I stared out of the window in my office, watching New York’s never ending traffic. No matter the hour, those streets were always a deadly jungle that could swallow people up at any given second. 

Nothing ever stopped. Nothing could be stopped, though I found beauty in stillness. I guess that the main reason behind my obsession with art, paintings to be precise.

Photographs, too, but they just weren’t the same. 

I remember the day I pushed those double doors wide open for the first time and looked around that massive open space. 

Empty, like it had been for some time after my father died. I spun around, taking in the size of my new office and all the space I could fill to make it mine. I never did, it felt like a waste of time.

All I managed to bring up was a sturdy easel, which I kept near the window. No canvas on it just yet, a permanent reminder of what I wanted to go after. Alas, business leaves little time for personal pleasure. I was aware of that before accepting the position — not that I had a choice in the matter. I’d seen it time and time again with my old man, and promised I would be different. I vowed to avoid stepping into the same traps that littered the path somebody else had carved out for me and instead hit every single one of them.

Oh, but I tried. Time and time again I would try and fix what, and sometimes who, I broke. A fruitless effort, that was. Nothing but a waste of time and energy that can’t be allowed in a world in constant motion.

Everything can be fine one second, and go to shit the next. Thankfully most of those situations can be fixed rather painlessly. 

My intercom buzzed and wrestled me away from my thoughts.

“Mister Harris? One mister Hashimoto called to confirm a meeting tomorrow at nine sharp.” Lucy’s distorted voice reminded me once again how much I hated those damn things. Intercoms, not secretaries.

I sighed. “Thank you dear. Tell me, did he sound pissed?” I asked her, already knowing what she would say.

“A little bit. I’d imagine it’s jet lag, the call was local,” She replied right away. I liked that about her, Lucy always seemed to have an answer loaded in the chamber — even when I acted less than professional.  

“I’d say he’s an asshole, but let’s leave it,” I objected as I slumped onto my chair. “Fuck. Remind me again, do I have anything else scheduled for tomorrow?”

“Oh it’ll be a busy day. Mister Jameson at eight AM, then two hours later you have an early lunch with mi—” I cut her off, slamming my finger on the intercom button.

“Just come here, I can’t understand half the shit you’re saying.” I didn’t mean to sound that hostile, and made a mental note to have the intercom system upgraded.

A few seconds later the doors swung open and Lucy walked in, carrying a black tablet with her. I took a moment to look at her as she approached my desk, and noticed how she seemed more relaxed than before.  

Her hair was tied in a gravity defying bun that made her look older, but she carried herself like an elegant dame of sorts. Still, I could tell something was on her mind just by looking at her face. Alas, none of my concerns, or so I thought.

She wasted no time and sat on one of the chairs in front of my desk, eyes glued to the tablet. “So it’s Jameson at eight, McCarthy at ten and Hashimoto after two,” She declared, dragging her finger across the screen.

“That’s not too bad,” I shrugged, but apparently she wasn’t done.

“Oh and you’re also supposed to meet someone you had me file as “that bitch”. Sometime around six.” Lucy raised her hand slightly and hooked her fingers to mimic quotation signs around the name I gave her. It made me chuckle, causing her to blush slightly. 

“Yeah, that’d be my sister.” We didn’t have that great of a relationship. Things got worse after our father died, and at that point we were past the normal sibling rivalry.

With a swipe of her finger, Lucy closed down the app she was using. “Nothing else afterwards, sir.”

I nodded and waved her off. “Thank you, Lucy. You’re free to go.”

“Well actually,” She began, “There is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

She piqued my interest, although that probably was due to the fact that I had nothing better to focus on.

“Go on,” I encouraged her. I reached over for the mini bar but decided against pouring anything,  at lest for the time being.

“Did you hire me just because of that poker game or did you actually want me to work for you?” She asked, setting the tablet onto my desk.

My suspicions were right when I reached over for the bottle, and the second time I completed the motion. “Mostly just the game. And I knew it would piss your father off.”

I poured myself a glass of whiskey, predictability be damned. “Although I have to say you’re doing good, Lucy.”

Most people were in a permanent quest for approval, and perhaps Lucy was on it as well. God knows I was, even if I would have denied it with every fiber of my being.

“Then…” She hesitated before steeling herself and looking me dead in the eye, her russet irides burning into mine. “Can the contract be extended?” 

A hint of a grin shone briefly on my face. I took a sip and set the glass down on the table, focusing my attention on her, and her alone. Lucy’s face showed no signs of weakness one could exploit, only a firm determination that burnt bright as a star.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t even last those six months!” I laughed, yet that statement still rang true. Given the reason why Lucy started working for me, I thought she would quit after a day or so.

She seemed surprised for a split second. Her brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed down. “Why wouldn’t I last?” Lucy’s tone was almost accusatory. That fiery determination was perhaps the best and worst quality about her.

“I’m not exactly the best boss to have,” I shrugged, tilting my head to the side. “Plus, you know, good old family rivalry.”

She let out a sardonic fake laugh that lasted all of about a second. “Family. Right. Need I remind you, sir, that technically you won me?! I didn’t exactly get this job through conventional means!” And there it was. A spark found its way into the powder keg and ignited the bomb. 

