Chapter 7 I’m Everywhere #2
“I want you to listen.” His voice had softened to a soothing, slower cadence.
“The perpetrator already did his big one tonight. He won’t strike again for another week.
He likes being predictable. He gets off on knowing that you know when the next attack’s coming.
But, for extra peace of mind, grab a pillow and a blanket and lock yourself in the bathroom till morning.
I’ll see you at the office at eight a.m.”
“I thought you said nine?”
“Not gonna lie, I feel like you need me sooner.”
Sasha hung up, feeling only marginally better. She buried herself under blankets on the couch. Sleep eluded her. Time blurred. October 14, 2022, turned into October 15. And then, around 4:00 a.m., she heard a weird noise just outside the bay window. An eerie, honking, whoo-OO-oo sound.
No, no, no, no, no.
She envisioned Wolverine outside under the eerie cloak of night, gearing up to break in and kill her.
She needed to get out. Her mind raced. How?
Uber. But she couldn’t wait there for the car—she had to put distance between herself and the stalker.
Fast. With trembling hands, she ordered the car for pickup down the block, at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy.
That place would be well-lit and staffed.
Safe. She grabbed her handbag and her TV remote (she wasn’t thinking clearly) and sprinted to her bedroom window.
It was at the back of the brownstone. If the stalker was at the front, near the bay window, she could sneak out the back and, taking the next street over, she could escape to the pharmacy without being seen.
Functioning purely on wild self-preservation, she hoisted herself through her bedroom window opening.
With an inelegant thump, she rolled onto the fire escape, one floor above the garden.
A jagged piece of wire in the ancient window frame ripped through her right wrist. Blood splattered everywhere, but she didn’t notice.
With a gasping squawk, she hurled herself into Gloria Katsune’s overgrown thyme bush.
And then she was gone, limp-running into the night.
Once in the Uber, she realized that, in her haste, she’d programmed Destiny’s apartment as her destination.
But she wasn’t home. Numbly, she glanced down at her injured wrist. She knew where to go.
Brooklyn Methodist ER. Which is where she stayed, getting stitched up and sleeping off her pain meds—until her 8:00 a.m. appointment with Detective Wesley Dane.
The Dane & Son Detective Agency was nestled above an LGBQT+ bookstore in a charming Fort Greene brownstone.
The street was tree-lined and upscale, with santal candle–scented clothing boutiques and lazy cafés.
The offices had the same vibe. Cozy couches, framed Kehinde Wiley prints, charcoal area rugs. Minimalist, soothing, tasteful.
Every element in the waiting room was well-appointed. Except for Sasha, who limped in wearing blood-and-dirt-splattered pajamas, a bandage on her wrist, and reeking of thyme. She was a mess, but she was also her mother’s daughter. Manners? Impeccable.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said to the silver-haired, older white woman throwing judgmental eyes at her from behind a small desk. The woman wore a pussycat bow blouse and Mrs. Claus glasses. “I have an eight a.m. with Detective Wesley Dane?”
“It’s not in my calendar, dear.”
“Well, it’s a last-minute thing.” Sasha smoothed her hair behind her ears, and a tiny leaf fluttered to the floor.
The secretary, Phyllis, frowned disapprovingly, and then led Sasha down a short hallway to two adjoining offices, separated by a glass wall. The nameplates on each door read: WES DANE, SENIOR, and WES DANE, JUNIOR. She deposited Sasha in Junior’s office and disappeared.
Standing before her, in front of a modern, bleached-oak desk, was Detective Wes Dane.
He was about her age. Late twenties, maybe thirty.
And he was absurdly handsome. Egregiously tall.
Lashes and dimples rarely found outside of Hollywood.
And he was wearing extremely good jeans and a blue button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
It was hard to reconcile this Tom Ford model with the messy, inebriated voice she’d heard on the phone, just hours before.
For what it’s worth, he looked just as shocked by her appearance.
“I was expecting someone older.” Sasha was too exhausted to pretend not to stare.
“I get that a lot.” He looked her up and down quickly and then averted his eyes. Was he nervous? “I, uh, I have to apologize for how I answered the phone. Rough night. You know how it goes.”
“No, you were helpful,” she said, swaying a bit on her feet. Her wrist throbbed. They stood there, taking each other in. Something passed between them—a current, an understanding, a statement of unabashed curiosity.
“Where are my manners? Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing at a plush navy couch with matching throw pillows. “Can I get you a coffee? A right slipper?”
“I need a new life,” she said.
Wes leaned against his desk, arms folded. With kind, warm eyes, he peered down at her. “I gotta ask, what happened to you?”
Sasha let out a ragged sigh, and melted back into the pillows. God, this was her first time truly relaxing in hours. “I heard a noise outside. Like a ‘whoo-OO-oo.’ Around four a.m.? He was there. The stalker. So I jumped out the window and ran for my life.”
“You jumped out the window?”
“I used to be a gymnast,” she explained.
“I’m impressed. But that wasn’t the stalker.”
“You don’t know that. How would you know that?”
“It was a whippoorwill, Ms. Cruz. They’re all over Brooklyn this time of year. And they make those noises, early in the morning. I told you, he won’t strike again till next Tuesday at midnight.”
“Oh. Ohhhhh.” She groaned, dropping her face in her hands. “I’m so fucking scared. I feel haunted. And I think I sprained my ankle.” She looked up at him. “Not to be ageist, but I didn’t expect you to be so young. Will Wesley Dane Sr. be joining us?”
“My father? Nah, I’ll be working with you alone. He’s on a medical leave of absence.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine, I guess.”
“You’re in good hands. I promise. I need to ask . . . Is there anyone who’d want to hurt you? An ex-boyfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Frenemy?”
