Gone with the Wind

 

Time is not a thing that passes ... it's a sea on which you float.

- Margaret Atwood

 

 

RISKE

 

She was gone. Vanished into thin air.

I couldn’t concentrate for days. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t write. I could barely compose an e-mail without my thoughts drifting, and when I did, my fingers followed their own mind, writing each question I had on the page.

Who was she? Where did she go? Why did she feel so familiar to me?

I couldn’t get her out of my head.

It wasn't until later, after I'd run back into the blaze, that I'd thought about the beautiful face in the fire, her delicate hitched breaths... the way her soft skin felt against mine.

And I felt like the biggest fucking tool.

She was in trouble, that was all.

Here I was, using every waking minute to think about the woman in the fire, when I should have been thinking about my next business move--a move that would put me on path to taking the southern travel literature scene by storm. My leg shook under the desk as I pondered the many possibilities.

I called in my assistant, David, watching him squirm on the other side of the room before speaking.

“It’s all set, Mr. Foxx. Hotel, tux, transportation---everything. You’re all set for the Literature Today summit. I asked for the Escalade, but all they had left was the CLK Viper coupe.” His gaze dropped. “And it’s four cylinders, not six cylinders like you normally like…”

I nodded. Truthfully, I’d only heard half of what the newbie was saying, but it didn’t matter. I’d be at the Literature Today Summit come Hell or high water. It was the stamp of approval on a conquest that was a long-time coming.

The acquisition of A Whole New World.

I should have been ecstatic.

It was a deal I’d been working on for some time, and it was my duty, my goddamned job to incorporate promising but fledgling businesses under the umbrella of Foxxhole, to add to my father’s legacy… and, more importantly, my own.

So why did I suddenly feel like shit?

I tapped my finger on the desk, standing. I turned to look out of the floor-to-ceiling window behind me. Eyes in the distance, one forearm braced against the glass, I overlooked the beautiful bay that lay just beyond it. The waves past the clear wall beckoned to me, and I tried to remember the last time I took a vacation, could feel the ocean spray on my face… fucked without the sake of just fucking.

When was the last time I enjoyed anything? Had truly wanted anything?

And was that the reason I was so hung up on the woman from the fire? I’d convinced myself that it was only to check if she was okay, but that was a lie. She’d been perfectly fine when I left her street-side, if not a little over-exerted. Against the adjacent building, she lay, hair over her face, her breathing slow and even as she sunk into the comfort of the woman beside her.

And I hadn’t seen her since.

I was forced back into the building—obligated, really. I’d make the same choice if given the chance, but the fact remained…

Something in me, something untapped and inexplicable, wanted to make the angel in the blaze mine. If only for a cup of coffee… or a night. I felt something—something strong and overwhelming with the ethereal-looking woman. And I needed to see… needed to know if the spark I felt three nights ago (no pun intended) was just a fluke.

I paced my office.

By the time I made it to the file cabinet and back, my assistant David appeared to be in full meltdown mode. He was standing there, sweating. I concentrated my focus back on him, but as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, a quick rapping on my door ripped my attention away.

I called out “Come in” and Dana, my secretary, strolled through the thick oak door, a smile on her face, and an envelope in her hands.

I gave David a look and he disappeared just as quickly as he had come in, shooting a small smile at Dana before dashing out of the door. I waved Dana in.

“I hope you have something good for me, Dana…”

My secretary blushed. “I do, Mr. Foxx.”

I grinned. “I mean in the envelope, of course.”

She nodded once. “Of course, Mr. Foxx. Certainly.”

"Have you called the hospital again?"

"Yes, Mr. Foxx."

"And?"

"I paid one of the nurses like you asked. Only one woman checked in last night with fire-related issues. And that woman checked out of the hospital, Mr. Foxx. Late Thursday night. They confirmed what you told me, but they wouldn’t give me a name. Refused to, actually. The staff’s lips are airtight."

