Page 66 of Dirty Shots

Chapter Twenty

Anya

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Anya wandered from one partof Eric’s apartment to the other, unable to figure out what to do with herself. She tried to watch Eric’s tastefully small flat screen, but everything on television felt fake and irritating.

She lay back down on his bed, but couldn’t get back to sleep, despite not having slept almost the whole previous night. Her mind kept turning over the argument with her father and what she was going to do.

In the end, she found herself sitting on his couch, chewing at her thumbnail while she stared out of Eric’s beautiful floor to ceiling windows which looked out onto the skyline of New York. As each moment passed, she imagined where Eric was and if he’d approached her father yet. She wanted to feel confident in Eric’s proposal to set her father straight, but he barely knew her father, whereas she’d known him her whole life. She should have trusted her own instincts before telling her father the truth, but she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. She couldn’t help feeling like she was also allowing history to repeat itself by letting Eric try to talk to him ‘man to man.’

The door buzzed and she sat up straight, turning toward the sound. No one could get up here without her buzzing the person in, unless someone else let them into the building. This was a possibility—it was something she’d done herself.

The door buzzed again. Could it be Eric? Had he taken a key? She couldn’t say for sure.

Her stomach churning, she got to her feet and headed over to the door. She reached out and pressed the button for the intercom. “Hello?”

A male voice came back. “Oh, hi. My name’s Jonathan Turner. I’m here from the arts department of the New York Journal. I have an appointment with Mr. Rutherford.”

Oh, damn. Eric must have forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. Eric—I mean Mr. Rutherford—isn’t here right now. You may have to call him to reschedule.”

She heard the man tut and huff a sigh of annoyance. “You know, this really won’t do, Miss ...”

“Anya,” she said.

“Anya. Can I come up and wait for him?”

She chewed her lower lip. “Umm, well, I don’t know how long he’ll be. I think he has his cell on him. Could you try calling him direct?”

“I don’t have his cell number.”

“Hang on. I’ll try for you.”

Quickly, she ran to where she’d left her purse on the counter and found her phone. She dialed Eric’s number, hoping she wasn’t interrupting some opinion altering conversation with her father. But the cell simply rang until the voicemail picked it up.

“Hi, you’ve reached Eric Rutherford, leave me a message.”

“Hi, Eric. It’s me. You had an appointment with a guy from the New York Journal. Can you call me back and let me know what you want me to do with him? Hope everything is going well. I miss you.”

She hung up and went back to the door. “I’m sorry, but he’s not answering.”

“He might be on his way back then.” His tone grew hard. “I really don’t appreciate a wasted journey, Anya.”

Shit.She didn’t want the guy to write bad things in his newspaper just because she had handled things badly. She imagined Eric arriving home at any minute, staring at her in confusion, asking why the hell she’d sent the reporter away.

“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll buzz you up.”

She felt awkward, wearing only Eric’s t-shirt and a pair of his Jockey shorts. She’d have liked to have been more presentable, but she wasn’t showing any unnecessary flesh. She peered out of the spy hole, waiting for the elevator doors to open. As soon as they did, she opened the front door.

Jonathan Turner was in his early forties, with glasses and receding, graying hair. His suit appeared too big for him, hanging off his narrow shoulders. Anya wondered if he’d lost a lot of weight recently and hadn’t bothered to replace his clothes. She juggled her cell in her hand, praying Eric would call, and fixed a smile on her face.

“Mr. Turner. So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m sure Mr. Rutherford won’t be long.” He swept past her into the apartment and dumped his bag on the coffee table. “Can I make you some coffee?” she offered.

“Yes, please. Black, one sugar.”

She nodded and headed to the kitchen area, filling the coffee machine with fresh water and switching it on.

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