My stomach twists in odd, discomforting ways as Dimitri’s face swims to the surface of my mind with no warning. Somewhere between a threat and a temptation.
Grant offers me a seat which I take with trepidation. At the thought of my master, a certain urgency has set my extremities to tingling.
“Master?”
I glower at Shane, my expression belying all the aggravation in me. “I can’t tell the story properly if you interrupt me at every interval.”
He smiles condescendingly, “My apologies. Continue, then.”
Master? Where the hell did that come from?
“Tell me,” Grant suffers no delays as he sits opposite me, interrupting my thoughts with an expectant, pursed-lipped countenance.
“Well,” I try not to stumble, but the task proves difficult as he creases his brow at my almost stutter, “I met with Dimitri about a month ago through a friend of mine. I have been trying to cultivate a companionship, of sorts, with him in order to further my chances of garnering an interview. You know how private he is. I can think of only one publication that has achieved the one-on-one after over a year of hunting him down.”
Grant’s face clouds over, “Yes. Of course, I remember it well.”
He pulls a glossy from his draw and deftly opens it at the first try to the article in question. Issue 12 of Bordeaux. A fairly new publication, but an instant rivalry for our Reflections. We had been entirely unsuccessful at swiping a glance into the life of the infamous Dimitri Kron, but the new kid on the block had achieved the impossible after a mere year of publication.
And there he is. Thankfully, Grant is far too preoccupied in glaring at the three page layout to notice the way my face must have softened, or the moisture on my lips.
Dimitri looks up at me expectantly with intent, grey eyes. His dark waves falling over one eye as the midnight wolf-fur on his face paints of him a metro man in shades of wilderness.
“If I recall,” I begin, trying to distract my boss from what I can see is about to become a discussion on the failings of our reporters (me included) for not beating these young upstarts to the punch, “That piece was sheer fluff. Nothing more than one or two insights into what the esteemed Kron playboy enjoys partaking of in his spare time, mingled with a list of all the charitable and novel efforts he has made towards improving the lives of those less fortunate.”
Grant glances up at me from his musings, a calculating look to his eyes.
“So, Eva, you are suggesting that we pick up where these idiots left off and grasp at the truth about what goes on behind closed doors? And Kron has agreed to this?”
“Yes,” I can hear the treble in my voice disappear as relief courses through me that Grant seems so pleased with my efforts, “Dimitri has instr- asked me to write him an article to gloss over recent events. You know, something to boost his rep with the flappers.”
It sounds cruel even to my ears, but Socialite women flap. There is definitely no other description for them.
“No.” Grant interjects, his fist crumpling up the magazine still clutched in his hands. “If we do this, we do it right. I want all the dirt on him. The public does not want to hear about the miraculous work done by the ‘esteemed’ Mr Kron. And neither do I! I want the dirt. I want to know what really happened with Addison Fleur, the suicide girl, and I want to know the truth about the girls he is said to keep.”
A faint ringing sounds low in my ears as the panic wells up in my chest.
“I can’t do that, Grant.”
Silence again, and this time Grant’s eyebrow raises in intrigue. Dammit! Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?
“Come again?”
“I think it would be better to write what he wants us to. That way we can still cash in on the foot we have in the door later on. If we put too much pressure on him, he may just pull our rights to run the story due to ethical disputes.”
“So make sure he doesn’t notice the rules of the game until it’s too late! You can do that, can’t you? I keep hearing about the magnificence of your interviewing skills,” He sneers, “And here’s your chance to prove it. If you blow it, you’re out. I want a slag piece. Now get to it!”
“No.”
I know it’s a mistake the second the single syllable exits my lips. But Dimitri is still glancing up at me from the page and I can feel a deep-rooted anger bubbling through my veins at the disdain being granted him by this pathetic, emotionally starved man before me.
Grant steeples his fingers in front of him and leans carefully forward, pushing his intimidation onto me as his blue eyes narrow. “You have one minute to retract that answer, Miss Wright.”
I stand from the chair, courage and sheer, unadulterated horror at what I am about to do traversing my veins, “Well, I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, Mr Helmsley, but I think I now find myself in search of greener pastures.”
“Indeed?” The implied question hangs dangerously in the air between us.
“Yes. I quit.”
I storm out of his office, silently begging my legs not to cave on me, though I can feel their reluctance to carry me further as the weight of what I have just done sinks into my head. Grant chuckles a back-track to my dismay as I shut the door with an insufferable snip. Damn these blasted things for being spring-loaded not to slam.
No paper will take me in this late in the season. I should know, I’ve been looking for a new job for months. Something serious. Something more suited to my temperament. I loathe flappers.
And what about Dimitri?
He gave me a direct order. Request?
I storm over to my desk and stuff what I can in my handbag. Avoiding the eyes of the others, I scribble a quick note on one of my numerous post-it’s that I’ll be back tomorrow for the rest.
He is going to be so disappointed in me.
