Mr. North

by Callie Hart

  “That’s…understandable, I guess.” It’s not really. Why the fuck would he not allow people to wear shoes inside his apartment? My rational brain is making up excuses: he doesn’t like the clutter; he has a dog with a chewing problem; someone once tried to shank him in the carotid with a Jimmy Chu stiletto. The suspicious part of my brain has found other reasons why this might be the case, though. Primarily that he actually is a serial killer and he wants his victims barefoot, so they can’t run and escape him.

  It is his home, however. I want to be respectful and make a good first impression. If I’d even considered for a second that I’d have to remove my footwear, I might have made an effort to remove the chipped nail polish on my toenails, though. Lord, what is this guy going to think of me?

  He’s not going to be looking at your feet, Beth. He’s going to say hello, sit you down, beat you at chess, and then he’s going to tell you to get the fuck out. He’s a busy guy. He has seriously important things on his mind. He’s not gonna give a shit about your toenail polish. He probably won’t look at you properly long enough to recall what you look like five seconds after you’re gone. You’re a means to an end. That’s all.

  I’m beginning to feel a little antsy now, though. Once I’ve allowed my brain to start over thinking things, my suspicions run wild. Can this guy be trusted? Should I be wary of him? Is he going to try and touch me? Will he be a gentleman, or is Raphael North a misogynistic pig that will try and abuse me in unspeakable ways? Oh, god. I want to go back to the car. I want to—

  “Ms. Dreymon?” Nate says politely, gesturing for me to step forward.

  For Christ’s sake, Beth, get your shit together! It’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine! I slip off my pumps, collecting them by the ankle straps, following Nate onto the elevator. The carpet is ridiculously soft beneath the soles of my feet. I almost groan, but manage to rein it in. Smile broadening, Nate reaches over and takes my shoes. “I’m used to Raphael’s strange idiosyncrasies. I’m sure he sounds like a complete fucking lunatic to other people most of the time.”

  I blink, trying not to look a little taken aback. “Not at all. It’s really not a problem.” It kind of is, though. I feel vulnerable right now. Uncomfortable. My heels were a part of the suit or armor I donned to come here today, and without them I somehow feel even less equipped to deal with the situation that lies before me.

  I try not to think about how tight my chest feels as the elevator begins to rise. I definitely block out the numbness that’s spreading to my fingers and down the backs of my legs. I’ve been so anxious about meeting someone before that actually I’ve passed out once; I can’t allow that to happen today. It would ruin everything, so I concentrate on sucking air in through my nose and blowing it out through my mouth.

  My ears pop somewhere around the thirtieth floor, then again at the fifty-sixth. My hearing has just righted itself when the doors roll back and we’re met with a wall of daylight, glass and sky. My knees almost buckle out from beneath me as Nate ushers me out of the elevator and into the empty, marble tiled room beyond. About thirty feet long and perhaps half as wide, the space is sparsely decorated. Two off-white leather sofas face each other on either side of a lowlying coffee table in the middle of the room. There’s a soft, pale grey rug beneath the sofas, but the remainder of the floor is bare marble. At the far end of the room, a desk and chair have been arranged so that the desk is flush with the glass, the chair looking out over the city. Dotted here and there, huge potted plants sit on the ground, providing a splash of deep emerald green to the otherwise pale, light space.

  “This is the anteroom,” Nate says. He pads off to the left in his socks. Looking behind us, back into the elevator, I can’t see where he’s put our shoes, but they are no longer in his hands. “If you’ll follow me, please?” Nate calls over his shoulder. The marble is cool under my bare feet. I should have worn stockings; I remember my grandmother telling me when I was thirteen that all girls who wore skirts or dresses, no matter how long they were, without stockings were all whores. She was well entrenched in dementia by that point, but I find myself wondering if I should have put some on now as I follow after Nate.

  I’m flooded with adrenalin. I hug the right hand side of the wall, the one side of the room that isn’t made of glass but solid, bare brick, and I try not to think about falling off the building. It feels extremely exposed up here, precariously balanced between the Earth and the clouds.

