Page 5 of Mr. North
I hang up the phone, cutting him off. My brother is a grade-A dick. I don’t have the energy to listen to him complaining about money-grubbing women who have no morals, and even if I did, I would still have hung up. I can defend myself until I’m blue in the face, and I’ll never be able to convince my brother I actually am playing chess with Raphael North this afternoon. And really, is it any wonder? I honestly don’t believe it myself.
* * *
I haven’tworn business attire in about five years. Not since my father died and I donned my only formal black dress to the funeral. As soon as we got home from the service, I threw the dress in the trash and went and sobbed on my bed for five hours solid. A week later, the dress reappeared in my closet, wrapped in a dry-cleaner’s garment bag, so I took it out into the yard and burned it in a metal trash can like in the movies. Unlike in the movies, the can tipped over and the fire immediately caught on the long grass, nearly claiming the house along with it. My mother didn’t even say a word about it. She stood on the porch, watching me beat at the flames with a wet towel, arms folded across her body, and then she went back inside, as if resigned to her fate. If the house was consumed by fire, then so be it. She would be swallowed by the inferno right along with it. My father’s death came out of the blue. None of us were expecting it. The heart attack was massive and sudden. No way he could have survived it, the doctors said, but of course my mother had been with him at the time. She’d tried, and failed, to save him. I think for a little while there, the idea of dying was kind of appealing to her. Guilt hung around her neck like a yoke, undeserved. It took a long while for her to come through the other side.
I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing my hands over my bright red pencil skirt, fiddling with my button down shirt, trying to decide how much I should tuck in and how much I should leave out. This is a nightmare. I’m already so uncomfortable, I feel like I’m about to pass out.
At three-fifteen, the intercom buzzes, signaling that my ride is here. I was going to order an Uber, but then Thalia messaged to let me know Raphael had organized for a car to collect me. When I head downstairs, this time in the elevator, my pulse skipping all over the place, and I walk out the front of my building, there’s a sleek black Tesla with tinted windows waiting for me at the curb. I was expecting a town car or something equally as archaic and Gossip Girl, and so the Tesla is a surprise. A pleasant one. I’ve never ridden in a Tesla before, though I’ve wanted to forever.
I head to the vehicle, about to open the door, when a tall guy wearing a baseball cap turned backwards hops out of the driver’s side and rushes around the car.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, don’t touch that handle,” he says.
My heart starts slamming in my chest. “Oh, god, shit, I’m sorry, I—”
He holds his hand up, cutting me off. “It’s more than my life is worth to let you open your own door, Ms. Dreymon. Please,” he says, opening the door and stepping away so I can climb into the back seat. My pulse is still throbbing at my temples and in my ears. My skirt feels like it’s trying to squeeze me out of it like a tube of toothpaste. I have to sit ramrod straight, my back arched away from the seat in order to feel like I’m not going to bust out of the stupid thing. The guy closes the door, runs around the car and climbs back in. Once inside, he turns around and smiles at me. “Hi. I’m Nathan. Raphael calls me Nate. You can, too.”
What would Mom say about me getting into a car with a strange guy I didn’t know? She’d probably have a goddamn fit. This guy doesn’t feel like a threat, though. He’s smiling like he’s having the best day ever. He’s fine, Beth. He’s just a normal, friendly guy, doing his job . I forcefully push down my initial nerves and I shake the hand he offers me between the front seats. “It’s very nice to meet you, Nate. You can call me Beth.”
“No can do,” Nate says, grinning. “Boss already told me not to. He’s particular about…formality .”
I eye him, his casual clothes, his back to front ball cap, the darts of ink I can see poking out of the wrists of his long sleeved t-shirt, along with around the neckline; the guy must be covered in tattoos. Nate smiles. He’s a good-looking guy in his own right, the bridge of his nose dashed with more than a handful of freckles. “And yet you’re hardly dressed formally,” I say.
Nate winks. “There are different avenues of formality, Ms. Dreymon. I conform to at least ninety percent of what Raphael considers proper and what isn’t. I run riot with the other ten percent.”
The ride across the city is longer than it should be, and tense. Nate doesn’t ask me any personal questions. He asks me what books I’ve been reading, and asks for my advice over whether he should attend his ten-year high school reunion. I tell him no, that looking back is never a good idea, no matter how much fun you had as a teenager. His wicked laugh implies he had an awful lot of fun indeed.
