Page 9 of Deal with the Devil
That he’s the one who’s in charge. He’s in for a rude awakening.
I make myself a fresh drink and then stop in front of the big screen where the control panel is located. It operates every camera, tracking device, and surveillance system I have set up from here to DC.
When the screen lights up at the push of a button, it’s already on the channels I want to watch.
All my favorites.
Each one dedicated to Portia in a different way—various rooms in her apartment, maps of DC that show me where she’s located in the city at any point in time, even Primetime DC where she works.
I rewind through old footage from the day since the hour is late and she’s already safe and sound in bed.
Somewhat crazy? Possibly. Intrusive? She would say so.
But I’ve become accustomed to having Portia James in my life, and if I don’t get my daily fix, it knocks my whole world off balance.
It started innocently enough years ago with her morning news broadcasts and then escalated to staging a fake vacation trip where we ran into each other and got to meet.
Now it’s turned into me surveilling her from hundreds of miles away.
Sitting in a dark room, sipping on cognac, watching replays of her day just so I know it went okay.
How else am I supposed to know how she’s doing?
She won’t answer the phone if I text or call. We haven’t been on speaking terms since she left Newport, which was what I wanted at the time.
For her protection, it was for the best.
But that didn’t mean it was easy. That it didn’t make it any less torturous day after day, having to go without the contact.
I fast forward through her morning as she arrives to work dressed as impeccably and tastefully as always, wearing a tangerine dress that pops with her brown skin tone.
That’s one thing about Portia; she’s always been a classy woman that dresses to the nines.
It’s one of the first things that caught my eye about her.
I speed up through more of her day, pausing here and there at different parts that seem of interest.
It’s not until I reach her last meeting of the day that I pause altogether. Joe Germanotta heads the meeting with the cast and crew for Primetime DC. They discuss tonight’s broadcast and go over details about the show.
Toward the end, Portia brings up a change she’d like to make.
Portia being Portia, wants to get rid of some fluff piece segment about viral TikToks and replace it with something more hard-hitting, more relevant to everyday issues plaguing the city.
Joe wants no part of it, shutting down the conversation at once.
She’s right, of course—the mobisexpanding our reach. We do have street guys working in other major metropolitan cities selling our products and hitting up those markets.
Joe himself knows this better than anybody. He’s onmypayroll, after all.
But it’s not just the fact he’s turned down Portia’s idea that pisses me off. It’s what comes after the broadcast that evening that does.
As her co-anchor Barry Bexley steps off the set complaining about his makeup during the broadcast and Portia lingers behind to gather her things, Joe sidles up for a one-on-one.
I lean in closer to the big screen, sitting up from my reclined position on the leather sectional. My glass of cognac is still in my hand as I do, my gaze hardening.
“Portia, I was wondering if we could have a word,” he says. “It’s about earlier during the meeting.”
Her brows knit before she gives a terse nod. It’s the only response she offers.
