Page 25 of Two Kinds of Stranger

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

The watercooler in the reception area needed a new seal. The steady drip from the faucet into the tray made Logan clench his teeth, and the scars on his back began to feel hot and itchy.

He closed his eyes, breathed in and exhaled. Tried to black out the monotonous

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

‘They’re ready for you now,’ said the blond assistant with the ten-thousand-dollar smile.

At first, Logan didn’t move.

He sat on the post-modern couch, back as straight as the mast on a ship, chin up, right leg crossed over the left, palms on his thighs, heart rate at fifty-one beats per minute.

When a suitable delay had passed, Logan gradually angled his gaze to the blond assistant. Then nodded and smiled. He uncrossed his legs, stood, but he took his sweet time about it.

His gestures and movements were slow and precise. Unhurried.

Powerful.

Logan had sat on a thousand extravagantly priced and uncomfortable couches in a thousand designer reception rooms, and had a thousand blond assistants tell him thattheywere ready for him. He’d been in those receptions when other guys got called ahead of him.

They’re ready for you now.

He’d watched those guys bolt off the couches as if they’d just heard a starting pistol. Invariably, they were nervous, eager to please the people they met. Their sweat stank of desperation. And people with true power could smell it on them.

No matter where Logan found himself, no matter what situation, he always understood the power dynamic and that meant he could take control. Through his body language, through his speech, or lack of it, through his eye contact, his demeanor, his gestures, his dress–Logan was in charge.

Today he wore a tight cashmere rollneck sweater with a navy suit over the top. Black shoes, polished. The suit was bespoke–cut in Hong Kong. The black designer glasses held clear lenses. He had 20:20 vision, but he also knew that in these kinds of meetings those glasses gave him an extra twenty IQ points.

No briefcase. No pen.

His phone buzzed in his jacket three times on the way to the conference room.

It took nerve not to take the device in his hand and at least check it.

He knew it would distract him from the job in hand.

The phone notification was for later.

When he could have time to enjoy it.

The blond assistant let him into a wide conference room–with panoramic views of Manhattan and the park. An oval-shaped conference table was lined with five guys in business suits on one side, and a single chair on the other side for Logan.

The assistant closed the door behind her as she left. Logan stood behind the chair. His hands lightly clasped in front of him.

‘Logan, you know everyone here, I think,’ said Josh, Vice President of Marketing. ‘But I don’t believe you’ve met our CEO.’

The man who took up the seat at the center of the table was older than the other four, losing his hair at the temples. Tanned, bulky, leaning back in his chair. Pale suit. Blue shirt open at the collar. The only one with no tie.

‘Mr. Hartfield, of course,’ said Logan, leading with an open hand.

Hartfield didn’t get up. He stretched out a soft, meaty paw across the table and Logan took it gently, didn’t squeeze. But Hartfield crushed Logan’s hand, or at least tried to. That was a powerplay that never worked. Nothing betrayed weakness like an overly firm handshake.