11. Gray
Gray
As a rule, nobody really walks much in New York City, but whenever I get the chance, I like to stroll back to my apartment at the end of the day.
It gives me the chance to stop off at my favorite coffee place on the way. They charge seven bucks a cup, but it’s worth it.
A light rain is falling as I come out of the shop, coffee in hand, and look up at the streetlights.
There’s a hazy halo of drops around each one as I start back to my apartment, the brake lights of the cars on the road obscured by the rain, and the city has a quiet aura about it that calms my fractured nerves.
I tend to walk home whenever I’ve had a particularly stressful or irritating day, but I can’t identify what today is, only that I’m out of sorts. I haven’t been able to get Jax out of my head since she left, and I wince as I take a sip of coffee too quickly, burning my tongue.
Strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalk, I enjoy the sounds of the city, watching the cabs and cars come and go, the beep of a horn, the distant wail of a siren. I love New York, and walking along the streets always clears my head.
I’ve finished my coffee by the time I walk through the doors of my apartment building. Even though it’s late, caffeine barely affects me at all anymore, and sleep is tugging at the back of my eyes as I throw my cup in the trash.
The lobby is quiet tonight, with one security guard leaning back in his chair behind the reception desk, scrolling on his phone. I make my way to my private elevator, and when he sees me, he sits up, pretending to look busy.
I hit the button, watching the numbers slowly move down to zero, feeling some of the tension bleed from my shoulders.
My apartment was one of the most expensive purchases I ever made. At the time I bought it, it was a status thing. I wanted people to think I was impressive because of where I lived, and now they know I’m impressive because of what I’ve achieved.
The only thing missing, in my mother’s eyes, is a wife and 2.4 kids.
I clench my jaw as the elevator dings, and I step inside. My hand goes automatically to my jacket pocket, pulling out the coin inside. Its weight is familiar and comforting as I watch it shimmer in the elevator lights.
I flip it over in my palm, the weight of it moving effortlessly to the backs of my fingers. I skip it along each one, a practiced movement I learned as a teenager. Finally, as it reaches my thumb again, I flip it into the air, watching it spin before catching it.
The elevator dings again, and I step out into the penthouse. The only other person who has access to it is Mrs. Shipping, my housekeeper. She’s worked for me for years and was a godsend after my father died.
“Good evening, sir,” she says, emerging from a side room, her purse over her shoulder, as usual.
I must have asked her not to call me ‘sir’ hundreds of times over the years, but it’s become such a habit that I would feel odd if she called me Gray.
“Hey Ship!” I say, handing her the chai latte I picked up for her.
She frowns at it, flicking me an irritated glare. “You have to stop buying me things, Mr. Jones.”
“I’ll make a note,” I say, as her lips thin, which is her version of a smile. “Anything to report?” I ask as I walk into my living room. It has an aquarium that spans the entire length of one wall, and I sigh happily as it comes into view.
My fish are my pride and joy. I love watching them when I get back at night, and Mrs. Shipping and I have a private joke that if I could dive in there and live with them, I would.
“Your mother has called you five times today,” Ship says. “On the fifth occasion, she asked me rather briskly to remind you that you own a cell phone. She has also messaged you several times, as I understand it.”
Mrs. Shipping is British, very polite, and well-spoken, but even I can detect the tone of irritation in her voice. She does not like my mother.
“Thanks, Ship, I’ll give her a call later. You heading to the theatre tonight?”
Ship spends so much time on Broadway she must be on first-name terms with most of the ushers by now.
“Not tonight, Charles is in town, so I’m taking him to dinner.”
I turn, raising my eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me your son was in the US.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure he would be able to make the trip. He’s up for redundancy, and he’s been struggling for money.” She flashes me a sharp look. “Don’t even think about it.”
“My money is your money, Ship.”
“That is not true. And don’t call the airline and bump him up to first class, like you did last time, either. I mean it. He can fend for himself; he’s in his twenties now.”
“If he needs anything, you tell him to call me.”
“I will do no such thing.”
I roll my eyes as I bounce on the balls of my feet, putting my hands in my pockets as I wait for her. She glowers at me, but we both know what I’m waiting for.
“We’re going to Chatham’s,” she says in exasperation. “Happy?”
I nod, satisfied. “I’ll call them and get you the best table.”
“Mr. Jones—”
“Oh, come on now. You know I adore spoiling you. Mostly because you object to it so much. Have a night out with your son without worrying about the cost of everything for once.”
