Page 5 of Unmade

The lobby was…a fish tank. Perfectly square, from the distance to the elevators to the height of the ceiling, like two or three floors high. A front desk occupied the center, just a rounded cube kind of structure, and the wooden panels were a contrast to the glass and the glossy stone floor. It had to be so fucking boring working that desk. No music, nothing to rest your eyes on aside from the empty plaza outside… Not even a plant. The far back of the lobby had a handful of sofas that looked uncomfortable. That was all.

I aimed for the desk where a woman sat with a headset, and she didn’t look up once. She typed away on her screen. A webcam of sorts was attached to a grip on the top edge of the computer.

Be assertive.

Easier said than done, but here goes…

I cleared my throat and stopped at the desk. “Hello, I’m here to see Bo Beckett.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked automatically. She didn’t stop typing.

“No, but he gave me this,” I lied. I slipped the business card across the desk. “He told me to come in.”

That gave her pause, and she raised a delicate brow and eyed me over her glasses. Then she took the card and looked on both sides.

A beat later, she returned the card and adjusted the camera grip so the lens faced me.

“I’ll need a photo ID—and look into the camera, thanks.”

Uh.

Was she letting me in? Had it worked? Was I gonna get answers about my dad?

I hadn’t actually considered the possibility of this working.

Once my picture had been taken and my driver’s license scanned, I was instructed to have a seat in the waiting area, with no further information. Nothing like, “Mr. Beckett will come out shortly” or anything.

I didn’t hear her on the phone either, so if she’d alerted someone to my presence, it’d been done through a message.

I’d been right, by the way. I’d sat on benches that were more comfortable than these sofas.

They clearly didn’t want visitors to linger.

A water cooler couldn’t hurt. My mouth was dry, and I hadn’t brought my backpack. Instead, I just sat there and fidgeted as I tried to kick-start my saliva production. It was kind of hot in here too. The early April sun was nothing in comparison to the scorching August ball of fire, so I wouldn’t wanna be in here in the summer.

Poor headset woman.

A faint ding captured my attention. I couldn’t see the elevators from this angle, but that had to be where the sound came from. It was probably not for me, though. I’d only waited three or four minutes.

I was right. Whoever that woman was walked straight out.

The second ding of an elevator wasn’t for me either, nor was the third or the fourth. In the end, I waited twenty-two minutes before a man who looked like he could’ve given my dad a business card nineteen years ago approached the front desk.

He was very tall and broad-shouldered, and his short hair was disheveled and kind of the same light brown as mine. He definitely had the body of a soldier, except he was dressed in sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

He exchanged a few quiet words with the headset woman and lifted his gaze to me. I shifted in my seat and tried to sit straighter.

That man was uncomfortably hot.

He walked toward me, and the closer he got, the more pronounced his eyes became. They were some intense shade of bluish-green.

I appreciated the scruff too. It was the perfect “can’t be assed to shave” length.

“Leighton Watts?” he questioned, his voice warm but unyielding.

This guy fucked. And gave orders.

“Yes, sir.” I stood up automatically.

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