I open the door and I'm confused.
Standing in front of me is a man in a grey suit. His hair is slicked back, his hands are buried in his pockets, and he's rocking back on his heels. He seems to be in his early 30s … maybe? But if I'm fucking honest, I'm a terrible judge of age.
He seems vaguely familiar. But the important question is: what the fuck does he want?
"Can I help you?" I ask.
He eyes me up and down for a moment, and his lips crack into a smile.
"That's exactly what I'm here to find out," he says, pointing to my apartment. "Can I come in?"
I step aside and figure what the hell. If this guy is some sort of marketer—maybe trying to sell me on the latest Tupperware, or the next big pyramid scheme, or something—I guess it won't hurt to hear his spiel. I must be in a good mood because I decide to give the poor schmo a few minutes to say what he needs to say before giving him the boot. But something tells me he came here for a specific reason and that he knows who I am, in other words, that his visit isn't an accident.
"Sure, come in," I say, stepping back into the apartment. He follows after me, shutting the door behind him.
I grab my glass of liquefied greens.
"Want a drink?" I smile.
"No, I won't be here long."
There's something about the way he quickly dismisses me—and yes, I realize this glass of liquid green doesn't look appetizing, but still—that rubs me wrong.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
"I have an offer."
"Look, I'm not interested in buying Girl Scout cookies, or installing new cable, or trying to convince the Home Owners Association to install a solar system on the roof of this apartment, or whatever the fuck you're here to sell me—so thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass." My good mood is fading. I'm suddenly kicking myself for letting this guy in.
"It's not like that," he says.
"So, what is it?"
"Let's just say it's more of an ultimatum."
An ultimatum? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Lesson number one: don't invite nut jobs in grey suits into your apartment.
"You know what? I think you should leave now."
I walk toward the door, leading the way for his exit, but he doesn't budge and continues, "I know all about you and Abby."
As soon as he says Abby's name, my pulse quickens. Who is this guy and why the fuck is he bringing Abby into this? I decide to challenge him.
"Yeah, and?"
He just smiles. "And that puts you in a compromising situation."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I have photos."
Great. Now this is getting personal. Really personal. "What kind of photos?" I ask.
"Of both you and Abby … ones I doubt you'd want circulated."
All of a sudden, it fucking dawns on me. I put a name to his face. I know who this fucking guy is.
"Wait a minute … you're Grady O'Sullivan, of Bad Boy Publishing."