Before me is a completely finished and renovated office space. Kynan opens the gate and I step onto glossy, hardwood floors in a brown so deep it almost looks black. The perimeter walls are the same red brick as the outside of the building, but it’s been sand blasted and restored to its original glory. Above me are exposed iron pipes, steel beams, and black ductwork, lending an industrial vibe to the space but the furnishings are elegant and expensive. Black leather couches and chairs dot the area with silver aluminum tables holding uniquely different lamps. A bold steel gray rug sits under the furniture, lending a warm feel to the entire space, and a massive painting of galloping ghostly white horses on a black backdrop covers one wall.
In the middle of the room is a wide, floating staircase that ascends to the next level and to the levels beyond that from what I can see. It’s made of black iron and reclaimed wood with steel cables for support.
“Wow,” is all I can say as I look around in shock at the upscale space that stands in sharp contrast to the crappy exterior and first floor.
Past the staircase, the open space is punctuated with red brick support columns. In between those sit simple black desks with mesh office chairs. Each desk has a computer screen, phone, and printer. On the back wall sits a row of glassed-in offices with black metal frames, each one empty of any furnishings except the middle one. It’s larger than the others to either side. Inside sits a long oval conference table. I follow him in there, marveling at the artistry as the table sits on heavy twisted beams of rusted steel—perhaps a nod to Pittsburgh’s heritage and history—with a long rectangular slab of gray, speckled cement on top. It’s sturdy, masculine, and imposing, everything that describes Kynan and Jameson Force Security.
The room itself is barren other than the table and chairs, the only warmth coming from the three large arched windows that run floor to ceiling. The outside is so coated with dust and dirt I can’t see what’s on the other side, but they’re beautiful, nonetheless.
“If these are your offices, how come you’ve only restored this floor and by the looks of it, the ones above?” I ask Kynan curiously.
“Have a seat,” Kynan says, pointing specifically to a chair. I take it, and he sits two down from me at the end of the table, a position of authority. I get the distinct impression he wants to talk now. But thankfully, he appeases my inquisitiveness first. “These offices are sort of ‘off the books’. It’s where our more covert type of operations will be based from, which includes top-secret government work. It’s not open to the general public or even potential visiting customers. Only employees of Jameson. I’d like to keep up the appearance this is just an abandoned old building.”
“What’s above us?” I ask, since he’s in a sharing mood.
“Third floor is all tech and weapons support, including a soundproof shooting range. Fourth floor is going to be communal space… kitchen, gym, living room, theater, and dining room.”
“Communal space?”
“For any agents who want to live here. We’re also upfitting five personal apartments on the fourth floor. Call it a perk of the job.”
“Will you be living here?”
“Yeah,” he says, then shakes his head with exasperation. “As soon as they’re ready to move in.”
I have many more questions, mostly dealing with what type of operations he could possibly be doing that would require such a set up and secrecy on top of that. It fascinates me wondering what this man has made for himself. But I also know it’s none of my business, and I doubt he’s willing to indulge me.
So I merely fold my hands in my lap, letting my silence indicate he now has the floor for whatever we need to discuss.
“You and I are going to head out tomorrow morning for your house in California. We’ve got a stop to make along the way, but I need you to arrange to have your mom and whatever publicist you use—or whoever else is on your team these days—ready to meet with us early the day after.”
My chin lifts. “My mom isn’t managing me anymore.”
Kynan blinks in surprise. “Since when?”
“For a long time,” I murmur. “She’s actually back in Cunningham Falls, married to a rancher.”
Kynan just stares as he digests this, and I get why it’s surprising to him. My mom, Madeline Meyers, was my manager when Kynan and I first met years ago. She’s actually my stepmom but having raised me since I was six meant she was always just my mom. The woman who gave birth to me died in childbirth, so I don’t remember her.
Why it’s probably surprising was Madeline Meyers sole purpose in life was to make her daughter rich and famous. She was like a pit bull with my career, using a heavy hand to direct and control me at all times. Only after I’d met Kynan was I able to get a little of that control back, but that was rather short-lived. My mom never liked Kynan. She felt he was a distraction, which was why she’d had a tough time hiding her gloating smile when I found out he cheated on me. She so enjoyed showing me the picture of Kynan and another woman.