Chilly morning air filled my lungs as I unscrewed the top of my thermos, pulled the cup from its resting place between my legs, and poured myself a steaming serving of wake the fuck up.
I inhaled the smell before taking a swig.
Life had been busy for the last three weeks, and I’d worked more hours than the nine-to-fivers I so often mourned for.
But I was living a dream, one I’d had for ages, and it didn’t get much better than that.
The fog looked segregated from up here, two stark lines forming along the banks of the channel as if an invisible wall kept it from settling over the water.
“Reed!”
I looked down about forty feet, along the sweet sweep of one of the magnificent cables on the Golden Gate Bridge to find the caller of my name, my coworker, Kenny.
“Yeah, Ken?” I asked innocently, swinging my feet back and forth as I took another sip of steaming sustenance.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Coffee break,” I offered on a yell. I could see him shake his head despite the distance, completely unimpressed with my casual attitude. I got it, even though I might not show it. This was a short stint for me, a hobby, for all intents and purposes, but it wasn’t for Kenny. This was his everyday reality, his bread and butter, and the very thing he relied on to support his family.
When I looked back, he looked mad.
“Get back to work!”
I sighed and looked back out over the view.
I’d actually considered climbing to the top of this particular hill illegally numerous times in the past, but I came to the same conclusion each and every time: it was too risky.
I liked to live my life pretty freely, but I wasn’t dumb enough not to weigh actions by their cost in consequences. These days, with everything going on in the world, doing something as nefarious as climbing the Golden Gate Bridge without permission wouldn’t be seen as a simple misdemeanor. And being sentenced to spend the rest of my natural life behind bars for suspected terrorism would put a certain kind of hitch in my lifestyle.
Instead, I’d bided my time with day-to-day diverse jobs, changing it up when I grew bored or disinterested, until the right connection fell into my lap. Of course, it only fell after I’d shoved it by spending countless hours searching for the right people and the proper vetting. But then, yeah, it’d just fallen in my lap. The perfect job to get me where I needed to be—Golden Gate Bridge Touch-Up Painter. It’s a fancy title, but don’t let that fool you into thinking it’s dumb. It’s not. It’s the coolest fucking job on the planet—or, it had been for the last three weeks anyway.
But it was about to come to a close, and I needed to find something else to occupy my time. I wasn’t consistent, but I was consistently busy and intended to keep it that way. I wasn’t the kind of man who liked to be idle. I needed to be out, doing, seeing, learning new things.
And that was even more true now that I’d met Lola Sexton, fallen completely in lust with her personality, and then lost her.
Zero communication.
I’d tried sending her an email about a week after our date at Bitters, Bock & Rye, but she never replied.
“Reed!” Kenny yelled again, this time a lot closer.
I looked to him with a smile and a wave and packed up my picnic. Time to work. Despite how it may seem, I wasn’t lazy. I worked hard from day-to-day to accomplish the goals set forth—they just weren’t long-term.
In fact, we were rounding the finish line on this particular venture today. Painting this bridge was a routine necessity, thanks to the foggy microclimate and its destructive effects on paint, and as I found out, they didn’t fuck around. They used a huge crew so that the time wasn’t wasted and the work got done as quickly as possible. It didn’t do all that much good to get one end of the bridge done, move to the other, only to have to do the first end all over again.
So I got down to work for the last time on this particular task and basked in the glory that lived about 750 feet above the water.
I’d spent my entire life in San Francisco, but I’d only once had a view as interesting as this—and I’d only had my first experience with it three weeks ago.
My apartment was dark thanks to the drawn curtains as I let the door slam shut behind me and tossed my keys onto the table right beside it. The flash of the light on my answering machine—an honest to God machine circa the 1990s—sporadically illuminated the cozy space.
I hit the button as I crossed the room, headed to open the curtains and window so I could smoke a cigarette before hitting the shower.
Okay—and check my email. I’d become goddamn compulsive about it.
I’d honestly never had a woman pique my interest as much as Lola Sexton. I wasn’t a traditional kind of guy when it came to my tastes in the opposite sex. Big tits, curvy asses, long legs, those weren’t what drew me in. Sure, I occasionally appreciated—I wasn’t a fucking monk. But it wasn’t the physicality of a woman that excited me. It took an intelligent, rare, free-spirit type who had a natural confidence about her that had nothing to do with the size of her bra or external beauty.