I rolled my eyes at the news, knowing that Tampa General wasn’t going to give me more than that. If money wasn’t going to convince the staff, then nothing would…

At least, it was a lead—the first one I’d had in days. I would find this woman, talk to her… But first, I had a meeting to go to. A meeting that might be the difference between being the best in business… and being forgotten.

I drove to the coffee shop as fast as my Maserati would take me. And still when I walked in, Griff had me beat. He was already sitting down at a table, leaning back in his button-down shirt and tie, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. It was clear that he was putting in work. Typical Griff work, at least. He was grinning in the face of some pretty barista, his green eyes twinkling, his game face on as he undoubtedly set up his date for the night. If you could call the types of interactions Griff had with women “dates” at all…

I approached the table, catching the tail-end of his conversation with her as she spun on her low-laying heels, clutching the edge of her apron in one hand and her phone in the other. Her smile held all kinds of secrets.

I sat down as Griff whistled low behind her back. He leaned in.

“You hitting that?”

“I don’t shit where I eat.”

“Nobody said anything about shitting. I’m talking about fucking.”

“When are you ever not? For fuck’s sake—and I mean that literally, let me find a new coffee spot before you ruin this one by banging all the baristas.”

Griff looked around. “They should be so lucky…” He grinned. “Where’s the prick?”

“Sears,” I corrected. “And he’s not here yet. And if we want to welcome him the right way on to the company, we might want to find another nickname for him besides ‘The Prick.’ From what I hear, he’s as sensitive as a ball-sack.”

“Which is interesting… for a man who doesn’t seem to have one. Have you met his old man yet?”

“Dozens of times. I wouldn’t be doing this deal without him. Fucked up part is… now he knows we need him.” I looked at the front door and straightened. “Now, wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. The Prince and The Prick just walked in.”

I stood, just as Greg and my other right hand man, Chris, came strolling in. They crossed the length of the small cafe in seconds, with their hands out to shake. Griff’s words still in mind, I almost felt like I could sense the slime in Greg’s handshake, but I shook the sentiment off.

Greg Sears might have been the devil, but I had just made a deal with him. I didn’t want to think about what that made me.

I faked a small smile at seeing the corporate climber in front of me. I motioned towards the chair. “Have a seat, Greg—Chris. You look like you’re in a good mood.”

“The best,” Greg grinned, his smug smile grating on my nerves. “We’ve just come into a bit of booming luck. Turns out A Whole New World is practically on its knees. A recent fire wiped out a huge chunk of its hardware, its records. They’re scrambling to maintain status, but with the costs of rebuilding and repairing, it looks like the company is incapable of fully recovering. Now’s our time to swoop in. Take them out of their misery. Turn them over to a company worth ruling.” He winked. “Yours.”

I shifted in my seat. “How convenient for you.” I folded my newspaper in two. “I don’t like the sound of taking advantage of a company. If we’re going to buy a company out, let’s do it the traditional way. No shady shit. We’ve got our own problems to deal with. Or have you forgotten about the fire at my own headquarters?” I sliced him in two with a stare, and he squirmed. He pulled at his tie.

“I haven’t forgotten, sir. It’s just that… Our fire was some freak accident. Theirs looks deliberate. They probably wanted to collect on their insurance policy. Ours was most likely a result of bad wiring… or letting the wrong type of people in the building…”

I glanced over at Chris. Seemed like someone had been sharing secrets while I was away. I didn’t like letting Sears in on anything he didn’t have to know. The man was coined “The Prick” for a reason… and I didn’t trust him as far as scrawny-ass Chris could throw him. I straightened my cufflinks, staring at Sears.

“Sam didn’t do this, Greg. He wouldn’t.”

The slinky man shrugged. “Who could say for sure? I’ve heard that you like to work with the homeless, sometimes offering up a place to bed for the night. But making friends with them? Risking your neck to save them?” I glared at Chris, shooting fire from my eyes. “You could have died. Easy. And with those types of people?” He shook his head. “You never know. Sometimes charity isn’t what they need. Sometimes, it’s a good old kick-in-the-pants, a healthy dose of reality.”