  “Don’t worry,” Nate says, smirking. “You get used to it. I couldn’t go all the way to the edge for weeks when he first brought me up here. I kept thinking about how long it would take me to hit the ground if the glass shattered and I was sent tumbling out into all that empty space.”

  I swallow. Hard. “Great. Now I’m thinking about that, too.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all tempered glass. A herd of elephants could lean against those windows and they wouldn’t even so much as groan.”

  That does reassure me a little. Nate carries on. Soon there’s a glass door in the brickwork wall, but a curtain on the other side hides the room beyond. Nate rings a small brass doorbell, then stands with his hands behind his back, waiting.

  I’m filled with an immediate, very urgent need to run away. I’m sweating like crazy. I feel a little dizzy if I’m being honest. I’m lost in a haze of panic when Nate reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “He’s worse than a stern grandfather,” he says. “But not as bad as, say, an asshole boss with a power complex. Like everything else in this weird and wonderful little world at the top of the Osiris Building, Raphael takes a little getting used to. But trust me… he’s a good guy.”

  His words are reassuring. Enough that I can take in a deep breath without feeling like I’m about to keel over. There’s a small clattering noise on the other side of the glass door, and then the curtain pulls back and the moment has arrived. Raphael North stands on the other side of the abnormally thick glass. He’s dressed in a plain dark blue t-shirt, and a pair of washed out blue jeans. His feet are completely bare. His hair is even darker than it was in his picture, if that’s at all possible. Almost curly, too. It’s then that I realize it’s wet—he must have just gotten out of the shower. There are small dark patches on his t-shirt where water has obviously soaked through the material.

  He looks at Nate first, his expression utterly blank, and then…then he turns those startling vivid green eyes on me and I’m breathless all over again. It feels like I’m tumbling over some steep cliff face, a weightless sensation turning my stomach over as I fall. Inside, I’m back to wanting to flee the building. Externally, I’m praying to deities of faiths and religions all over the world that I don’t look like I’m about to slump in an unconscious mess on the floor right in front of him. My top lip begins to twitch—something that only happens when I’m really, really anxious. Without thinking, I press my fingertips to my mouth, as if I can put a halt to the twitching by touch alone. A strange look passes over Raphael’s face. A slight movement at the corner of his mouth. I can’t decide if it’s displeasure or amusement. Either way, the reaction is fleeting, barely noticeable at all, and then his face is a blank mask again. He places his hand on a curved silver handle on the other side of the door, and then pulls it toward him, opening it. There are no barriers now. Nothing standing between myself and a man whispered and gossiped about by an entire city. Screw that, an entire nation. I’m in an enviable position right now, but I’d gladly thank the universe if the ground opened up and swallowed me whole.

  The first words Raphael North speaks to me will haunt me until the day I die. He angles his head ever so slightly to one side, then says, “Your toenail polish is chipped, Ms. Dreymon.”

  Lord have mercy. His voice is deep but soft. It has no hard edges, but at the same time his tone is overflowing with self-confidence and command.

  “I’m sorry, I…wasn’t aware of your no-shoe policy.”

  He simply arches an eyebrow at me. So much for him barely
even looking at me. He’s going to remember what I look like after I leave all right. He’s going to remember what I look like for the rest of time. His gaze doesn’t politely slip over me, conforming to social niceties as he introduces himself. No. He flat-out stares at me, taking in each and every hair on my head, every aspect of my face. His eyes hover for a second at the base of my throat, and his lingering attention sends a shiver skating down my spine.

  His inspection of me is deeply personal. Not in a sexual way, per se, though the intensity of his eyes on my skin is making me feel naked. He’s sizing me up from head to toe, assessing me, judging me, looking for… I have no idea what he’s looking for. I have no idea if he finds himself disappointed or pleased by the time he tears his gaze away from me and turns back to Nate.

  “Thanks, Nate. You can go. I’ll message you when it’s time to take Ms. Dreymon home.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll see you soon,” he says to me, grinning as he walks back toward the elevator. “And good luck.”

