Page 28
Money runs out faster than my patience. So here I am.
I park my bike in front of the tall building, its façade a mix of glass and sharp angles that somehow manages to feel like a modern art museum instead of a corporate headquarters. My fingers tighten around the helmet strap as I click it loose, pulling the blacked-out domain from my head. With the helmet under one arm and the other clinging to the strap clipped to my keys, I enter the building of Phantom Productions.
Inside the lobby, I’m met with a faint essence of polished wood and expensive coffee seeping off the walls from the entrance. A young woman sits at the front desk, all poised up with a polished demeanor, and red hair pulled tight into a stiff bun.
She looks up as I approach. “Good morning. What can I help you with today?”
“I have an interview with Ms. Selene Whitlock,” I state, keeping my voice even and low, resting one hand on the marble slab of the foyer counter.
Her smile is bright, bright enough to make the fluorescent abstract light hanging overhead seem dim. She taps at her keyboard, eyes flicking between the screen and me. I take the chance to glance around as she taps away, slipping the leather gloves from my hands and sliding them into the pocket of my powder blue bomber polo jacket. I gaze upon the lobby, slapped with sharp, geometric furnishings of abstract paintings and sculptures. Some have clean lines and look like nothing at all; others seem distorted with angles of bodies and faces—at least that’s what I think it is.
“Please, take a seat, Mr. Summers,” she chimes, tapping a few more keys. “Miss Whitlock will be with you shortly.”
I nod once before walking towards the seating area. The leather chairs are low, sleek, burnt auburn, and firm under my weight. I sink into one, letting the hum of air conditioning and the faint trickle of people in and out fill the silence.
I pull out my phone from my black jeans, thumb hovering over the screen.
There’s a message, and it’s from Dante.
At first, I thought it was strictly going to be business, yet we never discussed a date and time for the photoshoot at his gym. Instead, we spoke about a bunch of other stuff. Like his dog and the fact that he gets up at 5 a.m. to go for a run. I mentioned how I’m awake at those hours too, swimming laps like an Olympian.
I click on his name tag, and instantly my phone lights up with a picture of his dog, sprawled in a bathtub full of bubbles, ears flattened, eyes blinking mournfully.
The caption reads: “This is her after our jog this morning.”
The corners of my mouth curl up involuntarily before I swallow it back down. I stare at the image for a moment longer before sending laughing emojis, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
I stare out the ceiling-to-floor windows, playing a makeshift interview scene in my head while I wait.
A moment later, I hear deliberate footsteps from behind me. High heels click loudly on the shiny floors. I shift my weight, peering back. A tall, ecstatic woman strides toward me. Her shoulder-length platinum blonde hair bounces with each step, and the dark fern greenery of her eyes seems to pierce right through the air between us. She’s even taller than I expected. Even slightly taller than me, and I’m quite tall to begin with.
Her lean figure holds a graceful authority as she commands the room with a presence that feels almost physical, like it could move the furniture around her.
“AH. You must be my photographer!” she chimes, her voice a rich, energetic lilt that fills the lobby. She gestures wildly with her hands, and I have to bite back the urge to recoil.
“I’m Adrian Summers,” I manage, keeping my voice steady, even as my stomach does that familiar flip-flop. The energy that beams off her drains me instantly, sucking every social fiber I have left in me for the day. This interview is going to be interesting…
“Fantastic!” she claps her hands together. She purses her cherry-painted lips, fluttering her caterpillar lashes as if ready to take flight with them any moment now. “I’m Selene Whitlock. Let’s get you upstairs.”
Behind her walks an uncomfortably stoic woman dressed in all black—deep tanned skin with a clip tying dark strands of hair back, expression unreadable, moving silently like a shadow trailing Selene as we begin to move.
“I hear you’ve got quite the eye! You do freelance, right? All while studying photography full time? I love artists with that sort of drive and a backbone, you know.” She gestures with her hands.
“Yeah, something like that,” I reply, keeping my tone professional, though every inch of me is bracing under the weight of her energy.
Selene doesn’t let me settle as she continues to talk, weaving through the lobby toward the elevators. “I’m telling you, we need someone who can really capture the ‘vibe’ as you kids say. Nightfall is going to be bigger than ever this year. I want people to feel like they’re stepping into another world through your lens. Think of it as like… immersive storytelling. That’s the key!”
The elevator dings, and she practically floats inside. Her bodyguard trails after, and I measure my steps, following right behind. Selene keeps talking, hand movements emphasizing every word.
The elevator hums upward, and I can’t stop my gaze from flicking to the bodyguard, who seems less alive than Selene.
I wonder if her ears bleed after a day’s work with the woman.
When the doors open, she bursts forward, dragging me with her toward a floor that is brightly lit, walls lined with more unrelatable abstract pieces and sharp angles. The meeting room is up ahead, all fogged glass walls with a stunning afternoon view of the streets below.
If only I had my camera with me, this would’ve made a fantastic shot.
“And here we are,” Selene says, spinning slightly, arms wide. “This is where the magic happens. Sit anywhere… well, actually, you, Adrian, you’re mine for the hour, so sit close.”