I don’t notice the Osiris Building creeping up on us. It’s one of the most noteworthy landmarks of the New York City skyline from a distance, but when you’re amongst the madness and the mayhem, the other towering buildings tend to block your view. One minute I’m fine, talking to Nate, rambling away, and then the next I’m staring straight up at the spear of glass punching out of the ground twenty feet away from the car. As always, a crowd of people is gathered around the building’s base, posing and taking photos. Nate hits a button on the Tesla’s dash, and the steel posts blocking off the narrow entranceway down into what I’m assuming is an underground parking lot disappear, sinking into the ground.
I was right; we wind our way down into a parking structure, and we’re suddenly surrounded by luxury cars. So many hundred-thousand dollar vehicles. Everywhere I look, there are Lamborghinis and Aston Martins. Bugattis and Fiskers. This must all be very old hat to Nate; he drives past row after row of sports cars without so much as glancing sideways. David would have a freaking field day in here.
Nate opens the door for me and helps me out, a gentleman dressed in gangster’s clothing. He guides me toward a bank of elevators, shaking his head as I reach out to hit the call button. “No, Ms. Dreymon. This way. Raphael has his own elevator.”
Nate leads me to an unmarked door painted industrial grey. There’s no lock to insert a key, only a small black box at head height next to the doorframe. Nate taps something into his cell phone, and a green light appears on the little black box, blinking slowly. He leans forward and looks into the green light, first his left eye and then his right. A loud clunking noise echoes around the garage, the sound of a bolt sliding back, and Nate then opens the door as if this is a totally normal way of passing a security check.
“After you,” he says, smiling, holding the door open for me. I walk through to find myself in a very small lobby area with pale peach and white marble underfoot, shot through with veins of glittering gold. The elevator in front of us only has one button, which Nate hits.
“This probably seems like a lot, doesn’t it?” he asks. “The building, the private elevator, all the secrecy? Unfortunately, things have to be this way. Raphael guards his privacy very fiercely. If the cloak and dagger stuff comes off as a little dramatic, then it’s because it really is. There’s a very good reason behind the security and safety we have in place. There are plenty of people in this city who don’t have Raphael’s best interests at heart.”
“And it’s your job to protect him from them?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
He nods, watching the white light descend down the floor numbers to us. “Amongst other things. Driving. Managing his calendar. Making sure his many businesses are operating on an even keel. He likes to keep me busy,” he says, smiling. The elevator dings and the doors roll back to reveal the most luxurious elevator car I’ve ever seen. There’s an overstuffed sofa in there, dove grey carpet, and instead of mirrors everywhere, framed pieces of art hang from the walls. It resembles a very small, very tastefully decorated living room instead of a means of getting from one floor to another. Nate doesn’t step forward. He braces his hand against the wall and bends at the waist, pulling off his shoes.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to hand over those lovely pumps,” he says. “This elevator doesn’t open into a hallway. It opens into the penthouse itself.”
“Oh? I’m sorry, I don’t…”
Nate gives me an awkward smile. “Raphael’s old fashioned. He doesn’t allow people to wear shoes up there. Like, at all.”
“That’s…understandable, I guess.” It’s not really. Why the fuck would he not allow people to wear shoes inside his apartment? My rational brain is making up excuses: he doesn’t like the clutter; he has a dog with a chewing problem; someone once tried to shank him in the carotid with a Jimmy Chu stiletto. The suspicious part of my brain has found other reasons why this might be the case, though. Primarily that he actually is a serial killer and he wants his victims barefoot, so they can’t run and escape him.
It is his home, however. I want to be respectful and make a good first impression. If I’d even considered for a second that I’d have to remove my footwear, I might have made an effort to remove the chipped nail polish on my toenails, though. Lord, what is this guy going to think of me?
He’s not going to be looking at your feet, Beth. He’s going to say hello, sit you down, beat you at chess, and then he’s going to tell you to get the fuck out. He’s a busy guy. He has seriously important things on his mind. He’s not gonna give a shit about your toenail polish. He probably won’t look at you properly long enough to recall what you look like five seconds after you’re gone. You’re a means to an end. That’s all.
I’m beginning to feel a little antsy now, though. Once I’ve allowed my brain to start over thinking things, my suspicions run wild. Can this guy be trusted? Should I be wary of him? Is he going to try and touch me? Will he be a gentleman, or is Raphael North a misogynistic pig that will try and abuse me in unspeakable ways? Oh, god. I want to go back to the car. I want to—
“Ms. Dreymon?” Nate says politely, gesturing for me to step forward.
