Why do I feel like I know him?
2
Owen
“Good afternoon, Al,” I say as I step into the lobby of the building that houses Tri-City Media Group. Al, the manager of the concierge desk, smiles.
“I see you had a little run-in.” He nods toward the outside, and without even thinking, I turn and grin, remembering everything that happened a few minutes prior. I may have a scuff on my expensive shoes, but I don’t care, it was well worth it. I can’t seem to get the image of Ensley’s bright green eyes out of my mind.
I shrug. “It happens,” I tell Al. “And I’ll never mind a little scuffle with a beautiful woman.” I tap my hand on the top counter and walk toward the elevators, only to bypass them and head to the bathroom.
The men’s restroom on the first floor of the building is gray and steel. Manly colors, according to the interior designer the owner brought in to give the space a facelift. I’m not sure what the women’s restrooms look like, but the temptation is there to sneak in after-hours and look. The only issue is explaining to security when they catch me on camera entering a room I shouldn’t be in. I will say the bathroom is rather lovely. There is a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table with the most current magazines when you first enter. At first, I found this odd, and then my assistant informed me if I had a headache or needed to take a nap, I could use the “rest” part of the bathroom. The only thing is, the place isn’t soundproof or smell proof for that matter. So, if I have a headache, the last thing I want to do is be in here “resting” when someone needs to take care of business.
Along the wall to my left is a large mirror running the length of the continuous sink. Unwilling to get my suit wet, I pull a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and set them against the marble countertop. I don’t know what possesses me, but I stand here for a moment and look at my reflection. . .and blink.
A lot.
“Ugh,” I say to myself as I dig in my pocket for my contact lens case. I set it on the counter and twist the caps off before I wash and dry my hands. Once they’re dry, I slip each lens out of my eye and put it away. Instantly, my index finger and thumb press against my eyes. They itch, but it’s not the kind of itch that is painful. It’s more like relief. I’m not used to wearing contacts, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. The reason I’m desperate is because I thought a one-night stand would be no big deal, and I was so very wrong. I never thought I’d ever have to conceal the color of my eyes. Ensley would recognize me in a heartbeat. Maybe I’m being paranoid but she did tell me they were a peculiar color and she was mesmerized by them. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this.
Finally, my vision is clear and not clouded by a micro-thin piece of plastic, which definitely served its purpose today, and I’m blinking like I don’t have something lodged in my eyes. Although my eyes are watering, I can deal with this issue.
Leaving the bathroom, I make my way to the elevators and key in the floor number I need. The countdown on the screen tells me how long I must wait. When the numbers reach ten, I start counting down as if it were New Year’s Eve. Thankfully when the doors open, the car is vacant. Otherwise, someone would’ve seen my excited party face. Stepping inside, I stand there in the most professional way possible and wait for the doors to close. Thankfully, with the updates the owner did to the building, he upgraded the elevator system. It’s now very efficient and takes you directly to your floor.
The doors open, and I step off, nodding at the people I pass by. Each one is my employee. Well, mine and Damien’s. We own a radio station. It was never my goal nor Damien’s. When we were in college, we both worked at the station on campus. Somehow, between the two of us, we increased listenership over one-hundred-percent, brought in so much ad revenue the station started making money, and the school had to create an application process for people who wanted to work there. In my junior year, there were so many applicants we could run five shows and never had a gap of coverage.
It only made sense for Damien and me to enter the radio business. The only problem was we wanted to work together, and every time we went on an interview, or someone recruited us, it was one of us and never both. It wasn’t what we wanted, so we did what any eager college graduates would do with trust funds to deplete—we defied our parents and started our own station. That was ten years ago. Now we have multiple stations with varying formats, with our Top Forty station airing nationwide.
Tri-City Media takes up the top three floors of PNC Plaza, with mine and Damien’s office on the top floor. He is at one end, and I’m at the other, and if we leave our doors open, we can have a foam gunfight if we want. For Christmas last year, I bought us an arsenal of pump action airsoft guns for the fun of it.
I stroll into Damien’s office and close the door behind me. He looks at me, over the top of his glasses, and cocks the biggest shit-eating grin I have ever seen. Damien