  “Luck?”

  He nods. “Yes. For the game. I hope you thrash him .”

  *

  I fix my eyes on Raphael’s back, right between his shoulder blades, as he walks me down a long, fairly wide hallway. There are framed magazine covers on the walls here. It would make sense if they all featured him in some way—he’s been on enough magazine covers that he could probably wallpaper the entire penthouse with them if he felt like it—but there isn’t a single picture of him in sight. It takes a second for me to piece together the theme that connects the framed covers. American Scientist. National Geographic. The New England Journal of Medicine. Giving USA. Non-Profit Times. Their straplines all contain buzzwords like breakthrough, revolutionary, discovery, groundbreaking and innovative.

  The covers are indeed featuring him in some way after all, but they’re not focusing on Raphael North, the party boy socialite. They’re focusing on his philanthropic achievements. They are about the good works he’s done, the inventions, the patents, the design, the manufacturing, and the charitable works, all his projects. His true legacy.

  He’s at least a full head taller than me, a looming presence. He doesn’t say a word as he leads the way, taking me god knows where, and I’m grateful of the fact. I need these precious moments to pull myself together. We pass a number of internal doors, all firmly closed. At the end of the long hallway, Raphael takes a right, and I am left speechless by what I see. If I thought the anteroom where we left Nate was grand and spacious, the room, if it can even be called that, is just ridiculous. Again, only one side of the room is walled by brick. The other three sides of the space are glass-walled and seem to go on forever. Overhead, there’s nothing but sky. Bright blue sky, for as far the eye can see. It’s a cloudless day, and through the sloped glass roof above us, an airplane, barely more than a flash of silver lost in a sea of blue, is making slow progress across the horizon, leaving behind it a narrow trail of white.

  “There are people out there who believe the government is putting chemicals in chemtrails to make us all infertile,” Raphael says. He’s standing way closer than I realized, barely a foot away from me. I snap my focus back to him to find him watching me intently. No doubt about it—I’ve been gawking for the last thirty seconds, barely able to take the view in. Barely able to breathe.

  “People think you’re dead ,” I blurt. Both his eyebrows lift an inch higher at that. “What I mean to say is that people are always coming up with weird conspiracy theories. It doesn’t make them true.”

  He nods, the ghost of a smile flashing across his face, not at his mouth but at the corners of his eyes. “Would you sit?” he asks. I haven’t even taken in the furnishings of this area of the penthouse yet. I was too blown away by what I saw out of the windows. Now that I’m looking, I’m unsurprised by how light this space is, too. Pale wood furnishings, obviously expensive; a huge sectional sofa that could easily seat at least ten people; a movie-theatre-worthy flat screen. The floor here isn’t white and rose marble; it’s smooth concrete painted a dark grey. In the center of the room, a world map has artfully been painted in silver and gold on the floor, huge, complete with intricate coastlines, vast mountain ranges, lakes and rivers. Beautiful doesn’t even come close.

  Raphael places his hand on the small of my back, and the contact is surprising. There’s something aloof about him. Distant. If he’d avoided any sort of physical contact during this meeting, I wouldn’t have been shocked at all.

  “We’ll be playing over here,” he says stiffly, guiding me over to the northern corner of the room, where a small table has been arranged with two wingback chairs sitting opposite one another. On the table, a chess set has already been prepared. The pieces are works of art, the black side carved out of what looks like polished stone, and in place of white bone or stone, the opposing side’s pieces have been shaped out of what looks like solid copper.

  “Which do you prefer?” Raphael asks. “Light or dark?”

  I grip hold of my purse, wringing the strap in my hands. “I don’t really have a preference.”

  Raphael glances at me with those sharp eyes. “That’s a pity. I hoped you’d be a woman who knew what she wanted.”

  Ouch. His tone is even, his voice quiet, but his words are sharp as razors. I feel like I’ve just been judged in some way, and I haven’t exactly impressed. Raphael sits down on the left, behind the copper pieces. “I’ll let you stretch your legs with the obsidian. When was the last time you played?” His questions are clipped, perfunctory almost.

