The Man Who Has No Soul

by Victoria Quinn

  She stared at me as if I had no right to be there.

  It took me a few seconds to process that she was real, that Deacon had had company the night before. So far, I’d never seen him with anyone, so I never really thought about it. But he was a single man who’d just gotten out of a bad marriage. He was one of the best-looking men I’d ever seen, and he was fit as an ox. I shouldn’t be surprised he did what all single men did. But for some reason, I was. He wasn’t much of a talker, so I didn’t know how he connected with people. But then again, he was hot, rich, and ripped. He really didn’t need to say much to get a beautiful woman to stay over. It took me an eternity to find the words to say. “I’m sorry. I’m just here to drop off Mr. Hamilton’s dry cleaning.”

  “Okay.” She turned back to her phone and scrolled through a social media app.

  “Is it okay if housekeeping cleans up, or would you rather she come back?”

  Without looking at me, she shrugged.

  It was similar behavior to Deacon’s, but it annoyed me a lot more, because this woman wasn’t some brilliant doctor who was gifted with such intellect that she didn’t know how to socialize.

  She was just a bitch.

  I rang the doorbell as I stood outside his residence.

  His deep voice sounded from inside. “It’s open.”

  I’d texted him from the lobby—that way, he knew I was coming—and he must have unlocked the door so he wouldn’t have to do it later.

  I let myself inside.

  He sat at the dining table with his dirty dish beside him, a glass of white wine in front of him. His laptop was open, his paperwork scattered around him.

  I approached him, seeing him sitting exactly where the blonde had been days ago. “Your suit is ready for tomorrow.”

  He warmed up to me a bit, actually acknowledging me with at least a look. He examined the suit that hung from my fingertips then looked at me. But that was the most I got from him.

  It was more than most people received, so I considered myself lucky. “I’ll hang it in your closet.” I carried it down the hallway to his bedroom, seeing the sheets a mess on his bed. I made room in his closet so nothing would crinkle the pressed fabric before I returned to him. “Can I ask you something?”

  He turned to me again, staring at me with his chocolate-colored eyes, the five-o’clock shadow on his face matching the darkness of his eyes, of the deep-colored strands on his head. He was a beautiful man, his jaw chiseled and masculine, his fair skin contrasting against his dark hair. He chose to communicate in his own way, not verbally, like words weren’t a suitable form of conversation. He was in a black shirt with sweatpants, his arms like tree trunks, the cords of his muscles the roots. When he stared, it could be intimidating at times, but also sexy.

  “Why don’t you ever work in your office? I notice you’re always at the table.” He had a nice office with a fancy desk, all his supplies in the room, a great view of the city. His bookshelves were in there, along with the textbooks he’d kept from his education.

  He considered the question a long time, looking at me without blinking. It was ironic that he didn’t like to exchange words often, but he had no problem sharing a level of intimacy that lovers had, with intense eye contact and an unblinking stare.

  I imagined it was easy for him to pick up women when he looked like that.

  He turned back to his computer. “No reason.”

  That was the most I would get from him on the subject since he believed two words was a sufficient answer. “Are you bringing anyone with you tomorrow?” Maybe that woman was more than a fling, but I doubted it.

  “My driver is taking me.”

  “I mean, are you bringing a date?”

  He turned back to me as if he didn’t understand the question for a few seconds. “No.”

  “Is there anything you need for tomorrow?” I made sure his suit was crisp, and I also did my best so he had a good speech and he didn’t walk up there and look like a jerk. He was a billionaire who could take care of himself, but I worried about him like a child sometimes.

  “No.” His short responses weren’t indicative of his mood, so it was hard to figure out if he was in the mood to talk or if he just wanted me to leave. Whenever his son was mentioned, he seemed to be most open, but he was getting better at it with other topics.

  “Are you excited? Nervous?”

  He closed his laptop, even though I wouldn’t understand anything on it anyway. “I don’t really care about these things, honestly.” He grabbed his wineglass and took a drink.

  Whenever I watched him drink, he usually had a heavy beer. This was the first time I’d seen him drink something else. I pulled out the chair and took a seat, because it seemed appropriate. “Why?”

  “I don’t do it for the awards.”

  “What about your Nobel Prize?”

  He stilled slightly, his muscular body flinching at the comment. He swirled his glass before setting it on the table. “I thought you didn’t Google your clients?”

  I shrugged. “My curiosity got the best of me.”

  With his back against the chair, he stared at me, his head turned my way, his muscular arms stretched out in front of him.

  “That must have meant something to you, right?”

  He nodded. “Of course. But these other ones…” He shook his head. “Waste of time.”

  “I think you should be proud of every single one.” He was one of the few men in the world fueled by science and compassion, who was interested in helping people, and his wealth was just a byproduct of that.

  He shrugged. “I hate social things.”

  No surprise there.

  “I have to sit through dinner at a table with other people, and I’m not looking forward to that.”

  “You won’t know anyone there?”

  “Acquaintances,” he said vaguely.

  “Well, try to ask a couple questions. Because when you ask them something, they aren’t asking you something. So, they’re doing all the talking.”

