Chapter Five
Cassius
Our small room looks like it threw up fabric. I’ve torn apart the beds, emptied every drawer, and looked through every shirt in this place—yet I can’t find the one I need.
“I’m going to cry.”
Cammy stands in the doorway, arms crossed, chewing on her lip as she looks around the room.
“I’d blame the witch, but what good would that do?”
I groan, sinking into the mountain of clothes on the floor.
“At least we can’t say we don’t have options.” Cammy steps in, using her foot to shove the clothes into the pile so she isn’t stepping on them.
Despite having different fathers, the three of us share the same basic features.
The real differences are in the small details.
Cammy and Chrissy both have hazel eyes and light brown hair, while mine is darker.
And then there are my eyes—clearly from my father, since Mom’s are the same hazel as my sisters’.
“I need this shirt, Cam. I can’t go if I don’t find it.”
If I mess this up, I ruin everything. I ruin our chance.
She sits on Chrissy’s bed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.
“It’s just a shirt, Cass. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Nothing is ever just anything.
“It won’t. That’s my lucky shirt. I wore it to my interview at the burger joint, and I got the job.”
“Did you ever think your charming personality is what got you the job?”
I groan, getting up and grabbing her by the shoulders to shake her.
“I can’t do this. I have to cancel.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Damn, Cass, you’re worse than me and Chrissy on our periods.”
I melt onto the floor and show her how dramatic I can be, by slowly falling into the pile of clothes and pressing my hand to my forehead.
She ignores me and starts tugging clothes out from under me.
“Here. Plenty of options,” she says, throwing shirts on me.
“They’re not the one. I can’t go.”
She growls and tosses a shirt at me hard. It almost hurts because it hits me right in the face.
“Cassius, you know damn well you’re going to go because this could change our life.”
I huff, then lean up and grab her around the waist to pull her down into the pile with me. Both of us barely fit here, between the two beds, but we fit well enough. I rest my head on her shoulder.
“I know. I just need to let out my frustrations now, so I don’t take it out on him.”
Her arm goes around me, and she rubs my arm. “If he wants to pay you for sex, you better not do it.”
I jerk my head up, and glare at her. “He’s hot as hell!”
She breaks out into a grin. “Okay, do it then!”
“Uh, I planned on it.”
“Well, you better hurry up because the driver is going to be here in three minutes.”
“Shit!”
I scramble up and look through the options that Cammy tossed at me.
“Guess I’ll go with this one.” I pick up the light grey sweater-knit polo.
“It makes your eyes pop.”
“At least I have something going for me.”
I pull the shirt over my stained white T-shirt and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and my hair, which is extra messy today but somehow working for me.
“You’ve got the Damon Salvatore thing going on extra hard right now.”
She must be binging that show again…
We have a stock pile of DVDs that Mom doesn’t touch for some reason. When Chrissy, Cammy, and I are home together, we cuddle up and watch them. There’s nothing else to do around here.
“Shut up,” I mutter, shoving past her to go into the bedroom and put my shoes on. I’m shoving my feet into them when a car horn blares outside. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall above the door frame. 8:00.
“Wow. They’re punctual,” I say as I get up and pull Cammy into a hug. “Have a good day at work. I’ll see you when you get home.”
“Good luck!” she calls after me. “Hopefully he’s not a creep! If you aren’t home when I get home, I’m calling the cops!”
I laugh as I leave the trailer, jumping over the holes on the deck as smoothly as I can.
I feel better that he isn’t here to see the dump I live in, but no doubt his driver will let him know.
In fact, it may even make him change his mind.
If I were him, I know what I’d think about me—a mistake waiting to happen.
The driver, who is dressed in the typical driver get up finished with hat and all, is waiting outside the car with the back door open, ready for me to get in.
The ground is muddy from the snow melting, though there are still some bigger piles pushed toward the fences, behind people’s trailers.
I try not to get mud all over my shoes as I hurry to the car.