My stare hardened at him, growing ice-like. “I’m sure you’d know all about that.” I tapped my thumb on the table lightly, feeling the wood beneath my finger. “With your private schools as a kid, your chauffeurs. Tell me: Is that your natural eye color—the green? Or has your money-hunger finally reached max capacity?” I practically hissed the words, staring. I stood up from the table and before Sears could respond, I excused myself, taking my newspaper with me.

I suddenly felt the urge to tear it into two, to keep myself from beating the smug ass Sears with my bare hands. I knew if there was any way that I was going to make it through a meeting with the bastard after the rough couple of days I’d been through, I was going to need the cafe’s strongest caffeine. A shit ton of it. I’d resort to snorting it, if I had to.

Anything to keep from shooting myself in the fucking foot. I sighed when the cashier sauntered in front of me.

“Got anything stronger than crack cocaine?”

The overweight woman behind the counter smiled at me, flashing flirty eyes. She pointed up at the billboard above her head.

“Premium crack or run-of-the-mill?” she asked.

“Your garden-variety is just fine.”

“Well, we’ve got the Monster, a local favorite. Four shots of espresso, a splash of milk, a little dash of caramel.” She sniffed. “You might have a heart attack, but you’ll enjoy the ride on the way.”

I smirked, taking the offer, and found my fingers suddenly sliding over the pages of another discarded newspaper left by the register, the publication left open on a page with some provocative opinion piece… and a story about the fire.

Just when I was trying to avoid thinking about the past, the fucker had followed me, sneaking in when I least expected it. I couldn’t stop myself from picking up the paper and reading it.

Authorities are still baffled by the cause of the fire that burned bright into the night at the new Taylor Tower in midtown Tampa.  Sometime before midnight Thursday evening, a spark blazed above the fifty-eighth floor, creating massive amounts of smoke and fire damage in the newly constructed building, prompting investigators to speculate as to the origin of the would-be inferno.

The blaze is but one of a seemingly recent rash of office fires originating within fifty street blocks. Firefighters and personnel responded one week earlier to a fire in downtown’s 200 Tower Way building near Sensory Stadium.

Local office resident Katarina Lexington had this to say of the recent fire that threatened to overcome her own headquarters in Tower Way: “It’s a curious thing—the fire. Whatever the reason, whoever is responsible, the building will continue to prosper under the fantastic facilities personnel and awesome employees that have banded together to rebuild after the damage.”

More details to come.

My hands were shaking by the time I read the last sentence.

Katarina. Katarina Lexington.

Kat. Lexington.

I didn’t think twice. Wrestling my cell out of my back pocket, my fingers fumbled with the keypad on the phone screen, sweat making the shiny surface of my phone slick. The barista slid my cup of coffee across the counter, and I snatched it from the surface, slapping a hundred dollar bill in its place. I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

My tie felt as if it had tightened in the seconds it took for the other line to ring, and with my coffee in one hand and my cell in other, I stormed towards the sidewalk outside of the cafe, ignoring the stares of the people in my path. Wind whipping, the air filling with the smell of summer rain, the impending afternoon thundershower was nothing compared to the storm that was brewing inside of my mind.

Maybe I really was having a heart attack…

The wait felt like forever, my cell phone ringing for what seemed like an eternity. A slew of businessmen and women came from all sides, pouring out of whatever office building they were trying to escape from for lunch. I was drowning in them, but I barely noticed.

My brain was buzzing, but my entire body was numb. A man brushed my shoulder. A woman tripped into me. They were insignificant as far as I was concerned, and even when a paperboy barreled into my body on his way down the block, I didn’t even pay attention.

I had dropped the cup of hot coffee in the middle of my lap. And for a few moments, I didn’t feel a thing…