TUESDAY 18 November 2008… 10:39
I trudge through the heat of the city like John Coffey headed down the Green Mile towards his death. The sun beats down on me and even when I wander over to the opposite sidewalk to walk in the ample shade of buildings and skyscrapers and great, big, ridiculous glass and steel structures, glinting evilly in the sun, I can still feel the heat on my skin, trying to melt through my guardians to spread itself all over my body.
What the hell am I going to do?
I have no idea what is going to happen when I walk through that door. Will he kick me out? Or simply berate me? Or even more miserable a thought, will he have that revolting manservant of his do both for him?
Shudders rattle through me at the thought, but the added movement makes me warmer and I stop, sweat trickling like tiny lava streams down my spine.
Well, no point in worrying about it, I suppose. Whatever he does to me, it can’t be worse than what I am feeling right now. I failed him and myself. I couldn’t do what he wanted and now any hopes I may have had on an exclusive Dimitri Kron interview are gone.
He chose me for my abilities. And even at what comes naturally, I failed.
I pull out my phone which sticks to my pocket in the heat before jumping into my hand and dial the only person who could possibly calm me down at this point.
“Hey, Babes!” Delilah’s voice is shrill and I can hear the deafening thrum of music in the background.
“Jesus, D. You at Crème?”
“Yeah! Hang on!’ After a few moments of more thudding, her voice comes back on the line, “Still there?”
“Yup. So how’s the club going? Little early for metal, don’t you think?”
“Nah! Never too early. Besides, I’m just doing a sound check on the speakers. Alex says they’ve been giving hassles.”
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong, Pet? You sound put out.”
“No, it’s nothing, really.”
For a moment the line goes quiet and then, “You’re lying,” Delilah accuses me in a flat voice, “Is this about last night? Where are you? I’ll come over and we can have coffee… Or maybe a really, really cold beer.”
“No, it’s-
“It’s not about last night. I just…. I don’t know what I’m going to do…
“I lost my job.”
Delilah’s voice sounds distracted, a sure sign that she is just as concerned as I am, but is trying incredibly hard not to let me notice it, “Come to the bar. We’ll sort this out.”
“Funny you should suggest that, I’m just around the corner.”
“Good stuff, Love. I’ll have a drink ready for you when you get here.”
“Thanks, D.”
I put the phone down and make my way to Crème. It takes me less than five minutes from my current location, and Delilah’s ridiculous trophy of a bar/club looms in front of me; delicately balancing between an adult shop by the name of Rusty’s and 24-hour liquor store with no name to be registered under.
Crème is really your typical pick-up joint with a few glaring exceptions. Firstly, the club plays Metal. Only Metal. Constantly. From different genres and at such a volume that it becomes impossible to feel your ears after an hour on the premises. Secondly (and this is where the club has always made me think vividly of its owner), it may seem stereotypically pretty on the outside, but once you step foot inside its doors and take a closer look, you realise that the truth is anything but. Like with the metal music. There are things about Delilah that strangers will never spot.
For one thing, the name is not there by accident. Every place to put one’s ass on in Crème is covered in a soft, wavy, velvet material in the colour of cream. Arrayed around the dance floor in dark, lover’s nooks are poufs, at total odds with the basic theme of the place. Beanbags. Soft, and squishy and all in luminous colours on carpets of cream.
Above all else, Crème makes the best Irish Coffee I have ever tasted and as I stalk into its air-conditioned, dank depths, I spot my BFF at our favourite set of beanbags with two Iceys on the table in front of her. I hate that term of ‘endearment’ – BFF. Best Friend Forever. So juvenile. But Delilah seems to love using it and it’s caught on with me too. Now I find myself using it haphazardly and cringing every time it leaves my lips.
I plop myself down next to her and she allows me to lay my head on her shoulder. I have never been this exhausted. Or worried. Or desperate. And with everything that has happened, there is nowhere else I would rather be. Of that I am now relatively certain.
“Alex’s gonna stop by in a sec to say hi.”
“Oh yeah?” My voice sounds despairing to me, so I hitch myself up and try again, “Did he manage to fix the speakers?”
Delilah looks at me and puts the Irish Coffee in my hand without asking for my thoughts on the matter. Conveniently neglecting to answer my question too. We both know that I don’t care to know the answer. Small talk has always been my most tried and trusted method of removing the tension from any situation. Can’t say I’m doing a smashing job of it now though.
I sip at the iced concoction, gratefully. Oddly, the cold spilling from its brim is a bother as the temperature in here is so much cooler than outside that I find myself near to shivering.
“So, tell me,” I cringe and try not to roll my eyes as I can hear the emphasis on the ‘so’ part of that phrase. She couldn’t even wait for me to calm down somewhat.
If I could curl back into the fabric and take on its form like some large, overwrought chameleon, I would.
“How exactly did you go about ‘losing’ your job?”
“It’s complicated. He liked the idea of a one-on-one with Dimitri. But he wanted a smear campaign, not a reputation repair.”
I grimace at the memory and I can see a flush rising to Delilah’s cheeks as she clearly experiences the same distaste for the entire affair as what I had been battling in Helmsley’s office.
“So… You quit?”
I feign outrage, “I most certainly did not! We had a communications break-down…”
“You quit.”