“Fancy,” I mutter as I hop in. He closes the door and I put my seatbelt on. We pull off as soon as he gets into the car, no small talk or anything. Guess there’s not much to say, right? But I’m nervous, and I’ve never been quiet when that happens.
“So, you worked for this guy for long?”
Yeah, I’m an idiot. I don’t even know his name.
“Yes, sir.”
“Cool, cool.” I nod. “And you like driving?”
“Of course, sir.”
Right. Okay. Not a great conversationalist.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask as he heads toward downtown.
“I do, sir.”
“Uh… where are we going?”
“The Timeworks Building, sir.”
“Right. Of course.”
What the fuck is the Timeworks Building?
Getting the hint that this guy isn’t going to tell me anything, I slink into my seat and close my eyes.
The car comes to a halt, and my eyes pop open. I push myself up and look out the windows to see downtown Chicago.
The car is pulled into a drop-off loop of a tall building I do not recognize.
I don’t spend a lot of time in Chicago though—why would I?
There’s nothing for me out here. I’m not a businessman, I don’t have any money to shop with or sight see with, and I’m not the kind of person to walk around and window shop because that shit makes me angry.
Not only because I can’t afford anything I see, but why the hell is everything so expensive in the first place?
The door opens, and I move to step out, only to realize I still have my seatbelt on. I laugh it off as I go to undo it, and don’t miss the annoyed expression on the driver’s face. Okay, so he doesn’t think I’m cute. Whatever.
I step out of the car, the sounds of the city assaulting me.
I swipe my hands down my shirt and glance up at the giant building.
There has to be at least fifty floors… crazy.
I’ve never been in a building so big before, and I’ve never considered myself afraid of heights, so this is going to be the test.
Highest I’ve ever been is on the fourth floor of the hospital when Chrissy gets admitted. That’s nothing compared to this.
The driver walks with me to the door, but stops as they slide open to allow me in.
“You aren’t coming?” I ask.
“No, sir.”
“Then how will I—”
“You must be Mr. Cassius,” someone says, pulling my attention inside the building.
It’s a young guy, maybe about my age, a few years older? His hair is more blond than brown, messy in an artistic way with curls that only come naturally. Beneath the collar of his cream sweater is a white button up and moss green tie that matches his pants.
Interesting color palette, but it works… for him. He has those big round glasses that are suddenly cool again, that make him look smart but also attractive in a nerdy way. He’s too short for my tastes though. Around five-nine, if I had to guess.
Not that I’m huge at six foot—okay, five eleven and a half—but I do like my men taller.
Like this guy I’m about to meet. He had to be at least six-two.
“That’s me,” I say, giving him an awkward wave.
“Wonderful. Do you prefer I call you by your surname or is Mr. Cassius okay?” he asks as he moves toward the elevator.
“Oh, uh, Cassius is fine.”
“That’s not proper,” is all he says.
We get into the elevator and he swipes his badge. The button for the top floor—forty-seven, I was close—lights up.
“Well, you can call me Mr. Carr then, I suppose. Sounds better than Mr. Cassius.”
“Of course, sir. My name is Oliver.”
I don’t know what’s up with all this sir stuff, but it’s weird. I also don’t understand why I can call him by his first name, but I need a mister in front of mine. I’m not an old man.
The elevator starts to move, and Oliver looks up at the numbers showing which floor we’re passing with a small smile on his face. Once we pass thirty, the nerves start as I imagine all the nothingness between us and the ground, but thankfully that’s when he speaks.
“We have a full breakfast laid out for you. Mr. Stone—” Oh, so that’s his name. “—is finishing up a meeting, but he will join you as soon as he can.”
“Okay.”
The elevator stops at the top floor and he steps off. I rush to do the same. What a shame it would be if the car fell from this floor. No way I’m surviving that.
When I step into the reception area, I note a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Chicago river.
It’s beautiful. I step closer to look out at it.
My stomach flutters, but not in a scared way.
I’m thrilled. This is amazing. And if this all goes south, at least I’ll get to say I saw the city from this view. Not everyone can say that.
“Mr. Carr?”
