Ronin
Ihate this elevator. I’m aware of what Dad says, concerning how much it will take to fix it, but considering this is Hall and Brexton, the most renowned business building in Seattle, it’s a shame that the piss-poor elevator is almost as notorious. Broken down piece of shit. I’m surprised it’s working today—it always breaks down when I visit.
I roll my finger on the edge of the paper I’m holding, frowning. When I take Dad’s spot, first thing I’m doing is talking Grant into replacing this thing. That probably won’t be hard. Grant bitches about it breaking down more than I do.
“In time,” I mumble, giving the photographs in my hand another lengthy stare.
The certainty I felt tingling in my fingertips grows. This is same the guy—it has to be. Build matches, hair, eyes, face shape, style of clothing, all dead ringers. The only difference being that in one picture, there’s a woman with him while he stands in a movie studio parking lot, and in the next one, a few hours later, he’s alone.
I examine the woman again. Renowned Regina Reynolds, clothing stylist to Hollywood stars. She was last seen talking to this guy and recorded driving from the parking lot. She’s been missing for a month now.
That wouldn’t seem like a big deal, except this isn’t the first woman to mysteriously vanish after talking to this guy. It’s happened before.
My gut wrings tight looking at the picture of the dude again, and that tightness only occurs when I think something is wrong.
And, brother, do I have a fucking million reasons why something feels wrong.
Noticing I’m only on the twelfth floor, I flick to the next page in the file. I tap the paper, grunting, “Grant’s not going to be happy about this.”
The name Seth Alec is a sore spot for him. The man is a ghost now, considering Grant had him killed in a plane crash earlier this year. I still don’t know how he pulled that one off. Tricky, I’m sure, but unfortunately, the spirit of Seth lives on.
Seems the prostitution recruiting didn’t die with Seth. The operations are alive and well, and the guy in my picture smells just like the business Seth Alec ran with.
I sigh. “Dicey business.” And it’s not even the start of our problems.
I’m about to look at the big one next and flip to the new page, when the door slides open.
Quickly, I close the file, tucking it under my arm and stand straight. I shouldn’t be looking at this information in public at all since it’s risky, but with how timely the situation is, I can’t help myself.
The elevator doors finish their long pull open and—–
Holy fucking hell.The lady waiting to get on is gorgeous. Pretty enough with her dark skin, tall figure, and long burgundy hair to make my cock twitch. She could be parading down a catwalk and breaking hearts if she wanted to.
She sure got the fashion sense. Cream on cream, loose fitting and elegant.
But no. This minx is about to step on, and she’s donning a Hall and Brexton ID badge on her neck. I see the bold lettering from here.
Roxie Richards, Events Coordinator.
Already, there’s a pull for me, hooking under the fibers of my skin.
Dad always warns me about employees. He loathes the unprofessional turmoil that mixing with your staff can cause.
But, hey, what can I say? I have a propensity to get lost in fine art—ask my mom and the high dollar Monets lining my walls.
And as the tall, statuesque woman steps on, I already know that every warning my dad has given me is about to be tossed out the window. I’ve crossed paths with my new personal assistant.
All I need is my office.