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Bad Blood
Genesis
Wakingupgroggyisnot the best way to start the first morning back on the job. I guess that’s what happens after two hours of sleep.
And whose fault is that? Not mine. I put the blame squarely on Royce’s broad shoulders.
Last night, we planned for him to call me when he was back at his apartment after his birthday party.
He didn’t.
While I waited like a fool, I dozed off and on, reacting with a start and a peek at my phone to every sound I thought I’d heard. In between, my mind churned over all the scenarios in which he wouldn’t (or couldn’t) call:
He was tired after the drama and just crashed when he got home.
His grandfather convinced him to put his family, his life, first.
His fiancée wooed him away with her sophisticated charms.
My reasons grew sillier as the hours ticked on.
He ate a spoiled canapé and is now getting his stomach pumped.
All the cellphone towers in Manhattan crashed and burned.
His phone broke.
His finger stopped working.
On and on, my thoughts plagued me until I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Now that I’m awake (barely), I drag myself from the warm covers of my bed, smooth down the sheets, and head into the bathroom.
My hot shower, interspersed with bouts of cold, revives me. At least enough to put on some clothes and fix my hair in a ponytail. Grimacing at the bags under my eyes, I turn out the light in the bathroom, and grabbing the lunch I hastily made, I head out the door.
Barry White blasts through the rental car’s speakers as I pass relatively cars. It’s early, still dark in fact. Fine by me as I want to clear my desk of outstanding work and start the day afresh.
Not sure I’ll be able to accomplish such a feat since I have a two-week backlog waiting for me. Still, I’ll give it my best shot, as digging deep into work will take my mind off of Royce.
Pulling into an open slot, I turn off the ignition and gather my laptop, my lunch, and my bag. The moment I step from the car and lock it, I feel like I’m being watched. I scan the nearly deserted structure. Nothing seems amiss...
I head to the elevator, and as I walk in my low-heeled flats, I wish I’d worn sneakers instead. The click-clacks on the concrete send chills of fear up my spine and a creepy feeling comes over me.
I jog the last few steps. Jamming my thumb on the lighted button above the trash can, I tap my foot impatiently, looking over my shoulder as I do.
When the car arrives, I jump in, tripping over the lip and nearly sprawling face first onto the worn carpet. I manage to keep hold of my laptop, but my bag falls and the contents spill all over the ground. As the elevator moves upward, I manage to pile my belongings into an organized mess when the door opens.
A chest. Aman’schest fills the space of my exit, and when I raise my eyes to see its owner, I clamp my lips down on a shriek.
It’s the man from the park.
We sit, eyeing each other. His gaze is friendly, mine less so.
A whole lotta less so.
We are in the only four-person conference room on our side of the building. It is windowless, and except for a strip of glass on the top, only someone eight feet tall could see us.
The executives use this room for big boss conference calls, and I guess it is appropriate, as this manisa big boss.
