The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,43

did you get those illustrations in the hallway?” I ask.

“I did them,” she says. “It’s what I do. I’m a graphic novelist.”

I look around her hovel. “It doesn’t pay well,” I observe.

She sighs. “No, it doesn’t, but I’m not prepared to go get some corporate job. We don’t all sell out like you have.”

“How do you know anything about me?” I demand.

She comes to me, traces the ink showing at my collarbone. “You’ve got ink, you’ve got an accent, you’re rough around the edges, but your watch cost more than I imagine six months of rent does for me. You’re a corporate suit, but underneath you’re something else.”

“Whatever you might think you know about me, let me tell you this. I’m a very wealthy man, and I got that way by recognizing and utilizing talent. And you, sweetheart, have talent. The sort of talent that means you shouldn’t be living in a shithole like this.”

She stares at me then bursts out laughing. “Oh, are you going to offer the little lady some money for her drawings after you screw her brains out? Save it, I’m not selling my rights; one day I’ll be famous.”

I step back from her and lean against the tatty Formica table in the corner. I cross my arms over my chest and cock my head to one side. “We’re not fucking, sweetheart. Not going to happen because I don’t mix business with pleasure. I don’t want to buy the rights for the illustrations you’ve already done. I want you to come and work for me and do new work. And yes, I’m going to offer you money. How does a ninety thousand a year salary sound? The only thing I own is the artwork you produce directly for me. Five weeks paid holiday, sick pay, private medical, and a company pension.”

Her mouth is slack, and she’s dropped the hard-faced act. “Are you serious?”

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Zoey, with a Y,” she says.

“Well, Zoey with a Y. Have a think about it; take my card.” I reach into my pocket and take out a business card, handing it to her. “If you decide you want to talk, call me, and we can meet for coffee. Or you can come into the offices, and we can talk there? You can take a look around.”

“So you own a game design company?”

“Among other things.”

“We’re not having sex?” she asks. “Cause you’re really kind of hot.”

“I don’t fuck employees,” I say. “And I hope you will become an employee, Zoey. Call me. You won’t have to live in this damp apartment any longer, and you won’t have to sell the rights to the work you’ve already done.”

“Is this for real?” she asks, and there are tears in her light blue eyes.

“It’s for real, Zoey. You might just be the answer I need to turn some of this shit around.”

“My God, things like this don’t happen to me, ever,” she says with a laugh.

“It’s serendipity,” I say. Fate is fucking with me so much these days. Perhaps the wily bitch is trying to teach me something.

“I’ll call you.” She puts the card carefully on the Formica table and places a mug on the corner of it to keep it in place.

“Good, I look forward to talking to you more.”

She lets me out of her flat, and I walk along the embankment of the canal. I didn’t get the sex I was after, but I got something else—a way to turn around part of this business I’ve bought and make it the best game design company on the market once again.

Then my mind helpfully supplies an image of Cassie as I imagine her to look naked, reminding me painfully that I didn’t get the sex I wanted. Sex with Cassie would be better than any deal I could ever make, or any company I could buy up and turn around.

I must be fucking insane to be denying myself with Cassie just because Liza is pregnant. I should put Liza up in an apartment and have Cassie.

Yeah, and be like my piece of shit father?

My mood dips as I consider that maybe, after all, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. The only thing stopping me being just like that fucker is a will of steel. I’m not naturally good. I haven’t welcomed Liza back into my life and decided to love and care for her the way an honorable man would.

I head back to the road and hail a taxi,