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I thrive on these moments without people.
They’re the times when I truly feel at peace without the world’s incessant chatter.
Even if I can’t quite peel my mind off blue fingernails and bright, devastatingly red lips.
Even if I can’t unsee what a part of my anatomy that thrives on emotion might feel like with those fingers, those lips, wrapped around me and put to work.
“Focus, you pent-up monkey,” I mutter to myself, smacking a hand against my cheek.
I’m staring at my checkbook. At the name on the recipient line. At the number in six figures stenciled out in careful script, then digits.
I always wonder if this will help him.
Does it do a fucking thing, or is it just me absolving myself of my own guilt?
How much money does it take to stop people from killing themselves?
How much do I have to give, every year, to the suicide prevention foundation to stop feeling that terrible sting?
I choke back the bile trying to crawl up my throat.
My hand hovers the pen over the signature line when a polite, familiar rap hits my door. I look up just as Wanda leans in.
She often lingers when I don’t realize it. Sometimes I wonder how she keeps up when she’s happily married with a family and a life beyond these walls.
“Mr. Osprey, I’m heading out.”
There’s a restlessness in her voice because she knows.
This is part of an annual ritual.
It’s her name on the recipient line.
I trust her to get this where it needs to go without ever being traced back to me.
So I slash my signature, offering a weak smile as I rip the check out and offer it to her between two fingers.
“You know the drill. Of course, I’ll never know if you keep any of it for yourself. Honor system.”
“Oh, like I’d ever,” she huffs, insulted as she steps into my office, trim and stern as always, and takes the check, pushing it into her purse. She gives me a long, thoughtful look, frowning. “I still don’t understand why you do this in such a roundabout way. Do you really think the public would condemn you? They might even think you’re a human, instead of a—well...”
“Vulture?”
“Vampire. They’re kind of elegant, at least. My daughter got me hooked on those Twilight books, so I know what I’m talking about,” she says matter-of-factly.
My gut vibrates with laughter.
“They still feed on the dead, don’t they?” I shake my head, then prop my chin on my fist. “No, Wanda, I prefer it this way. Attach my name to it and people would think it was a simple publicity stunt for sympathy. It would cheapen the gesture.”
Not to mention it just might clue Vance Haydn in on what I’m up to.
I can’t let him know I suspect anything.
I can’t do anything that will stop Barrett from enjoying peace and quiet. Or anything that would stop me from sweet, cruel, necessary revenge.
Wanda watches me with quiet sympathy.
“You know, Mr. Osprey, if people knew the truth, they might actually like you. You’re not a total monster.”
My lips curl down.
“I hate to hear you say that. Apparently, I need to be meaner around here. In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t need anyone to like me,” I say, turning away from her to gaze at the city once more. “I only need to know the right thing is being done.”
“Are you doing the right thing with Caroline Landry?”
I don’t answer that.
I only wait in gaping silence.
I don’t look up again until the click of her authoritative, no-nonsense stride drifts away and I’m alone.
Just like I’ve been for so many years.
Just like I was always meant to be.
5
A Little Black Magic (Callie)
Deep breaths.
One, two. One, two. One, two—
Crap.
Nope. I guess breathing like I’m trying out for the llama Olympics isn’t helping me calm down.
But at least I can hide behind the closed door of my office, though that’s probably raising more questions when I’ve had an open-door policy ever since my re-introduction to the staff as their chief editor, versus that new weirdo getting invited to private meetings with Roland Osprey.
That grump-hole jackass.
His face popping into my head is not helping my calm.
And trust me, I need chill, when the event’s tonight and despite everything I’ve done to prepare, I feel anything but ready.
The whirlwind week hasn’t helped.
Whipping together an editorial calendar, having friendly meets with my staff to get to know their strengths, researching contemporary music markets in preparation for the strategic content shift...there’s only one word.
Woof.
While there’s some overlap between pop music and modern blues and jazz, I never expected to be covering anyone famous enough to have swarming security, red-carpet photos, and couture dresses that cost more than all seven years of my college tuition combined.
So I’m not quite ready to be chucked into the deep end tonight.
But I’ll give it my best shot.
