In the grand scheme of my fucked up existence, I choose not to take offence. “I have to work.” I don’t elaborate.
She meets my gaze again and nods after a minute. “Okay.” She does the let-me-escort-you-out gesture.
Just before we reach the front door of the apartment, I remember my backpack.
“I need to get my stuff from the camera room.”
She nods and returns to the large, empty living room. Having been here twice, I know where the interview room is without direction. I enter, grab my bag from the floor and straighten. The camera has a red light on, as if it’s still active.
I hesitate, then walk closer.
I’m not sure what compels me, but something inside wants to hear that voice one more time. I bend forward, stare into the lens. I open my mouth but can’t think of any words to say that won’t make me feel like a complete idiot talking into a camera.
After a minute, I straighten. But I still can’t leave the room.
“Lucky.”
I jump out of my skin at the voice I’ve been recalling in my head. “You’re still there?”
He doesn’t respond. Irritation and embarrassment duel inside me. Of course he’s there. When my fingers protest in pain, I look down and realize I have a death grip on my brand new phone.
I wave it at the camera. “Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
I should leave. My business here is done for now. Time to return to my hellhole.
“Did you want me, Lucky?” he asks, that robotic voice weirdly spellbinding.
I wrack my brain, dig out what I wanted to say to him before.
“Yes, I’ve thought about it…a name for you.”
“Yes?”
How could a mechanical voice be so smooth, so sexy?
“Q. I’d like to call you Q.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I begin to feel like an ass.
“Q. Are you sure?”
I shrug. “Not really, but it’s the only one I can think of that’s not pretentious or absurd. If you’re not okay with it—”
I may be imagining it, but I hear faint amusement in his voice as he replies, “Say it again.”
Yes, definitely ass territory. A knot of embarrassment forms in my throat. “Q.”
“Thank you, Lucky. Q works very well for me. Bravo.”
Bravo? I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I can’t ignore the tiny pulse of something heady that moves inside me. “Okay.”
“Goodbye, Lucky.”
The finality of it is a command I heed. The light on the camera blinks off.
I leave.
7
ACTION
I put my tweaked plans into motion first thing on Tuesday morning. Axel, my business partner, and the guy who strays within a whisker of what I term a friend, doesn’t blink when I make the request. This is why our dynamic works. We’ve made such requests of each other in the past. He will need this favor reciprocated in the near future, and I’ll step up, no questions asked.
We make sure to keep our sheets balanced. Imbalance doesn’t suit either of us.
Once I’m sure the obstacles I need removed are on their way to being dismantled, I email my executive assistant with my second request. I watch her through the glass partition of my corner office.#p#分页标题#e#
She looks up, nods, and picks up her phone.
Satisfied, I frost the glass and stare at the email sitting in my inbox.
Maxwell.
I click on it without disabling the notification button. The summons is pretty much the same as it’s been all week. Dinner at the Upper West Side mansion I grew up in.
I reply with my agreement. He opens it immediately and I can almost see the smug look on his face as he reads it.
It takes me a minute to work through the need to succumb to the void inside me. That is what he does to me. For as long as I’ve known him, my father has had this effect on me. Even long before Ma died. Even before I knew where and when my end would be, I knew he was partly responsible for the blackness of my soul.
The passage of time has merely confirmed and cemented that belief. Sure, I could’ve stopped myself from feeding it. The head shrinking and pills would’ve possibly stood a chance if I’d allowed it. If I hadn’t let Adriana Nathanson offer me her version of extra credit therapy by getting on her knees and sucking my cock when she should’ve been tending my mental health.
But I am Quinn Blackwood. Rich. Entitled. Unapologetic asshole with a death wish. I accepted that a long time ago. I don’t intend to change. For myself. For anyone.
I exhale and pick up the first file on my desk—a condominium deal on a revamped Miami beachfront that’s almost at completion. Once it’s done, it’s going to sell for at least three and a half mil apiece. More money to add to the overflowing Blackwood pile.