“Okay, yes, but you would have done the same thing. He wasn’t going to back down, D. Wanted me to disguise my ninja intentions with my skills as a reporter so that Dimitri would only know about the negative slant of the piece when the issue gets published.
“I couldn’t bear the thought.”
Delilah shoots me a warning glance just as she is about to speak in response and I can see the obviousness behind her cheerful greeting for my older brother, “Alex! Eva’s been pining for you,” She grins at me.
Cow.
Strong arms embrace me from behind and, gratefully, I breathe in the scent of Alexander; his cigarillo smoke, so well infused into his clothing that no amount of washing can release it, and his semi-cheap cologne.
“Little sister!” His voice booms in my ear as he steps in front of me where I can marvel at the added muscle mass he has somehow managed to squeeze onto his frame since the last time I saw him. His arms ripple like he has industrial strength steel cords under his skin.
“I love the hair,” I say, motioning to his black mane, a perfectly male version of Cecily’s, silky and straight. Not the crow’s nest that mine resembles. It’s
grown to past his shoulders and he has made no effort to tie it up, just allowed it to languish about his face and neck.
Last time I saw him it was practically a crew cut. Now he resembles something closer to a native Indian.
“Sure. I guess you want me to cut it, huh?” He smiles wryly at me and I can’t help but grin back at his stupid face. As much as I don’t want to admit to my loneliness, I really missed him during the last few months. Apparently I cannot boycott my family meetings without some repercussions of my own.
“Nah,” I mutter distractedly, fondling his locks, “It’s super cute. What do you think, D?”
“Well, that’s all I’ve been saying since he walked in here today. But you know this boy,” she rolls her eyes, “He never pays attention to anything I say.”
Loathe as am I to admit it, there is some resentment there, buried beneath my friend’s playful tone. Naturally, two beautiful creatures such as Delilah and Alexander are bound to end up with one another at some point during the time of their friendship; and indeed they did. About two years ago, Alex decided to be gutsy and ask my delightful, drop-dead gorgeous friend out for coffee. They were inseparable for over a year before clashing personalities drove them apart.
Luckily I can still keep the two of them in one room without too much fuss. In fact, they seem to have kept their friendship thriving just fine on their own.
Alex clasps my hands in one of his own; ignoring the sting of Delilah’s almost slight as he brushes my unruly hair from my eyes. I can see the near spill of unasked question brimming on his face and somewhere deep down inside of me I sigh at the lecture I know I am about to get.
Seeing the look of panic on my face, Delilah stands to order me another drink.
“Eva,” As I roll my eyes, his voice picks up volume, reaching a booming level I remember all too well from childhood arguments ending in ‘Because I’m the eldest!’
“Do not roll your eyes at me, Missy! You owe me an explanation.”
“About what? None of this has anything to do with you!”
“Yes. It. Does. You’re my sister. You’re both my sisters. And you’re living in some weird, hippy commune with this guy like playboy bunnies!”
“Hey! Who the hell said I was living with him?”
“Who the hell do you think?! Delilah, of course.”
I glare over at the bar where I can see that Delilah’s ears have started turning red although her back is turned to us. Of course she can hear the conversation.
“So what if I am living with him? You don’t know him,” I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I struggle to defend Dimitri, and it makes me sick that I can’t control my own feelings in this regard. I’m a reporter, for god’s sake. I need to learn to reign myself in.
“Fuck, Eva! What is it with this jerk? How much is he paying you three?”
The chill begins in my hands and creeps into my arm
s, then my chest and neck, finally settling in my face in a cold flush. “Did you just call me a whore?” Alexander tries to interrupt me, but I cut him off, fury raging through my gut.
“I’m sorry-”
“No, no. I get it. It’s okay. This is about Delilah’s involvement. Not mine. Or Cecily’s. Look I’m just going to go. I still have a ton to do,” I mumble as I start to stand. My eyes are growing blurrier with each blink and I can feel a heave of emotion desperate to be allowed escape as I gather up my bag, avoiding my brother’s eyes. It may actually be fair what he’s just said. I’ve been wondering all these things myself, but he doesn’t have to throw it in my face. The last person in the world that I thought would hold my actions against me, and here he is, my big brother, judging me.
Alex’s hand grasps my shoulder firmly, pushing me back towards my seat. He sets me down and tilts my chin outward, forcing me to look at him. Infuriatingly, the tears spill from my eyes (which now feel puffy, scratched, and overused) just as he looks at me. He wipes one away with a gruff, calloused, smoke-filmed hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole. I just think you deserve better than to share a man with two other women. Even if they are people you love.”
“Three,” I mutter.
“Three, what?”
“Three other women,” I glance up at him and sniff apologetically.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and the bones of his jaw stand out starkly, indicating his reluctance not to say what he is thinking. I want to shout out that I didn’t mean it. That it’s all just an elaborate joke. But as much as I feel ashamed, sitting here in front of my brother, another sense is quickly beginning to form in my head.
He just doesn’t understand.
The Key (Sanguinem Emere) Page 8