Page 6 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

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CHRISTIAN

Idon’t know why I’m surprised Gibson answers his own door. It feels odd and wrong to walk past him while he holds it open for me. He texted me at noon, asking if I’d come up after my shift. It’s Monday evening, and as of now, I have no plans. I hope there wasn’t a complaint about me, but I can’t imagine what it would be.

In general, I try to keep an appropriate distance from Gibson. He reminds me of my father—not because he’s anything like him, but by association, and I don’t want to be his full-time charity case. It’s a delicate balance, though, because Idowant to keep the apartment. At least for now. The money I’ve saved in the last year will make it possible soon enough to put a downpayment on a place of my own. I like the idea of owning property in the city. Finding a little place to write my poetry and grow old in.

It wouldn’t be anything like this, though.

I’ve been in Gibson’s penthouse twice, and it’s the nicest place I can imagine. With a wrapped terrace on every side, it’s all light and sky. There’s a ton of art—sculptures, original oil paintings, pottery. All the plants look expertly tended. White walls and bookshelves offer a backdrop for modern furniture in shades ofwhite, decorated with throws and pillows in other neutrals—grays, tans, and the occasional pop of pale pink. Dark wood floors ground the space. I can’t say it has a lived-in look, it’s too pristine for that, but it’s pleasing to the eye.

“Come into my office. I have something I want to talk to you about, and I promise it’s not a new kitchen.”

I feel my awkward smile trying to make an appearance. Maybe I’ve been a little too adamant.

He’s dressed in a crisp, white button-down finished with platinum cufflinks and tucked into black wool slacks. His legs are long and thick. I’m six-two, but I’d guess Gibson is three inches taller. He’s a tree. A thick tree. If I didn’t know who he was, and I found myself walking behind him, my bisexuality might start acting up.

“Drink?” he asks.

“Water would be great,” I say.

We stop by the enormous, spotless, white kitchen, which also has a view. He fills two glasses from the refrigerator, hands me one, and we’re walking again. I try not to gape at all the opulence, but it’s a lot—chandeliers in hallways, elaborate floral arrangements, actual Persian rugs. His office is half the size of my apartment and as bright as the rest of the penthouse.

“Have a seat.”

I take the chair facing his classic wood desk. He goes around to sit behind it while I look around at the bookcases and orchids.

“I don’t want to waste your time,” he says. “I have a problem, and I’m hoping you’ll hear me out.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll spare you the details, but I’m having a little trouble keeping executive assistants. I’ve been assured it’s nothing to do with what it’s like to work for me or any of the job duties, but I’ve hit a rough patch.”

I bring my attention back to him and the curiously troubled look on his handsome face. It goes without saying that it’d behard to get a wife as hot as Marianne without either wealth or looks. Gibson has both. I nod to show I’m listening. “Okay.”

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in a job like that.”

I’m immediately uncomfortable. Is this another favor? Another handout I haven’t earned? Because what could he possibly see in my day to day work that would qualify me for a job working for one of the most powerful real estate magnates in the city? I’m scowling, but he doesn’t push for a response, which gives me more time to think—more thoughts to crowd the way.

Do I want to be a doorman forever while I work toward publication? Will my meandering thoughts ever find anyone’s eyes but mine? Do they even deserve to see the light of day? I’m a poet, sure, but I have no way of knowing if I’m agoodpoet. I’ve never shared my work with anyone. “Full time?”

“Not necessarily. It could?—”

“Good—I don’t know if it’s something I’d like or could do. And I’m comfortable where I’m at, you know?”

“Sure. What if it was twenty-four hours a week to start? Three shifts with me, two at the door.”

“I was thinking more like sixteen-three.”

“This pays better,” he tells me, sweetening the pot.

Not that I’m greedy, but if I want to live in one of the nicer neighborhoods, I will need more money than I have now. But then he says the thing that taps into my bigger dreams.

“It would involve some travel. Overseas.”

“I thought all your business was local.”

“Not at all. I have business in Europe, Mexico, Canada, Australia. All over the U.S., too.”

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