  “It’s been a couple of years,” I admit. “I haven’t had a lot of time for chess recently.”

  His head snaps up. “Why?”

  I sit down, studying the set before me. It really is a lovely thing. Picking up the rook from the edge of the board, I turn it over in my hands, taking a closer look. “I’ve been studying for the last eight years. I don’t have a lot of free time.”

  “You’re a doctor?” he asks.

  “No. Lawyer. At least I will be once I’ve passed the bar.”

  “Hmm.” There’s a critical edge to that hmm that makes my defensive streak rear its ugly head.

  “You don’t approve of lawyers?”

  “Not particularly. They plagued my adolescence. Every time I opened my mouth, there was someone in a pantsuit ready to cover my mouth in case I said something inappropriate. I should have guessed by your choice of outfit that you were a bloodsucker in training.”

  I tug self-consciously at the front of my dress shirt. “Thalia told me you requested business attire.”

  “I didn’t. She made an assumption,” Raphael says, picking up the copper rook, the mirror to the piece I’m holding in my hands. “People do that a lot,” he continues. “Maybe once upon a time, it would have been normal for you to come here dressed for a job interview, but not any more. And that’s not what this is. I prefer for people to feel comfortable in their own skin when they’re around me. If you choose to come and play with me again, Ms. Dreymon, please wear whatever the fuck you like.”

  I know he curses—he swore eighteen times on his questionnaire alone—but hearing him say fuck does something to me. Something…odd. He’s being pretty damn cold, but there’s something so edgy about him, so slick and confident. It has me a little turned around. I fidget in my seat, trying to gather my thoughts, which are currently scattered to the four winds.

  “I will. Thanks,” I reply.

  “Good. Then shall we get started?”

  “Yes.” I whisper the word. It seems to catch in my throat. The immense space is totally silent, though, so even the soft rasp of my voice sounds like it echoes. I place the rook back on the board, and so does Raphael. Since I’m black, and white goes first, Raphael makes the first move. Strange that he took the advantage of first move for himself. Most people I’ve played in the past with, especially guys, make a point of giving up the first move to prove they’re the more superior player. Raphael doesn’t seem to give a shit about appearances, how
ever, in more ways than one. He brings his e4 pawn out first, a strong opening. A forceful opening. He’s an aggressor, then. Some people might go for a softer opening, to test out their opponent, but not Raphael. He’s coming out guns blazing.

  I counter, moving my pawn to e5, and Raphael meets my gaze, smirking a little. “Tell me something about yourself,” he demands. His knight to f3.

  “What would you like to know?” Something about watching him watch the board is very distracting. I’m not pinned under the full wattage of his eyes, which is definitely a relief, but I still feel like he’s monitoring me intently as he plays. His brow creases ever so slightly in the middle as he picks up his bishop and moves it to b5, and I realize I’m staring at that small groove of concentration above the bridge of his nose.

  “I want to know why you’d come here,” he says. “Isn’t going to a stranger’s house alone still considered dangerous?”

  I gape at him. “You answered the ad on Craigslist . Who does that ?” I pick up my knight, moving it to f6. Raphael moves immediately afterward, relocating his a pawn to d3. He looks up from the game, then. Looks up at me. Looks into me somehow. I sink back into my chair, shying away from how weirdly vulnerable he makes me feel when he focuses on me like that. I feel…I feel like a tuning fork that’s been struck, vibrating, humming on a cellular level.

  “I answered the ad because I’m an eccentric recluse who just does shit like that. You’re a smart girl, a girl who’s studying to be a lawyer. A pretty girl. Someone who’s been warned her whole life about getting into cars with men she doesn’t know.”

  “You sent Nate to get me.”

  “Yeah. And did he look like the kind of guy you’d expect to be driving around in a Tesla? He wears his ball cap back-to-front like a frat boy for fuck’s sake.”

  I open my mouth, floundering for something to say. Raphael just stares at me. “It’s your move, Ms. Dreymon.”