Which reminds me…
“Don’t you take the other elevator to his penthouse?” I asked her, pointing my thumb over my shoulder, indicating Michael’s private entrance.
“Whose penthouse?” she asked.
“Michael’s.”
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. She stepped in, and I followed behind absently.
“Yes, but I’m not going there,” she answered. “I live on the sixteenth floor.”
And I watched as she pressed sixteen and the doors slowly closed.
She lived in the building.
“Oh,” I responded. “Well, I guess that makes it convenient to see him.”
“I see lots of men.”
I raised my eyebrows. Oooookay. Whatever that meant.
I reached over and pushed twenty-one, holding the strap of my bag at my shoulder as the elevator approached its first stop.
“Women, too,” she added, sounding cocky.
I stilled, feeling the heat of her stare on my neck.
“Do you like women?” she asked matter-of-factly.
My eyes rounded, and a laugh lodged in my throat. “Uh,” I choked out. “Well, it’s never really occurred to me.”
Damn. Got to hand it to her. She knew how to get my mind off the guys.
She turned her head, looking at the elevator door and smirking. “Let me know if it ever does.”
The doors opened, and she stepped out, calling over her shoulder in a taunting voice, “Hope to see you around, Rika.”
And she disappeared down the hall, the doors closing behind her.
I shook my head, clearing it. What the hell was that?
When the doors opened again, I stepped out, going straight for my apartment. Once inside, I locked the door and dug my phone out of my bag before tossing the satchel onto the sofa.
No missed calls.
I spoke to my mother every other day, and if she didn’t have a signal, the yacht had a satellite phone. Why wasn’t she calling me back? Damon’s threat had me concerned now, and I wanted to make sure she was safe.
Pithom, the Crists’ motor yacht, was usually docked in Thunder Bay. They’d hosted many parties there growing up, but it was also perfectly capable of handling long ocean excursions. During the fall and winter months, Mr. and Mrs. Crist often took it to southern Europe for their annual excursion instead of traveling by plane. I guessed Mrs. Crist went ahead of her husband a little early this year and took my mother with her.
I dialed her number, the line going straight to voicemail.
“Okay, Mom,” I said, annoyance thick in my voice. “It’s been days. I’ve left messages, and you’re making me worry now. If you were taking a trip, why didn’t you call me?”
I hadn’t meant to yell, but I was already frazzled. I pulled the phone away, hanging up.
My mother was flighty and not at all self-sufficient, but she was always available to me. She was always in contact.
Walking to the refrigerator, I dialed Mr. Crist’s office and stuck the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I plucked out a Gatorade and twisted the top.
“Evans Crist’s office,” a woman greeted.
“Hi, Stella.” I took a quick sip and replaced the cap. “This is Erika Fane. Is Mr. Crist in?”
“No, I’m sorry, Rika,” she replied. “He’s already gone for the day. Would you like his cell number?”
I sighed, setting down my bottle. Stella had worked for the Crists and been Mr. Crist’s personal secretary my entire life. I was used to dealing with her, since she also handled most of my family’s finances for Mr. Crist. Until I graduated from college anyway.
“No, I have his number,” I told her. “I just didn’t want to bother him on his private time. Could you please ask him to call me at his convenience when you speak to him next? It’s not an emergency, but it is kind of important.”
“Of course, dear,” she replied.
“Thank you.”
I hung up and grabbed my Gatorade, moving to the window to look out into the courtyard and the city beyond.
The sun was starting to set, thin slices of it peeking through the skyscrapers as I took in the clear sky and purple hues in the distance. The lamps outside in the garden, sensing the disappearance of sunlight, suddenly lit up, and I raised my eyes, seeing the windows of Michael’s penthouse.
It was dark. I hadn’t seen him in a several days, not since the episode at Hunter-Bailey, and I wondered if he was off training or out of town. The basketball season would be starting in the next couple of months, but it wasn’t uncommon to have exhibition or pre-games before the regular schedule began. He’d be very busy and most likely away a lot between November and March.
I turned on some music—Silence by Delirium—and took off my scarf and kicked off my boots and socks as I spread out at the kitchen island with my laptop, working on the assignments I’d accumulated today.
In addition to the anthropology class, I’d also started Statistics, as well as Cognitive Psychology today. I still had no idea what I wanted to do for a career, but since I’d already taken so many courses between Brown and Trinity that focused on Psychology and Sociology, I was pretty sure I’d declare my major soon.
The only thing I knew for certain was that I liked learning about people. The way their brains worked, how much was chemical and how much was societal, and I wanted to understand why we did the things we did. Why we made the decisions we made.
After I’d finished reading, highlighting more lines than I hadn’t, I worked on the statistics problems assigned and then made myself a chicken Caesar salad as I finished a few chapters for my history class tomorrow.