And I couldn’t deny that Rhonda had a good approach. I wasn’t swayed by much, but the dichotomous nature of her intrigue and a last name like Leech called to me. Everything in me said I needed to find out what this call was all about because even if nothing else came of it, it would be a good story.
Plus, nothing seemed to bring Little Miss Lola out of the woodwork like something to do with my video.
Still, I didn’t really feel like giving Rhonda everything she wanted.
Stripping down in a hurry, I jumped in the shower, bringing my electric beard trimmer in with me to save time. I know, electronics and water don’t traditionally mix, but I’ve told you that I like to live on the edge.
Facial hair down to a subtle scruff, I tossed the shaver outside onto my waiting towel and lathered up from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.
I wasn’t in a rush, but I was straight off of a ten-hour shift and slightly on the sleepy side, so I knew it’d be best to use my time wisely.
Get in, meet the bloodsucker, get out.
A quick rinse, towel dry, and I was spit shined and ready to go.
I grabbed some jeans and a T-shirt from my closet and swept my jacket off of the chair at my desk as I headed for the door. The toe of my boot stutter-stepped on the hardwood floor as I turned around to head back to the computer and pull up Google.
One quick search told me the Journal offices were pretty easily located off of Market Street, about a mile walk from my apartment.
One last click into my email came up empty once again.
My lonely email stared back at me.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Lola,
I considered it an absurdity as we sat down together, but by the time we left, I knew your shirt to be true.
You are a unicorn.
Love,
Reed
It was true. One of a kind and hard to find, Lola Sexton was the closest thing to a one-horned winged horse I’d ever seen.
I’d thought so anyway—but now she didn’t want to play. Maybe I was wrong.
Slightly frustrated, I clicked out of the browser, shut the laptop, and headed for the door.
Since the fog had burned off and the sun was shining, I decided walking was the way to go.
It also happened to be one of the easiest walks I’d probably ever complete in San Francisco. When it came to my hometown, the mileage was nothing compared to the topography. But on my journey to the Journal, if I walked south to Geary Boulevard and across to Market, I’d barely have to do any hills at all. It was a San Fran miracle and one tick in the win column for the Leech.
It took me just under thirty minutes to make the walk, and it felt nice not to rush. As differently as I tried to live my life, even I had some sort of schedule and plans to live by on a day-to-day basis. But I didn’t have a set time to be there today. Not in my mind and not on their schedule, so I took my time, taking in the weather and the people and the overall vibe of the city. It felt like it lived and breathed—like a companion even when you were alone.
To me, that kind of power in a place never got old. Because it changed as we, the people of the city, did—accepting the culture and shifts, even down to the minutia of each neighborhood individually—with grace and poise.
Most people wouldn’t think a city could be all of those things, but it could. I’d lived it.
The door to the building was heavy, more so than I expected, and sardonically, I half thought that maybe they’d done it just to keep me out. But I bested the beast and let it slam shut behind me as I approached the front desk with an easy stride.
The receptionist rose from her seat and took in my attire with a judgmental eye. It didn’t say serious and it didn’t say news, but it did say Reed—and that made all the difference to me.
“Can I help you?” she asked, suspicious nicety a version of her voice I hadn’t known was possible.
I smiled. “I hope so. I’m here to see Rhonda Leech.”
She nearly rolled her eyes, and in that one simple disposition, she told me something about the woman seeking me out. She didn’t take random meetings with Joe Schmo off the street in a T-shirt and jeans, and she didn’t take meetings with people she wasn’t expecting. Obviously, she held some kind of position of power, but I still didn’t know what she wanted with me.
The woman in front of me picked up the phone and dialed before asking, “And you are?”
“Reed Luca,” I answered easily.
The judgment in her eyes shifted and moved over as recognition flared. Interesting. I guess a lot of people did see my video. Either that, or she had a connection down at police headquarters—my old home away from home.
“I have a visitor for Ms. Leech,” Receptionist Girl said, presumably to Rhonda’s assistant. “Yes.”