and quickly scanned the stack. One in particular piqued my interest, and I opened it, scanning the contents of the letter. I looked up, my focus on the wall as I took in what I’d read. I returned to the paper and reread the letter.
“What is it, sir?”
“A ballet company wants to perform at my opera house.”
“Another one? I can send the form rejection.” He leaned across to take the letter, but I pulled back.
“No, this one has my interest.” I set the letter down and reached into my desk, retrieving my stationary and a pen. Quickly, I scrawled a reply.
“What are you telling them?”
A slow grin crawled across my face as I continued writing.
“I actually know this particular company; I was hoping to hear from them.” I finished my note and offered it to him, unfolded, allowing him to read it. Dewayne was nosey, but he wasn’t a gossip. It made for a fun dynamic. His brown eyes took in the words.
“You’re actually going to consider them?”
I linked my hands together like a satisfied CEO, having taken more basic human rights from my underlings.
“Maybe, if they follow my instructions.”
He clicked his tongue. “Send their Prima Ballerina. Do we know this Prima Ballerina?” He cocked an eyebrow and one side of his mouth lifted into a smirk.There we go.He was putting the pieces together.
I stood and went around my desk, patting him on the back.
“I’ve never been good at hiding my true interests. Go ahead and send my reply. I am curious to see how it’s received.”
Dewayne folded the letter into thirds and nodded. “You got it, sir. I’ll let you know if we hear anything.”
I thanked him, and together, we exited my office. I checked the time and swiftly went to my private quarters to change into more relaxed clothes. I took the expensive suit off, tossing it in a laundry basket, and pulling on jeans and a relaxed shirt. I traded in my thousand-dollar dress shoes for my green Converse.
I used to wear high-tops as a kid. When I’d been released from prison, they handed me the clothes I was arrested in, which included a worn pair of black high-tops. They had rips in the canvas and drawings on the rubber I’d done when I’d first purchased them. That day, I laced them up and went to a store to pick up a new pair, this time emerald green. I still kept the old ones though. I tossed them up in my closet for another time. Today, I wore the green pair.
Grabbing my jacket, I zipped it up halfway and eyed myself in the mirror. I tussled my hair some. I wasn’t a fan of the slicked back look, but I had to play the part. I needed to fit in with my new peers.
Wouldn’t want them to realize I wasn’t like them.
Taking a deep breath, I left my bedroom and went down the hall to my private workroom. I used my keys to unlock the door. Stepping inside, I flicked the lights on and locked the door behind me.
The scream came only after a short groan as my newest client woke up. He tugged on the leather restraints on his ankles, wrists, and hips, waist, and chest. The metal clinked together, but he didn’t move from the chair.
“Where the hell am I? What is this?”
I tilted my head. I looked around my bare, tattoo studio. Only the necessary equipment was in here, making it feel sterile, almost clinical.
“Good afternoon, Will.”
“How do you know my name? How did I get here?”
Choosing not to answer, I strode across the room to my tall, mint-colored metal cabinet. I began removing my equipment after unlocking it. All the while, he screamed, demanding answers.