  He nodded slightly, like he agreed with the advice.

  “And people love to talk about themselves. Present company excluded…” It was obvious he was a confident man who had no doubts about his abilities, but he didn’t care about his stature or reputation. He just cared about getting the job done—so he had no ego. And ego was the biggest deterrent to people. Instead of having a personal conversation, he’d rather discuss his work, but since most people weren’t equipped to understand anything he was saying, he couldn’t discuss the one thing he actually wanted to.

  He grabbed his glass and took a drink.

  “I could come with you…if you’d like.”

  He licked his lips before he set the glass down, his jawline highlighted by the stubble of dark hair. He only shaved every few days, not caring about the shadow that marked his face. Luckily for him, the look was appealing. Hair or no hair, he always looked good. He turned back to me, as if it took him some time to understand what I said. “You would do that?”

  He really had no idea what lengths I’d go to to help my clients. “Of course. Or you could take your brother…or a woman you’re seeing. It might be easier to have someone with you, so you could talk to them or let them do all the talking.”

  “My brother isn’t in the city,” he said quietly. “And I’m not seeing anyone.”

  So, the blonde was just a fling.

  “Well, I’m here if you need me.”

  “You don’t have plans?”

  I never had plans. I was always working. “No.”

  “Alright.”

  I took that as an invitation. “I’ll meet you here.”

  He opened his laptop again.

  “Is there anything I can do before I go?”

  He stared at the computer as if he wasn’t listening to me. “No.”

  “Alright.” I got to my feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  His fingers hit the keys, and he started to type.

  I glanced at
him one more time before I walked out.

  When I reached his apartment, I was in my purple dress, which had one strap and a bow. It was tight on my body, subtle, but also not plain. I had a couple dresses for these sorts of occasions, using the corporate account to cover work expenses like this. I wasn’t going to drop fifteen hundred dollars on a dress like this myself.

  I wore five-inch black heels with a matching black clutch, my hair curled and pinned down one side, showing off my bare shoulder. I knocked before I opened the door. “It’s me,” I called into the condo, knowing he was probably finishing up in his bedroom.

  A few minutes later, his footsteps announced his approach, his dress shoes tapping against the hardwood floor as he emerged into the living room. His fingers worked his tie, giving it a slight adjustment. His stare was blank and his jaw was tight, like he dreaded the evening before it even began.

  He turned his gaze to me. His fingers stilled, continuing to grab the tie but no longer adjusting it. He stared at me for several heartbeats, every inch of his body still as a statue. His eyes dropped subtly, studying the rest of my appearance before his fingers finished fidgeting with his tie. Then he broke eye contact altogether, adjusting his cuff links.

  With his gaze averted, I looked over his appearance. His muscular arms adjusted the fabric of his suit and his broad shoulders fit the suit in a way only a mannequin could pull off. His chest was just as wide, and then it narrowed down to his tight waist and his slender hips. The slacks fit his lean and muscular legs just as well, ending at the perfect length to show his feet.

  Who knew a man so brilliant could be so beautiful?

  He finished his tweaks then walked the rest of the way to me. His eyes were focused on my face, dark like chocolate, and he didn’t say anything, as if his stare would suffice for a greeting.

  “You look nice.” My eyes moved down to his chest. “That suit fits you perfectly.”

  He stared at me.

  I wasn’t accepting a compliment in return because he’d already given me one when he stopped to stare at me. And I knew he didn’t say anything now because he didn’t care for the attention. Or he just didn’t know what to say.

  “Let’s go.” I stepped out first.

  He locked the door behind him, and we got into the elevator together, standing several feet apart during the long ride down to the bottom. When the doors opened, we walked together to the black car waiting for us.

  Deacon directed me to go first, let the driver open the door so I could get inside.

  He walked around to the other side and took a seat.

  Then we were off.

  Deacon looked out the window, his hands resting on his thighs, his Omega watch reflecting the lights from the buildings and businesses we passed.

  It was nice to get dressed up to go somewhere, but I couldn’t really enjoy myself because I was working. My job was to make his life as convenient as possible, so I’d have to do all the talking, deflect all the questions he didn’t want to answer, make him almost nonexistent so he could enjoy his solitude.

  I pulled out my phone and took care of some emails.

  He continued to look out the window, not asking the driver to turn on the radio and not interested in having a conversation with me. He could live in the middle of nowhere, with no company, and be perfectly fine.

  He was a whole different kind of human.

  We pulled up to the hotel and exited the car.

  Deacon stood close to me but never touched me, never placed his arm around my waist, never made it seem like this was even remotely romantic. His hands were in his pockets most of the time.

  When we entered the ballroom, his eyes scanned the room, and he kept his posture strong. If he had anxiety or trepidation, he didn’t show it. His dark gaze was just as serious as always.

  Waiters handed us champagne, and he immediately took a drink, licking a drop that spilled free. Once people noticed he was there, the attention began. They started to move in.

  And when he took a deep breath, betraying his unease, he showed how much he hated this.

  My hand moved to his arm, feeling how concrete his bicep was. “Don’t worry, Deacon. I’ve got this.”

