and I live in Hell’s Kitchen. A gray sofa rests against the same wall as a murphy bed (currently drawn up and hidden), and I’m guessing the metal bins in an open-faced cabinet are his dresser, all of which resides under the only window. A surfboard is propped in the corner. One that looks old and used.
Jack surfs.
Didn’t know that.
Even if he’s born and bred in Southern California, I’m not going to assume every Cali stereotype applies, even if they do.
We’re all a lot of where we come from, just as much as we are the people who raised us and who we’ve met along the way.
His place doesn’t even have a full kitchen. Just a mini-fridge and microwave. I look around for the TV, thinking he has to have one. He’s an exec producer. That’s his job. But I can’t find it.
I have so many fucking questions.
But that would involve actually staring him directly in the eyes. Not about to do that. My gaze plants on the only window. Just one. Well, that makes my job easier.
Charlie steps into the apartment behind me, and I give him a look. “Stay here.”
He nods.
For as much of a pain as Charlie can be, he does listen to me sometimes. I glance to Jack, who’s busy locking the door. “Can I sweep your place real quick?”
He doesn’t turn around as he says, “There’s not much here but go for it.”
I slip into the bathroom first, and it’s bigger than I expected. I pull back the plain shower curtain. Empty.
A cardboard box is tucked under a rack of towels. Flaps open, I can see some suits and expensive loafers inside. Not sure why he’s packing his suits in a box. But I don’t stare long or dig through it. I try not to let my eyes roam to Jack’s personal belongings. Like his brand of shampoo or the magazines in the wicker basket by the door.
I don’t need to know more about him than I already do.
It’ll be like rubbing salt into an opened wound, and I just need that shit to heal as quickly as it can.
I check all the usual spots for any mics or electronics that could be recording. Satisfied, I return to the living area. Charlie is already on the couch, and Jack sits across from him on a plastic fold-out chair.
“Do you want it for personal or commercial use?” Jack asks my client.
My muscles tense.
What the fuck are you up to, Charlie?
Floorboards squeak as I walk further in the room. Jack and Charlie glance over at me.
“Everything good?” Jack asks.
“So far,” I say. “I just need to check that window.”
Jack is currently occupying the middle of the entire room. He stands quickly as I step closer. “You really think I would bug my apartment?” He sounds more curious than dispirited.
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” I tell him. “It’s protocol.” Jack might be trusted in the inner-circle, but his place hasn’t been cleared today. I slide past his chest, an inch of air between us. I don’t know if it was my words or our past that puts an invisible strain between us. But I can tell we’re both holding our breaths.
I barely exhale when I make it to the window.
“Personal would be preferred,” Charlie tells Jack, replying to his question.
Window cleared and blinds snapped shut, I face them again.
Jack hasn’t sat back down, thankfully, because I have to return to the front door. “You could use a bigger apartment, Highland,” I whisper to him as I pass again. “You don’t fit in this one.”
The top of his head is barely an inch from the ceiling fan.
He lets out a short laugh. “I’ll take that under consideration. Any other critiques?” His tone is friendly but eager.
Our eyes latch for what feels like the first time tonight. I should ask for my clothes back. But it’s not the time or place and the longer he’s staring at me, the more my stomach knots. I can’t read him. Before, I found it intriguing, now it’s almost agonizing. Unnerving.
“Nope,” I say and break our gaze to head to the door.
I lean beside the doorframe, giving both of them space, but I’m in earshot. Charlie rubs his fingers over his lips in thought.
Jack refocuses on my client. “I’d love to work with you on it, Charlie, but I can’t take on any personal projects right now.”
“I can pay whatever you want,” Charlie says casually like his checkbook is open on the table. Now