A woman like Lo-la. God, even her name trips off my tongue in two perfect syllables.
Sure, I dated, spent the occasional night enjoying the company of a woman, but I’d yet to find someone who actually intrigued me like the eccentric and beautiful little conundrum that was the dating columnist who rode a bicycle with pink wheels and a basket.
“Hi, this is Rhonda Leech from the San Francisco Journal, and I’m looking for Reed Luca,” the message played just as I brought the screen of my computer to life.
My head jerked to the side at the lack of my mother’s or sister’s voice—two of the only people who ever really called me—and I started paying attention.
“One of my interns alerted me to your video from a few weeks ago—”
Holy shit. People are still actually finding that thing? I hadn’t thought much about it—other than the woman behind the original words and the way she’d reacted to my own—since the initial buzz. Actually, if I was honest, I’d been pointedly not paying attention.
“And we’ve been watching its performance ever since. Viewership has been through the roof, as I’m sure you know—”
Because she’s obviously familiar with me personally, I thought drolly.
“But we needed to know how it would do on a much smaller stage here in San Francisco before reaching out to you. Anyway, we’re interested in discussing an opportunity with you, but we’re on a real timeline. It’d be best if you can get back to me today at 415-555-0000. I look forward to hearing from you.”
My machine’s ending beep was shrill and final and rang out into the silence of my apartment with a somewhat eerie quality. Good old Rhonda had said a lot, but at the same time, she hadn’t said much of anything at all—which I was sure was a finely tuned tactic appointed to sway the probability that I would head down to the Journal to find out what the fuck she was talking about. Consider me old fashioned, but I preferred to have conversations in person where important nuances like facial expressions and body language could tell you more than words—and I fucking loved the element of surprise.
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.”
She pulled the phone away from her mouth and spoke to me directly. “Do you have an appointment?”
I smiled easily. “Nope.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she went back to speaking into the phone. “No. Yes, I know. He says his name is Reed Luca.”
I could practically see the moment the person on the other end of the phone told her that was a horse of a different color. The Wizard would definitely see me now.
“Okay. Yep. I’ll send him up.”
Ah. I’ve got the golden ticketttt. Hey, there was no harm in mixing movie metaphors.
Receptionist Girl didn’t hesitate or say anything about our little moment. Sure, she could have just been trying to be professional, but I had a feeling it had more to do with a stubborn streak in her personality and not liking to be wrong.
“Just right through those doors, up the stairs, down the hall, and to the left. Her assistant will be waiting for you.”
“Fantastic,” I said with a cheeky grin as I slid by with a wave.
The route was just as she’d said, and an impeccably dressed man, most likely in his early twenties, stood waiting for me just as she’d said he would. But she hadn’t said anything about how thoroughly he’d be vibrating with excitement.
“Reed?” he confirmed as I approached.
“Yep.” He held out his hand to shake, so I took it.
“Nice to meet you,” he said with a genuine smile and what I imagine was a mental heel-click.
“You too, man. What’s your name?”
“Oh, sorry, I was distracted,” he apologized. “It’s Lyle.”
“No problem, Lyle. Sorry if I distracted you.”
“Oh, no. It’s just…she was expecting a phone call,” he said gleefully. If he hadn’t been standing, I swear even his toes would have stood on end. I couldn’t wait to find out what that was about.
“Yeah, I don’t do what people expect a lot.”
He was nearly apoplectic. “God, this is amazing.”
I laughed at his enthusiasm. “I take it she doesn’t get surprised much?”
“Never. Not in my tenure here anyway. So you really made my day.”
I slapped him on the shoulder and chuckled. “Happy to do it.”
“Here we are,” he said, quieting his voice considerably and stopping to let me step ahead of him. I stopped and turned around.
“I guess she’s a big deal around here, huh?”
“Editor in chief.”
Well, well. I smiled huge as I thought of the woman who considered me her mortal enemy, and the possibility that, in order to get her attention, I might have to make her mine.
Maybe this would be even better than I thought.