Page 20 of Loverboy
It will have to be enough.
6
Gunnar
The next morningI wake up in my SoHo loft. Even before I open my eyes, I hear the sounds of the city. A taxi’s beep, and the cooing of a mourning dove on a nearby window ledge. These are the sounds of my childhood, which I spent in a much cheaper neighborhood in Queens.
I don’t miss New York. Now that my mother has passed, there’s nothing here for me.
Nonetheless, I own a kickass apartment. A few years ago, I bought this place on Sullivan Street as an investment. It’s everything I coveted when I was old enough to realize that the patrons of Paxton’s Bar and Bistro didn’t live in shitty little apartments like I had as a child. My bachelor pad has big windows that let in the sunlight; high ceilings that make each room feel enormous. There’s a killer kitchen with a row of leather-topped bar stools.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up to visit the fanciest bathroom I’ll ever own. It’s a goddamn temple of marble tile and stonework. There’s a Japanese soaking tub and heated towel bars. Maybe the heated toilet seat is a little over the top. But hey—this is my kingdom. I get to choose the throne.
After I’ve had a long drink of New York’s finest tap water and a good stretch, I throw some clothes into a backpack. Then I drink a liter of water, don some sweats and leave the building, buying a bagel at a food cart on the corner.
It’s a great bagel, too. I guess that’s one thing New York does right.
My sweet apartment doesn’t have a gym, but The Company does. It’s a twenty-minute jog to our corporate headquarters on 18thStreet.
The agent behind the desk recognizes me right away. “Gunnar, welcome back to New York!” Her dark eyes light up, and her cheeks flush.
“Thanks, Trina. Great to see you again.” I hustle over to the elevator banks and take one downstairs to the gym.
It’s a spacious room, but only young Duff is there, doing reps on the squat rack. “Morning,” he says, dropping the barbell onto the supports. “How’s your cushy assignment going?”
“It blows, but thanks for asking,” I mutter, adding plates to the leg press. I have to keep my body ready for action even if Max wants me standing around in a pie shop.
“Hey, I’m spending the week keeping screaming fourteen-year-old girls away from a boy band,” Duff says. “Trade you.”
I actually consider it. A horde of fourteen-year-old girls sounds easier to withstand than the critical eye of Posy Paxton. “Do you know how to make coffee drinks?”
“Not really. And more to the point, I’m not a surveillance guy.”
“So don’t tease me,” I grumble, catching one foot in my palm, and stretching out my quads. “I’m fragile right now.”
“You’re gonna bring us a pie, right? I’m partial to cherry and key lime.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I grunt between reps. “I’ll be fired after my first shift.”
“Nah,” Duff says. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” After my tenth rep, I rest the weights and listen. I hear the groan of the freight elevator. “So?”
“That’s your training equipment arriving.”
“Sorry?”
“Just wait until you go upstairs.”
* * *
Even though I’m curious, I don’t cheat my workout. It takes patience and effort to look this good and stay this fit. At thirty-six, I can’t afford to let my body slide.
Not until after I shower and dress do I step into the elevator for a ride to the sixth floor. That’s where our offices are—Max’s, Carl’s, and mine, although I rarely use it. There’s also a conference room and a kitchen. But the vast majority of the big space is given over to a our open-plan proofing ground, where we build and test new tools and gadgets.
When the elevator doors part, I see the usual work table. But it’s not covered with laser devices or spy gear. Instead, I see a bright red Italian espresso machine. The same model that Posy has in her pie shop. “What the…?”
Max paces toward me, hands in his pockets, face grim. “You’ve got twenty-two hours to nail this mission, Gunn. You can do this.”