“I wasn’t worrying about that,” she protests. “You pay me very well.”
“That’s not the point. I want to treat you. I’ll call them.”
She gives a heavy sigh that only makes my smile grow, as she hands me some packages and the mail.
“How’s the new occupant doing?” I ask, glancing back at the aquarium where my new octopus has been installed for the past week. She’s a mischievous little thing and tried to escape as soon as I placed her in the tank.
A friend of mine found her trapped inside a plastic bag in the ocean.
She only has six legs and was struggling to hunt, so I offered to take care of her.
I worry that the tank will feel like a prison compared to the ocean.
But, I also don’t like the idea of little kids gawking at her in the city aquarium.
“She’s been moving about a bit more today and ate some food, so that’s a good sign.”
“Any escape attempts?”
“Not that I noticed, sir, but she may be waiting to do that when it’s dark.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Ship, have a great time with Charles tonight, and thanks for your help today.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” she says and heads toward the elevator.
I make my way over to the tank, looking along the pebbles and gravel at the bottom for the new addition. The octopus, whom I have named Cordelia, is sitting inside a little pot at the bottom, her intelligent eyes watching me warily as I crouch beside her.
“Hey girl,” I murmur as the other fish swarm toward me. They know it’s feeding time, and I smile at the shimmering colors as they flutter excitedly against the glass.
“You all hungry?” I ask, using a long-handled scoop to drop their food into the water. It contains pellets for Cordelia, too, but she hasn’t shown much interest in them until now. I need to get her some live food so she can hunt as she would in the ocean.
I put on my favorite classical music so that she’ll find dinnertime more relaxing, and head into my office.
As I take a seat at my desk, I look self-consciously down at my suit for what must be the tenth time today. Since Jax waltzed out of my office, I’ve been fighting a semi all afternoon.
Damn. I could watch her on her knees all day.
I pick up the paperweight on my desk, tossing it from hand to hand. My little sister, Carrie, bought it for me five years ago on my thirtieth birthday.
It’s a beautiful design with hundreds of golden, glass-blown fish frozen in a shoal inside it. Holding it up to the light, I admire the play of colors and the intricate details of the flashing scales on every tiny body.
They look so free.
My expression sours as I lower the paperweight, and my mother’s grinning face comes into view. I’ve had that picture on my desk for years, and I’ve always hated it. She looks too cheerful—fake almost.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at it, knowing I should call her about this goddamn date she’s trying to force me to go on. The conversation is going to be painful; telling my mother ‘no’ always is.
But instead of calling my mother, I pull up the contact info for Sterling House before I can change my mind.
As I wait for it to connect, my cock twitches. I know I should get rid of Jax; that’s the sensible thing to do. Right now, I’m paying through the nose for a feisty redhead who won’t fuck me even though I’m paying her to.
I should demand a new escort from Pippa and wait for a compliant little blonde with a pouty mouth and a tight ass to turn up.
“Pippa Grooman.”
My fingers clench around the phone, my ire rising at my own weakness. “Hi, Pippa, it’s Gray Jones, sorry to call you so late.”
“Mr. Jones, it’s good to hear from you again. Have you changed your mind about Jax?”
For some reason, I don’t like her tone. It’s like she’s been waiting all day for me to tell her how useless Jax is. It’s patronizing, and I don’t appreciate it.
Why do I care what this woman thinks of Jax?
“On the contrary,” I say. “Things are fine. I wanted to get clarification on something.”
“Certainly. What can I help you with?”
“You mentioned that after-hours was not something you offered as standard, but that if the women are amenable, you make exceptions now and then.”
“That’s correct. We tend to err on the side of caution before making after-hours interactions the norm. However, some of our clients do negotiate different terms in some cases.”
“And if I wanted to, for example, call Jax after work, how might that work?”
“It would be charged between three and five hundred dollars an hour, depending on the requirements of the call. Those would usually be stated beforehand and agreed to in advance.”
I smirk. “Alright, let’s say I haven’t had a chance to speak to Jax about it first, but I’d like to surprise her. How much would that be?”
“With the understanding that she can refuse at any point, I would say five hundred dollars would be appropriate.”
“And for phone sex?”
“An additional thousand.”
“Thank you so much, Pippa,” I say smoothly, shifting back in my chair, already anticipating the pissed-off voice I’m going to get the second Jax answers. “Would you please send over her number?”
“Right away, Mr. Jones.”