“No, I have no enemies.” She was starting to panic, feeling the rising hysteria. His frustratingly calm demeanor was not helping. “I’ve only had three serious boyfriends, and we’re all on good terms. I had them all over for Friendsgiving last year!”
“I believe you, I believe you,” he assured her. “What do you do for a living?”
“Casting agent.”
“Hmm. Is it reasonable to say that rejecting actors is a part of your job?”
“Of course. But I’m always kind and sensitive.”
Wes nodded, tapping on his bottom lip. “Show me.”
“Huh?”
“Show me how you reject someone with kindness.”
A tornado of nerves, she pointed to a carafe behind his desk. “Can I have a shot first?”
Wes looked behind him, and then back at Sasha. “A shot of what? It’s eight a.m.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Fuck it, I’m still half drunk, myself,” he muttered. “Vodka? Whiskey? Gin?”
“Tequila.”
Wes poured a shot, handed it to her, and she downed it. She grimaced, the liquid lighting her throat on fire. Then, she snapped into character. Looking Wes directly in the eyes, she took three confident steps forward and clasped her hands together, under her chin.
“Great to see you again. I enjoyed your audition, but unfortunately I’ve consulted with the director, producer, and writers, and your interpretation of the piece is simply not in line with who they’re envisioning.
But don’t get discouraged, new projects and roles pop up every day.
I believe in you! That’s why I requested you to read for the role.
Stay tuned and stay ready, because I’m definitely submitting you for more parts. I’ll see you soon, Detective Dane.”
Sasha poured on the charm, beaming up at him with a sweet-as-pie smile. He didn’t blink the entire time. In fact, he was gazing at her so intensely it’d take a bomb to make him blink.
“Wes,” he said, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. “Just call me Wes.”
“Wes.” And then, she flopped back on the couch, breaking character.
“You’re right, that was a compassionate speech.”
Overheated and stressed, she stripped off her sweatshirt. Underneath was a flimsy pajama tank. No bra. Her nipples were erect from the satiny fabric. “Thank you.”
“You’re w-welcome. Jesus, I haven’t stuttered since 1999,” he muttered. Clearing his throat, he took a seat in the rolling chair behind his desk. “Have you ever come across anyone who’s been angry at not getting a role? Crushed? Resentful?”
“No. In show business, you can’t take it personally.”
“I hear you. But a sociopath, a psychopath, or even just a particularly sensitive person could struggle with rejection. I know I have.”
“You don’t understand. An actor could bomb one audition but nail the next. He might be the wrong type for one role, but a director’s dream on another one. Actors know this.”
Wes tapped his palm with a pencil. “And are actors typically known for their emotional stability?”
“God, you’re right.” Defeated, Sasha held out her shot glass, and he poured a refill. Holding her nose, she downed the shot. The second one really hit, and she started to feel syrupy, heavy-limbed.
If I close my eyes for more than a few seconds, she thought, I’ll fall asleep.
Sinking back into the couch pillows, she gestured at Wes with her chin. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you act? You have a great look for rom-coms. Your face is so unique.”
“You think so? I’m flattered.” He beamed, a truly dazzling thing. “It’s not unique, though. I have a twin sister with the same face.”
“Does she act?”
“A fool? Yeah, often.”
She giggled. And then she fell silent. Her mood dipped as the realization of her situation came back to her. “How am I going to survive this? The police don’t even think it’s real!”
“You can file for a stalking protection order. But I have to find him first.”
“What happens to me until then? I need twenty-four-hour protection or a bodyguard. Do you offer those services?”
“If you were hiding state secrets, you’d be protected by government resources. But our system is fucked, and it leaves women and children the most vulnerable.”
“I can’t go back home,” she whispered. “My mom’s in Texas, but we’re not close. I don’t have anyone. Can’t you bodyguard me? Please.”
“What about a hotel? I can help you check in.”
“Wes, you don’t understand. He’s following me.”
Just then, she looked up and noticed his secretary leaning in the doorway with two coffees. Her face registered clear disapproval. Silently shaking her head, she handed Wes his coffee and disappeared.
“What was that about?”
“Phyllis has known me my whole life. So she knows I’m about to make a poor decision.”
Sasha’s face brightened.
“You can stay here. My dad’s office is empty. You can sleep on his couch, and there’s a bathroom with a shower in the back. I’ll bring you towels and a blanket. We’ve had some long nights here, so we’re prepared for sleepovers.”
They looked at each other. If instant trust were a thing, it was there in that moment.
“You’re saving my life,” she whispered, sleep tugging on her voice.
“I haven’t yet,” he said, chewing on his pencil. “But I promise you, I will.”
NON-DELIVERY REPORT
To: Sasha.C@ [disabled account]
From: Patrice.B@
Subject: Re: Searching for Seat F
Good morning from Algiers! Hope you’re excellent!
I was incredibly moved by your passion for Seat F.
And it occurred to me that I know of a suave Italian man with green eyes.
I don’t know what this means, daddy energy, so I cannot speak to that.
So, this man frequents a café in my neighborhood.
He always wears a suit. And he speaks Italian on his mobile phone.
So, I went to the café three days ago to find him.
He wasn’t there, unfortunately. But I stayed, anyway.
After ordering a Café Americain, I waited at the counter with a few other patrons.
When the barista called out my name, Patrice, I reached for the coffee—and so did a man.
(You see, Patrice is a unisex name in French.) He wasn’t your Seat F, but he was quite handsome.
Anyway, we’re on holiday together as I write. Your love story gave birth to mine.
Merci, and bonne chance on your search!
Patrice Bensoussan
Seraphina Algiers
VP Distribution