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The stack shrinks slightly as the day rolls forward, most of them simple tasks or things that I choose to dismiss out of hand. Petty revenge. Things that will sort themselves out and aren’t worth the time or money. You start policing petty squabbles, and pretty soon, you’re at the center of everyone’s attention, with all of them blaming you for the entire situation they created.
My grandfather’s old clock rings the hour and I glance up, enjoying the dark walls of my sanctuary, the dark wood of my furniture. The beauty in things soothes me. The quiet.
Noting the time, I realize I lost track of it. Rare.
My next appointment should be arriving soon.
Another desperate college dropout in need of a large amount of money to pay her way out of trouble. I almost threw this one in the trash.
Until I looked into the ‘why’.
Which led me to the ‘who’.
“Mister DeSante, your three fifteen is here.” My intercom hums with Genaviv’s smooth tones.
Good thing she showed up on time.
I hate waiting. Anyone who shows up late is turned away out of hand.
The most common story is the rich kid in over their head. Daddy cuts them off. Refuses to bail them out to teach them a lesson. They come in expecting, no, demanding that I help them. Typically, I turn them away, make sure they understand to never try again. Not my problem.
That is not, however, who this young lady is.
The woman who walks through my door is different. She’s also not at all what I expected.
I expected a blonde. Fake tits. Tall, arrogant. Desperate.
“Miss Michaels, please come in.”
Everything I’ve heard says she’s competent, driven, capable. In charge, like me. At least in her own circles. Which usually means a person who indulges in trying to look the part, overcompensating to sell the image.
“Hellena is fine.” She says her name casually, confidently reaching to shake my hand. She moves gracefully, balanced. Her hands have known hard work, but she takes care of herself at least.
She’s dressed completely normal. Unrefined. Black slacks. A cheap blouse. Hair tied up in a ponytail. Although, it is incredibly long and lustrous.
Aside from that, she appears to have no class whatsoever.
“DeSante.” I lean back in my chair. There’s just a twitch of surprise. She expected me to stand, like any gentleman would. Maybe she does have manners.
“Hmm. No first name? No Mister? I guess that suits the mystery.” Her lip curls, a tiny, mocking smirk.
“I don’t share personal details with my clients. Not part of the deal.”
Contradictions keep me staring at her for a few seconds, trying to reconcile what I expected with what I’m seeing. I debate how to play this, how to test her, to see what I want to see.
She’s gorgeous. The more I look, the more I notice.
Her eyes are striking. Stormy, gray blue.
It’s too bad she dresses like a slovenly bank teller. The only highlight of her outfit is the way the deep neck of the blouse shows her perfect cleavage, a sight I have to forcibly resist looking down at.
Not too hard, considering the way she’s caught me with those eyes. Piercing.
“And what is the ‘deal’?” She stays, standing. Waiting for me to offer her a seat. Or she’s waiting to see if she wants to stay. Ready to leave quickly if she doesn’t like what I offer.
Interesting.
I catch my eyes drifting. The fullness of her figure would normally belie laziness, but I saw the way she carried herself when she came in. She’s graceful. Yoga? Maybe even a dancer. I have to stop myself from imagining those curves moving…