  I handled most of the conversation for the night, making people laugh, deflecting them from the kind of attention Deacon hated, and getting people to focus on a conversation that included everyone—and keeping them from interrogating Deacon.

  We sat together at the round table, finishing our dinners and champagne.

  “So how long have you two been dating?” Doug Johnson was the president of the organization, so of course, he wanted to sit close to Deacon, the man he’d chosen to give the annual award to.

  “Oh, we aren’t dating,” I said with a smile. “I’m—”

  “We’re friends,” Deacon answered.

  I wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed to admit he’d brought his assistant to this dinner, or if he just wanted to extend some kind of affection toward me, that he saw me as more than just the woman that delivered his dry cleaning. “Yes,” I said in agreement. “We’re good friends.”

  Deacon grabbed his flute and took a drink, but it was obvious he didn’t like it because he barely took a sip. He drank his water most of the time, like the bubbly stuff wasn’t his thing at all. Probably too sweet. The wine he’d been drinking the other night was dry, and the beer he asked me to get was always strong.

  The lights dimmed. “That’s my cue.” Doug rose from his seat and patted Deacon on the back as he headed to the stage.

  Deacon kept a straight face for everyone at the table, but his hand tightened into a fist under the table on his lap.

  I was the only one who could see it.

  Doug started to speak into the microphone. “I’m about to introduce a man who needs no introduction, an extraordinary humanitarian and clinical researcher who’s changed the lives of everyone around the world. His unparalleled success is even more impressive because of his age, being one of the youngest recipients of the Nobel Prize…” He kept listing off all of his accomplishments, his tenures at Stanford and Harvard.

  My hand moved to Deacon’s on his thigh.

  He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t embrace me either.

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  He kept his eyes on the stage, listening to Doug go on and on. “I’m not nervous. I just hate this shit.” He kept his voice low, so only I could hear. “Awards are pointless validation. Validation for my work happens the second my research is published. This…is fucking stupid.”

  I kept my hand on his, my fingers feeling his warmth. “Think about it this way…”

  He turned his head toward me, his brown eyes locking on mine.

  “One day, Derek is going to want to know everything about his father. He’s going to see your list of accomplishments, all your speeches on YouTube, everything you’ve ever done. This validation doesn’t mean anything to you, but someday, Derek is going to see all this and be so proud of you.”

  His eyes dropped slightly, as if that actually touched him.

  I pulled my hand away.

  “You’ve done a great job tonight.” His eyes flicked back to mine. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  I gave him an encouraging smile, seeing the way his dark eyes reflected the light from the crystal chandeliers up above. He’d shaved that morning and now his jaw was clean, showing the prominence of his jawbone, the masculine details of his face. “This is what I’m good at. And you’re good at something I’ll never be good at.”

  Doug finished his speech, and the spotlight moved to Deacon.

  But he stared at me for a few more seconds, as if this conversation was a lot more interesting than what he was about to do. Applause surrounded us, a cacophony that erupted on all sides.

  I gave his arm a gentle squeeze then started to clap.

  His expression didn’t change, but he got up, buttoned his jacket, and walked to the stage. He towered over the tables with his height, his muscul
ar build, and he looked like a movie star about to accept an award.

  He got to the stage, shook hands with Doug, and then gripped both sides of the podium. He listened to the crowd continue to applaud, his eyes scanning the faces looking up at him before he spoke into the microphone. “Thank you.” His deep voice erupted from the speakers, containing magnetic power and masculinity.

  Those who stood returned to their seats, and the round of applause started to fade away.

  He didn’t pull a speech from his pocket. He seemed to have memorized it. “I’d like to thank Doug Johnson for selecting me as the recipient of this award. The more we value science, praise the work of all our STEM disciplines, the more we’ll inspire future generations to carry the torch when we’re gone. I truly believe there’s no disease we can’t conquer, and instead of treating symptoms of diseases, we need to treat the problem. In order to do that, we need to understand it. That’s my mission in life—to save as many lives as possible, to make the world a better place.” Instead of looking down, he scanned the crowd, as if he were talking to every person there on an intimate level. He was charismatic, deadly handsome, and truly inspiring.

  After a pause, he continued to speak. “As some of you may know, I lost my father to lung cancer a few years ago. If only it had happened a few years later, my research may have been able to prolong his life. It haunts me to this day. If I’d worked a little faster, didn’t take that Saturday off, maybe my own work could have saved someone so close to me.” He paused as he reflected on his own words.

  I knew that was how he’d lost his father—and it still was sad to hear. He must have decided to add that into the speech at the last moment, or maybe decided in that very moment.

  “But I have a son. His name is Derek. He’s five. He’s got a long life ahead of him, and maybe someday, cancer won’t take him the way it took his grandfather. Maybe there’s a future where we can live without hearing that deadly word. Or maybe there’s a future where we can delay it until a ripe old age—when we’re ready to go. It’s my goal to make that happen, and this award honors that fight, the fight so many are facing as patients, the fight doctors and researchers are facing as soldiers.” He grabbed the award and held it up. “Thank you.”