“I have no other option than to stay,” She fumed. Her calm demeanor gone, Lucy seemed like an entirely different person. Her breathing got heavier and harsher, as though attempting to hold back a great deal of tears.

Normally those tricks didn’t work on me. They never had, thankfully. Nevertheless, Lucy was different. I didn’t know her story nor I claimed I did, but unless she had a degree in acting, those raw, visceral emotions she was trying so hard to hide couldn’t be faked.

“We’ll extend it to a full year, and we’ll go from there. Sounds good?” I wasn’t too sure if I sounded caring enough. I did want to make her feel better, for whatever reason.

Lucy nodded and mumbled a weak “Thank you.” before grabbing her tablet and swiftly making her way out of my office. 

When I got out, Lucy had already gone home. I usually left the building after most of the other employees, out of a  self imposed need to set an example.

Lead and they’ll follow, I guess. I couldn’t say whether or not it actually worked, I just liked to pretend it did.

James was waiting for me in the garage, as always. A lit cigarette sat between his fingers, even though he knew he shouldn’t smoke. “It’s my only vice, let me have it,” he’d say. My father laughed it off and I tended to just ignore it, though deep down I dreaded the day his vice would turn against him.

I was no stranger to addictions, ask my mini bar. It was easily my favorite part of that entire building.

“How are you, sir?” James queried, opening the passenger door for me. 

“Could be better,” I groaned. “I just want to go home and relax.”

“But sir,” He replied, looking at me through the rear view mirror, “What about that party you mentioned the other day? At the Bertrand manor?”

My eyes shot open, dread washing over me. “Right. Shit, I forgot about that…” 

Despite what the invitation said, those types of events were the farthest thing from an actual party. There would be nothing even remotely entertaining at the Bertrand manor, unless Bertrand himself decided to surprise his guests. Dodgy fucker, that one. Made most of his money thanks to mob connections and spent his days playing golf in his private course. 

That’s how my father described the man, I had never met him personally. I could probably guess my old man got at least one of those assumptions right, rich old men loved golf. I never saw the appeal behind it, and the ridiculously expensive set of irons my father used was happily collecting dust back in what used to be my parents’ house. It earned some rest, after years of abuse.

The streets of New York zipped past as James drove me back home. The gathering, or party if going by what the delusional host decided, would start at ten. 

Time flew.

Bertrand’s manor was located somewhere near the bay, so close to the waterfront I was fully expecting to find a boat of some sorts moored nearby. There probably was, in hindsight — Bertrand was known to show off his wealth rather carelessly.

I had never been there before, though I knew what to expect. The manor looked imposing from the outside, tall and wide enough to stand out like a sore thumb amidst the rest of the lesser buildings.

Bertrand had indubitably spent millions on it, but all the money in the world couldn’t have bought that man some taste. 

Making my way inside I couldn’t help but notice the statues that littered the surrounding areas. The building itself was just part of a larger plot of land that Bertrand had turned into a museum of sorts, open to whoever could climb the tall walls that surrounded his property. I walked past recreations of ancient Roman and Greek effigies, busts and even a scaled down reproduction of Michelangelo’s David. 

The shiny marble was spotless, clearly having been cleaned recently. The seagulls would have a field day come dawn — I hated those damn birds.

I shook those thoughts away from my mind and headed towards the manor’s entrance, followed and preceded by others whom, just as me, had spent some time admiring Bertrand’s collection.

Inside, the atmosphere felt more close to a wake than a party. Dim lights that made it difficult to identify guests, waiters carrying trays full of champagne and God knows what else, and the ever present low humming noise made by the attendees’ unending chatter.

My gaze swept the room. A look of mild disgust made its appearance on my face. There wasn’t much of a difference between the garden museum and the actual gathering — all of the guests looked and sounded as fake as the statues that sat motionless outside.

Despite the ambiance I could still recognize some of the guests. Rich folks no doubt, some of whom I had the pleasure and pain of meeting before.

Amongst them were even a few celebrities. I never cared much for television, but some of those people were just impossible to avoid. That gathering, while pointless, was still somewhat interesting to look at.

I grabbed a glass of something from a passing waitress and almost downed what I realized was white wine in one gulp. There was no way I would survive that night dry, though naturally I couldn’t err on the other side of the coin either. Life is all about balance.

Blending in among the scores of attendees proved not to be as challenging as I had previously imagined: I was certainly besieged by familiar faces and the like, although their attention was devoted elsewhere.

Networking was the life and blood of  the industry, and these events were planned with that very goal in mind. Make friends, develop connections, stab them in the back as soon as a better deal rolls around. And the carousel keeps spinning.

I felt like an anthropologist who had just stumbled onto an ancient, hidden tribe. The older individuals tended to form cliques, yet as time went by more and more of them seemed to detach from the group to go seek one of the many attractive young members of the opposite sex. Bertrand had to have hired some sort of modeling agency to provide eye candy, and judging by what I could see, the man really got his money’s worth.

Something felt odd. Knowing me, I would have been all over them and probably took one — or two — back home for the night. I was no stranger to what I called eight-hour-love. No emotions, just the raw power of and high that only unhinged sex can provide.

I couldn’t explain why, or maybe I didn’t want to. Chasing after those women felt rather pointless, like watching an old movie for the hundredth time. 

I needed something new. Someone new.