Chapter One
Sam
The sleek chrome machine gurgled low and deep, the meticulous German engineering working its magic. As the coffee brewed, I tried, not for the first time, to make a slightly bigger dent in the novel I’d been reading.
The trouble with a one-thousand-plus page book like that one was that by the time you got to around page eight hundred or so, you’d forgotten most of what happened before page five hundred. But on the plus side, the thing could seriously double as a blunt-force weapon.
I had actually resorted to taking chapter notes as a refresher. I was just reviewing them when she came slinking out of the bathroom, already dressed for the day and carrying her shoes, trying to be stealthy.
“Good morning,” I said, not turning around.
“Jesus!” she yelled, almost jumping out of her skin.
“Not even close,” I joked, with a low chuckle.
The machine dinged, as though chiming its agreement.
Without a word, I dispensed two cups’ worth of the fancy European coffee: a mug for me and a lidded take-out cup with a heat sleeve for her.
“Thanks,” she said, a stunned expression on her face.
“Have a good day,” I said, before kissing her gently on the cheek.
“Thanks,” she said again, a bit more confidently this time, and headed for the door, “Um, you too.”
I had met her at the pub the night before. April was the name she gave me, but whether it was her real one or not, I couldn’t say. Neither of us were drunk. I actually made it a point to stay sober, rare for one in my profession, and could spot intoxication from across the street through a thick fog. I made it a point never to fuck anyone who was drunk.
I loved women and could even be considered a ‘player’, but there were limits. A general moral code that kept things on the up-and-up. I would have asked her to stay for breakfast, but she was clearly in a hurry.
Properly caffeinated, I popped a multi-vitamin and slipped into the requisite professional costume required by my employers. Mostly, the clothes I had to wear to work were boring. I still had a little room to play, though, and took every opportunity I was afforded.
My suits were all in respectful, subdued shades of blue, grey, and black. But to bring a little life to them, I coupled these with bright paisley shirts and nearly neon checkered pocket squares. My “style” attracted looks, of course, although fortunately most of them were ones of interest or admiration as opposed to distaste.
Easing my Jeep out into the winding snake of the L.A. morning traffic jam, I aimed in the general direction of downtown and clicked on the radio to my favorite stations. The pounding drums and wailing electric guitar filled the built-in speakers, and the blaring music was almost as much of an energy boost as my morning coffee.
There were legends among the White & White ranks about space in the parking garage dedicated to select members of the firm’s staff. Not only the partners, since there were only two of them— Jim and Ann White, who had built the company to a billion dollar enterprise out of nothing— but you had to be fairly high ranking before such a gift would be bestowed upon you.
This situation was most likely rooted in circumstance rather than engineered by design. When the spots were first rented, the firm only had eight employees, including assistants, so eight was the number of spots they booked, with no way of knowing how big the firm was going to get.
I wondered at first why they didn’t just book more, but apparently the garage was full by the time the firm had expanded. So instead the coveted spots remained a mysterious prize, and the rest of us scrounged downtown parking where we could.
White & White, while undoubtedly successful, was also unassuming. Housed in a red brick heritage building, you could see the mountain range of the office blocks that made up the city’s skyline. But the smaller building felt less stuffy and formal than some of the stiff, gray towers, and I was glad for that fact.
The smells from the on-site café reached out like a siren song, tempting me away from the task at hand, but I forced myself to focus.
Settling in my scandalously comfortable Swedish-designed office chair, I booted up the computer, a nearly ancient desktop model I was pretty sure had gone extinct around the same time as dial-up internet. Fortunately, my research skills were still 21st century, and I was elbow deep in the legal archives before the screen got warm.
Suddenly, there was a tapping on my door. My train of thought thoroughly derailed, I got up and huffed over to the locked office door. When I had it open, however, I was glad I had bitten down the string of profanity I had felt bubbling up in the back of my mind.