The doors of the elevator open, along with my mouth. “Jesus,” I whisper, staring at the wall of glass across the room. The skyline of Miami lies beyond, majestic as the sun sets. It’s breathtaking. Mesmerizing. I step out and look around, fascinated by how the glass stretches around three walls. I’m in a giant glass box. One huge room. Literally every wall is glass . . . so what the heck is there to paint?
“Hello?” I call, hovering by the elevator. A staircase lines the far-right wall. That’s glass too, with white treads on each floating step. There are candles everywhere, all lit, all flickering, intensifying the already intense space. I shudder and look down at my cell. Eight on the dot. “Hello,” I call again, this time louder. Nothing. I dial him, rather than venture any farther into his glass box, and it rings and rings until it eventually goes to an automated voicemail. “Um . . . hi. It’s me. I’m here, and you’re not. I’m standing outside your elevator on the threshold of your glass box.” I feel . . . uneasy.
I hang up and stand there, a little lost, waiting for him to appear, while I run through everything I know about James Kelly, which isn’t much. He’s not on any social media, and this address threw up nothing on Google, except an old real estate advertisement marketing it for sale five years ago.
Ten minutes pass, no sight, no sound. “Come on,” I say to myself, checking my cell again. I look back at the elevator doors, which are now closed. At the panel on the wall that requires a keycard. And I mentally see the collection of buttons inside that require a code. I’m stuck. “Amazing,” I whisper, turning and facing the glass box again. I didn’t get the name of the guy downstairs. He wasn’t in uniform, therefore there was no company shirt to enlighten me on who he works for. Shit. Real smart, Beau.
I venture farther in, cautious, slow, gazing around. “Mr. Kelly?” I call, still getting no reply. “It’s Beau Hayley. I’m here to look at your bedroom.” I reach the bottom of the staircase and gaze up. “Mr. Kelly?” I hear something. Music. That would explain why he can’t hear me. Wherever he is. Where is he?
I kick off my flip-flops without thought and start taking the steps slowly, one by one, finding a whole new space at the top. A large space, with a round table in the center, and more glass walls, although these are frosted glass with frosted glass doors leading off, six in total. And still no walls to paint.
The music is louder now, coming from one of the rooms to the right. Paradise Circle. Massive Attack. A few chills glide up my spine as I approach the door. Knock it. “Mr. Kelly?” I call through the glass.
Nothing.
I don’t know what possesses me—I should turn and leave—but, instead, my body takes on a mind of its own. I grip the handle, turn it gently, and push the door open a fraction. “Hel—”
Holy fuck!
My ability to speak is stripped from me, and I suck back my words as I squeeze the handle, my body becoming a statue. I’m wide-eyed. Open-mouthed. My tangled, shocked mind is trying to piece together the scene in the colossal room before me.
There’s so much to take in, but the one thing that holds me completely rapt?
His profile.
I stare. I just stare. I stare at him as he smashes into her from behind, his fist clenched in her hair, holding her head back, stretching her throat. I allow my gaze to drift. She’s chained to a frame that’s anchored to the wall, extending into the room. She’s blindfolded. Gagged. Bound.
They’re lost.
I flex my hand on the door handle, screaming at myself to go. Close the door. Leave. But then something else catches my attention, tucked away in the corner of the room.
A man.
Slumped in a chair.
Naked.
Masturbating.
He’s lost too, his drowsy eyes rooted to the couple before him.
Fuck.
I step back and pull the door closed, struggling to breathe. Struggling to find instruction. I stare at the frosted glass, bringing my cell to my mouth and nibbling on the edge, glancing over my shoulder to the stairs. What the hell am I supposed to do? He’s obviously forgotten about our meeting.
I pull up on that thought. No. The guy in the lobby—occupation to be determined—said he was expecting me. My head starts to ache, my eyes going back and forth between the door and the stairs. He was expecting me. He didn’t forget. Of course he wouldn’t anticipate me snooping around his apartment, because I can’t even comprehend the possibility that he wouldn’t care if I saw that. So I’m left to reach the only other explanation. He’s got carried away. Lost himself in ecstasy. But then our telephone conversation is suddenly trampling through my mind.
Sex party.
Jesus Christ.
I head downstairs to the elevator, slipping my flip-flops back on. “Oh my God, this is horrific.” I squeeze my eyes closed, struggling to rid my mind of what I saw. Struggling to clear my ears of the sounds. The music. Which is still playing.
I go to the keypad and stare at it for a few seconds. The building. Call the building. I pull up Google, type in the name of the building, and search for a phone number. There’s nothing. I’m going nowhere.
I close my eyes, breathing in, and accept my fate—my unthinkable, awful fate—sliding down to my ass by the elevator. He looked nowhere near done. It’s all I can see in my mind. That scene. I reach up to my forehead and press my palm into it, trying in vain to suppress my thoughts.
Her moans. The sounds. The music.
His power.
I look to the ceiling, my cheeks inflating from my exhale. And I cringe, thinking back to our telephone conversation again. “Oh, Beau,” I breathe, squirming harder. I can still hear the damn music. It’s not helping, my brain off on a tangent, wondering what’s happening up there. The man in the chair. Has he joined them?
My cell rings, and I jump out of my skin. “Fuck.” I swipe to answer, grateful for the distraction. Any distraction. “Hello.”
“Beau?”
“Hi, Reg.” My eyes glue themselves to the top of the stairs. “How’s Dolly?”
“Dead.”
I recoil. “Break it to me gently, why don’t you?”
He laughs. “You and I both know she’s been on her deathbed for a while, Beau. I’m surprised you haven’t come to terms with it.”
I pout. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“Aside from replacing the engine, no.”
“Why can’t we do that?”
Reg falters. “It’ll cost more than replacing the car, Beau. What with parts and labor. We’re talking thousands of dollars.”
“I don’t mind how much it costs.” I really don’t. Truth be told, with all the money I’ve spent on Dolly over the years, I probably could have bought myself a shiny new, reliable, top-of-the-range Mercedes. But I don’t want a shiny, new Mercedes. I want Dolly. “She’s sentimental, Reg,” I say, but he already knows that.
I hear him sigh. “I’ll see if I can find a bargain engine somewhere.”
I’d smile if I could. It’s a struggle to have this simple conversation with Reg. “Thanks, Reg.” He doesn’t say goodbye, just hangs up, and I blink, my eyes burning from staring at the same spot at the top of the staircase for so long. What on earth shall I say when he finally finds me here?