Page 4 of Destined To Fall

“Maxwell Thatcher?”

“Yes, the very one. One moment, please.”

I’m put on hold before I have a chance to respond. I groan and stretch out my neck, my muscles still lethargic and stiff after a night of hard drinking and even harder sex. The annoying hold music makes my head throb, and I debate making food or going back to sleep after this. Sleep wins out, and I head back to bed, awkwardly stripping off last night’s clothes with the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder.

“Vivienne?” I startle, almost dropping the thing.“Hello?”

I scramble with the handset, almost taking my ear off in my haste.“Maxwell,” I puff.“Hi. You’re in early.”

“Yes, well, no rest for the wicked.”

I know that all too well.

“Thank you for taking my call so early.”

“You did seem rather insistent on my machine.”

He chuckles, the sound coming out forced.

“Relax, Maxwell. I’m very easy to handle.”Oh, I’m so punny.“What can I do for you?” He takes a deep breath in and drags it out before continuing. Inrelief or resignation, I can’t tell.“I believe you have a particular skill set I would like to hire.”

Just the one?“I’m listening.”

“I’d like to go into further detail in person, if you are available to come to my office.” His inflection is nervous, anxious even. Something makes me think thiswill notbe a straight-cut arrangement. My curiosity has the better of me, and I find myself agreeing to his office meeting.

“I can be there at twelve,” I state, flicking my eyes to the digital display on the landline.Still time for a nap.

“Perfect. I’ll patch you through to my secretary, and she can give you directions. Until later, Vivienne.”

The hold music kicks in again, and I fight the urge to hang up and crawl under the covers, foregoing the information.

“Miss Vivienne?”

“Mmmh?” The struggle to keep my eyes open is real.

“I can forward the directions straight to your cell, if you would like.”

“Oh, yes. That would be stellar. Thank you.” I rattle off my cell number, and after a few pleasantries, we end the call.

I set two alarms and bury myself in the warmth of my bed, the cream satin sheets and comforter enveloping me in a warm hug, and fall asleep moments later.

With only minutes to spare, my cab pulls up outside Maxwell’s building, the tall, uninviting monstrosity awaiting me like a dentist’s chair. Something about office buildings and cubicles makes me uncomfortable. I think it’s the thought of ending up in a mundane nine-to-five that sucks the life out of you day in and day out. I’ve been a wild animal for far too long to be caged now.

With a deep breath, I push my way through the glass doors off to the side, avoiding the revolving ones at all costs. They give me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. I shudder just looking at them. They’ve given me anxiety since I was little.

I step into an elevator, only to have to get out again. There are thirty-five floors, and I haven’t a clue which one I need. Cursing under my breath, I rush to the security desk to ask, hoping I don’t have to lose more time by trying to fish out my cell and risk the contents of my clutch ending up on the floor. I’d hastily dumped it inside and shoved the pile of makeup I’d used in the cab on top.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The security guard looks up from the array of screens in front of him and gives me a curt smile.

“I’m looking for Maxwell Thatcher. You don’t happen to know which floor he’s on?”

“Of course, everyone knows Mr. Thatcher. He’s on Twenty-first floor, ma’am.”

“Wonderful, have a great day.”

My finger repeatedly jabs the up button and my shoe taps impatiently as I wait for an elevator to come down. After remembering more of last night, I wonder why Maxwell needs a meeting first. I can’t shake the feeling this isn’t my regular thing. He seemed unlike any of my normal clients, even in the light of day, and I’m now questioning what made me give him my card. For once, I might not be able to deliver, or truthfully, know if I want to play. Though that’s a little rich coming from me. I get paid to be, to do, not to think. I’m the arm candy of the ridiculously rich, the dirty secret of the filthily inclined, and the wet dream incarnate of the politically incorrect. What aren’t I up for?

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