I groan to myself. I’m forty not fourteen.
She makes me feel like a teenager all over again though. These butterflies in my stomach. I can’t think about anything else.
Not to mention this damn hard on.
Reasoning with myself that she’s not only in the auction catalog, but also works for the department in charge of organizing the event, I tell myself she’ll be there.
If she feels anything like the way I do, she’ll be there.
If all else fails, I have her home address.
Pacing in front of the huge floor to ceiling windows of my office, I start to feel dizzy myself and wonder if this fever is catching.
It’s doing me no good to mope around here, but it’s too soon to get ready for tonight and I don’t want to ruin my chances or scare her off by just showing up at her office either.
I honestly don’t know if I could control myself if I saw her alone again.
It should be safer at the auction.
Feeling cooped up, I call down for a car to be ready and notice my arousal has finally reached an acceptable level to be seen out in public. I head down and decide to go check out the charity Jules picked.
It’ll also give me a chance to see her neighborhood. Which is about as close as I dare get to her right now.
Traffic is light, and it looks like rain. There’s more than one shitty side to this city and it pains me to think Jules is stuck living in one of the worst.
I find to the soup kitchen she’s nominated as her charity. It’s always open by the looks. Parking out front, I decide to head inside and have a look around.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a celebrity, but people generally know my face. And it seems the tougher people do in life the more they seem to retain the face of the rich.
But I don’t mind. I’m here to do some good, and not wanting to be an asshole, I get in line with everyone else.
A few people frown and point. One guy gets nasty, asking if I really need a free meal.
I crease a smile, figuring I should expect some folks to be taken aback. But I want to get a feel for the place.
I’d like to see the manager if they’re about.
“You looking for someone?” A voice behind me asks, and I turn to see a man who looks more than a little down on his luck, but who can tell based on appearances, right?
I know people who dress better than I do, live larger and have nothing to their name. They just happen to owe a half a billion dollars, but everything is relative, I guess.
“Jules McPherson,” I hear myself saying, sounding protective, feeling myself tense up, and loom over the man slightly.
He shakes his head. “Name’s don’t mean much here, buddy. Maybe you’re in the wrong line.”
I turn away from him, not wanting to start anything.
The line creeps forward and before long I’m facing a friendlier, but somewhat confused looking older woman who blinks over fogged up glasses as she serves some fairly decent looking soup with crusty rolls.
“Can I help you?” she asks, looking me up and down, and eyeing, my Rolex.
“I’m looking for the manager,” I tell her, “and some information about Jules McPherson.”
I’ve put on my friendly face. Be nice to me and Mason Thorne is your new best friend. Be an asshole and… well. This lady seems nice.
“I’m kinda busy right now,” she says. Then looking around, she motions to someone to take over for her.
“Let’s talk in my office,” she says, and I follow her to what looks like a broom closet next to a row of bench tables which must be the ‘kitchen’.
I barely fit in the tiny room, but the woman introduces herself as Florence and takes a seat on a crate behind another crate which looks like it serves as a desk.
“Are you with the police? Is Jules alright?” she asks, making me feel protective of Jules all over again.
“Why would you think that?” I ask, trying not to clench my jaw.
“She helps out here sometimes, but we haven’t seen her for a while. I just thought…” she says, looking past me to see the line’s still moving, and then smiles back at me.
A friendly face, for sure, doing god’s work no doubt.
“I’m just interested to know more about her and her work here. About the charity,” I tell her truthfully.
Florence gives me the run down, about how they run on empty most months. How they have maybe two weeks before she’ll have to close up. The city used to help out but lately, they’ve made moves to close down kitchens like this one.
“Public health risk,” Florence says, looking down. “But we all know it’s because of the developers wanting to move in, wanting all the poor people out of the area,” she adds, almost in a whisper.
“Developers?” I ask, frowning, looking around the room again, and remembering the neighborhood.
“Yeah,” Florence says, sighing. “That Thorne fella. One of his groups of companies anyway, they came in a few months back, pretty much told everyone to get ready to move out. I’ve heard they bought up most of the Southside years ago too, did the same thing. Turned it all into high rise condo’s on the waterfront.
I feel my frown deepen. My eyes narrow and I take in a sharp breath.
“Who owns this building?” I ask her.
“The city, they own most of this neighborhood. Made some deal and sold it all off now. Cheap too I hear,” she sighs.
I don’t oversee every detail of my organization. But from this moment on, I decide to get out and about more often, talk to people, talk to my companies so-called leaders.
“Tell me about Jules,” I ask again, changing the subject. Trying to get rid of the