I glance over my shoulder at the tone of his voice—a tone that says he’s called my name more than once. I take one last look at the city, then follow Oliver down a long hallway that opens up into a bright, spacious corner room that is set up like a fancy cafeteria.
There are coolers that hold food, though they are all empty now. More coolers that hold drinks, though there are a lot missing.
“The delivery for the day hasn’t come yet, but the chef is—”
“There is a chef here?”
“Yes, sir. We have a small kitchen for the staff who prefer warm meals over the chilled ones. Mr. Stone has already chosen the menu, I hope that is okay.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You have no allergies, correct?”
“Nope. No allergies.”
He nods. “I will see where Mr. Stone is at with his meeting, then relay the information to the chef. If you need anything in the meanwhile, you can dial three on this phone and it will go to my desk.” He leaves without me saying a word, and I go to the window to get another view of the city.
The river is to the right, just enough that I can make out small parts of it.
There are too many tall buildings in the way for me to see it all.
I look down at the tiny cars and people hurrying around, and across at the buildings that are taller than this one. All the windows are tinted so I can’t see what’s going on inside, but I’m sure everyone is busy at work.
I always thought I hated the city, but something about seeing it from here, from far away and not caught up in the mix, it’s not so bad. It’s actually kind of—
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice sends a shiver up my spine, and my eyes fall closed.
His voice shouldn’t have that effect on me. I don’t even know the guy.
I turn to face him and try my hardest for my jaw not to hit the floor.
He looks hotter than last time.
Charcoal grey suit, pristine white button up, and another blue tie, though this one is more of an ocean blue with hints of green.
“Uh, yeah. It is.”
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes, gesturing to one of the tables with two chairs by the windows. He has a folder in his hand, that he places down on the table behind us.
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t typically have work meetings so early in the morning, but there was an issue with a prototype that had to be resolved immediately.”
“I understand.”
Do I, though? No, not really. I only half know what a prototype is.
And a prototype of what? Robots? Is he making robots?
Prototype sounds robotic.
“How was the drive in? Did Thomas talk your ear off?” I frown, and he laughs. “I’m joking. He isn’t a man of many words.”
I laugh nervously. “Yeah, I got that.”
“Anyway, I was hoping we could have breakfast, chat, and if things go well, we can move into the conference room to discuss things further.”
“Uh, sure. Okay.”
There is a knock on the door, and a man dressed in a chef coat and hat with the black and white pants walks in, pushing a cart.
A cloche-covered plate is put down in front of either of us, then a carafe of coffee and pitcher of orange juice in the middle.
The chef removes my cloche, then Mr. Stone’s with practiced movements.
“Voici votre omelette aux fines herbes, monsieurs.” The chef brings his attention to Mr. Stone. “Vous faut-il autre chose, monsieur?”
“Non, merci.”
The chef nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
“You speak French?”
He shrugs. “A little. I visit Europe often. It’s where a lot of our sales come from, so I know a bit of most of the languages there.”
“That’s… wow.”
He gestures to my plate. “Hopefully it’s okay.”
“It looks and smells delicious.”
“I hope its flavor meets your expectations.”
I refuse to tell him I don’t have expectations—that leads to disappointment. And anything is better than stale cereal and plain pasta.
I try not to eat like a pig because the food is so good I think I’m dreaming.
I have never had such silky smooth eggs before, and with so much flavor.
I didn’t think eggs could taste like this.
I polish off the food on my plate before going for coffee, which I pour carefully so as to not spill it.
Mr. Stone’s cup is already half gone, and there are a few bites of his food left.
I feel awkward about eating all my food, but I shouldn’t. I know that. It’s just food. Just eating. We all do it.
“So,” I begin casually, bringing my mug to my lips for a sip.
Even the coffee is delicious. Black coffee is my go-to because it’s cheap.
I don’t love it though. This coffee? It makes me enjoy it black.
It’s smooth with underlying tastes I can’t pinpoint but is decadent all the same. “You said we should talk?”
He gives me a salacious grin, and something tells me I’m not prepared for this conversation.