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Only there is no chance in hell it will slip from my memory—it has Katelyn’s name written on it.
Reaching the last envelope, I close my eyes for a moment. I don’t really want to find one with her name on it. If she kept the check, I can lie and tell myself there is some slim chance that I didn’t totally ruin the possibility of her returning to me.
Slowly, I open my eyes. “Katelyn Willow” greets me in a tidy, unassuming scroll. Below that, her old address even though I know she never returned to the apartment after leaving the next morning.
Flipping the envelope over, I break the seal and pull the check out.
“VOID” in thick black ink shoulders its way across the rectangle of paper. My lips smash and roll against one another. Typical Kate. Terse. No nonsense. I half wish she had drawn devil horns and a tail on the “G” of my signature or replaced “VOID” with “ASS HAT” and an arrow pointing to my name.
Anything would be better than the emotional abyss of that single stark word.
Leaning to the side of my desk, I shred the check. Once the grinding stops, I pick up the phone and call my security chief, Devyn Cole.
“I need to know if she's working,” I say as soon as Devyn's voice comes over the line.
There is a pause as he works through the obscure order.
“You mean the girl, Katelyn? Willow, was it?”
“Yeah.” I snort, thinking of all the pleasure the last month could have brought if Katelyn was more like the tree her last name represents. Instead, she refused to bend. Not even for one night.
“Let me guess—you want it, like, five minutes ago,” Devyn jokes.
“More like last month,” I murmur and end the call.
I dial again, this time to my personal attorney. I direct him to draft foundation documents for a new charity with a three-year, ten million dollar endowment.
Finished, I lean back in my chair, fold my hands behind my head, look up and pick patterns from the marbled ceiling, my mind spinning as to how I can convince Katelyn to let me back into her life.
Katelyn
Ridingthe elevator to the third floor of a small office building three blocks from Grand Circus Park in the heart of Detroit, I check my reflection one last time. I have an interview in a few minutes with a start-up charity and I feel sick to my stomach. Part of the churning guts is because this is the first opportunity for a charity-related position I’ve had since the missed appointment with Montgomery Enterprises. The upset stomach is exacerbated by the short notice I was given in requesting the interview. I haven’t had time to call our “mutual” contacts or otherwise check out the organizer’s bona fides.
For all I know, I’m walking into a scam or a bait and switch where a real job is dangled in front of my face, but then I’m told that the “salary” is a quarterly honorarium.
At least I’m still hanging on financially. Most of the money from selling my mother’s lamp is in a savings account. I used a few thousand to get to Detroit, secure a small efficiency studio and pay the deposits to get the utilities turned on. A part-time temp job doing after hours data entry for a mortgage company is covering my expenses and allowing me to look for a better job during the day.
I really want this to be that “better” job. The mortgage sheets that cross my desk make me sick. The industry’s numbers look like they are back to where they were just before the real estate bubble exploded. Expensive homes paired with low household incomes and no one at the bank caring because the commissions on generating the loans are obscene.
Even if it’s just plugging in data on a computer, I don’t want to help people dig their own holes. I want to help them out of their holes.
The elevator stops. I draw a deep breath, blow it out right before the doors open. Ever since the call last night, I can’t stop thinking about Montgomery. I dreamed of him, too, but I dream of him often. Sometimes I wake up with tears on my pillow, sometimes I wake up with a pussy wet and sore from all its nocturnal flexing.
This morning, it was both.
“Suck it up, Kate,” I softly admonish a second before an amiable looking young man steps into view and greets me.
He’s well dressed, but the surroundings are questionable. The entire floor looks to be under construction. It’s dusty, poorly lit, and black plastic sheeting hangs from the ceiling in place of walls.
“This way,” he says, extending his arm.
We pass through the sheeting and then again, emerging in a large open area with tall windows and plenty of sunshine. Several eight-foot folding tables have been centrally arranged in the space. They are covered with sketches showing different office arrangements.
My gut begins to grind a little harder. I tell myself there is no way I could recognize Montgomery’s style of drafting after so brief an exposure. Not to mention there are only so many ways to draft something as simple as an office layout. What feels like clairvoyance is nothing more than interview nerves and bad memories.
“Someone will be with you momentarily,” my guide tells me before he smiles and leaves.
Watching him disappear, I think about how he looks like some smooth-faced Harvard senior or first year B-school undergrad finishing up a summer internship. He certainly looks out of place for a charity organization. The suit is too nice, the cufflinks are real gold and I am certain his haircut costs more than a month of my groceries.
