Chapter 3
I was prepared to work, and to work hard. I was prepared to orchestrate any and all kinds of ways to be introduced to Hank Jaydee, not excluding a physical mishap or sudden wardrobe malfunction.
What I am not prepared for is him.
Without ever hearing his voice, somehow I know when he has entered the rotunda. I don’t turn around, not wanting to be obvious. Instead, I lean forward and plant my elbows on the marble side of the pit I’m staring into, the one where the Foucault pendulum swings.
Just like in the Poe story of the same name, I’m saved when a man appears from nowhere.
It’s the same physical awareness I get from Michael, when he moves to stand next to me. Together, we watch the slow movement of the bronze ball. My pulse speeds up, each beat raising another goosebump on my arm. The faint scent of tobacco leaf and clove brought images of a cabin surrounded by autumn woods to my mind, and of all the things one might do inside with a man who smelled that good. Just when I am no longer able to keep myself from glancing over, a glass of wine materializes in front of me and I have a reason.
It’s him.
It’s Hank.
I don’t have to fake my smile of delight.
“Thank you,” I tell him, as I take a long swallow of what turns out to be a good vintage. I stand up straight. Allow my body to angle towards his the way it wants to.
“I hate to see a pretty girl without a drink at one of these things. They’re hard enough to handle with a buzz,” he says in a rich, warm voice that could be the fire in my imaginary cabin.
“I like them,” I say primly. And I do. These events are sociological playgrounds, and I’m the predator stalking them.
“I bet you like a lot of things,” he says in that same warm tone, but he meets my eyes for the first time and they’re so cold I shiver. The windows in my cabin frost over.
“Such as?” I dare him.
His eyes sweep up and down, taking in the color-blocked body-con dress I’m wearing that harkens to a Mondrian, the angular style of the blonde haircut I’ve chosen for him, the black pumps that have red soles he can’t see from this angle, but will when I’m lying under him later this evening.
“Such as this wine,” he says, keeping it mild, though his cold eyes continue in another long trip or two over my body, recalling the pendulum.
“It’s delicious.” Another smile, because I mean it.
“Enjoy,” he says, and walks away without so much as an introduction. My mouth falls open and I catch myself, taking another sip to cover for my shock.
I had carefully worked out plans A though H to meet my mark, and then he approached me. He clearly liked what he saw as he appraised me, but then he left. What am I to take from that? Does he find me lacking somehow?
I turn back to the pendulum and find that while I was looking elsewhere, one of the pegs had gotten knocked down.
I walk away.
Outside on the half-round terrace, the sun is setting. Los Angeles has a halo, and all three cities look redeemed by His grace.
It’s an illusion caused by the smog. There are no angels here.
A woman I recognize from a lecture series we once both took waves to me, and I am relieved to join her group of small talk. Too much time alone at an event like this makes me look like the wrong type of professional.
Sex is a perk of my job, not the point of it.
I imagine that’s why it’s so enjoyable.
We make conversation about the pediatric hospital this event supports, about the wine, about a hundred other things that fail to distract me from running our conversation over in my head on a loop.
The words were banal. Boring, even. There was an undertone I can’t identify. I don’t know what he wants, and that pisses me off.
I should have handled things differently. How? No idea. I need to talk to him again. I’m about to walk back into the Hall of the Eye and see if I can find a drink to give him when my eye catches on his figure heading towards the promenade.
Even from this distance I can see the muscles under his suit.
I’m going to very much enjoy undressing him—assuming he gives me damn opportunity. If I can’t close this deal tonight, I don’t know when I’ll have another shot. And though Michael knows these things occasionally take time, he’ll start to send notes questioning my efficiency, and offering to re-assign the job.
I don’t like to be pressured like that. And I really don’t like being questioned. I prefer to work with no management.
Freedom. It’s all any of us really has, and I fucking cherish mine.
I round the corner and lean against the side of the building, savoring both my wine and the sight of him as he drops a coin into one of the mounted telescopes and bends to focus it somewhere in the city. I wonder what he’s looking at, cause it obviously isn’t me.
After a long moment, he stands again and then he is looking at me. I can feel the cold from here.
He inclines his head at the telescope, and walks away from me for the second time. I’m starting to rethink my assessment of him as a dumb asshole with money. It’s very possible that he’s the regular kind of asshole with money.
Out of sheer curiosity I walk over to see what it was he wanted me to look at. If it’s a strip club, I’ll make him pay me back my quarter.
But it isn’t a strip club. It’s a building, the numbers on which I can’t quite make out. But I already know what it is. It’s his gallery. But the gallery isn’t the center of the picture he’s framed up in here nice and neat for me. It’s the floor above the gallery.
I’ll be damned.
I think Hank Jaydee just invited me to go home with him.