Mikalo's Flame (2 page)

And as far as I knew the President wasn’t in
New York today.

My car stopped, the driver, a kind man with
gentle eyes and the careless, disheveled blond hair of a California
surfer, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

“This is as far as I can go, Miss,” he said
apologetically, nodding toward the barrier and the guards walking
up to the car.

“No problem,” I quickly said, grabbing my bag
and hoisting the bulging files to my chest. “I got it from
here.”

Opening the door, I stepped into the chilly
morning air.

At once, stone-faced guards with buzz cuts
surrounded me.

ID?

Got it.

Why are you here?

I work here.

Where?

Macfarlane, Schaal.

Name?

Ronan Grace.

Social Security number?

Excuse me?

Quick flash of anger as the square jaw
clenched.

Stare down.

I win.

A quick conversation into a wrist watch and
then another brief moment as a thick hand covered a discreet
earpiece, eyes narrowing as the information was checked and
rechecked.

Finally,

This way please.

“What’s this all about?” I asked
politely.

No response

Instead, a hand brusquely guiding my elbow, I
was whisked down the sidewalk, past a battalion of paparazzi
stifling yawns, through the revolving glass doors, and into the
spacious, high-ceilinged lobby.

Where we did it all over again.

With even more bored photographers lying in
wait, surrounded by duffel bags, cameras balanced on round stomachs
covered by threadbare t-shirts and winter coats.

ID. Macfarlane, Schaal. Quick look through
the documents. Body scan with a metal detector. Pat down from an
unhappy female guard as another pawed through my Goyard bag, moving
aside the make-up and pens and wadded up receipts.

Bag shoved toward me followed by a quick nod
indicating I was good to go.

Well, thank you very much.

“Ronan.”

Thank god!

“What the hell, Bill?” I asked, grateful for
the familiar face of Bill Blazen, co-worker, friend, and father
figure, standing at the elevators.

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he said
as the doors opened with a ding and, his hand on the small of my
back, we stepped in.

“I guess I should feel special I made it past
the armed guards and growling dogs and cavity search, right?” I
joked after the doors closed.

“You got a cavity search?” he asked.
“Lucky.”

“What, you didn’t tip the guy?”

He laughed.

“I’m cheap.”

“And god knows cavity searches ain’t,” I
teased. “So, evidently the building’s on high security clamp down
or something.”

“Essential personnel only, I was told.”

“Which would explain the paparazzi,” I
said.

He smiled.

“Guess so,” he then said, his eyes watching
the numbers climb as the elevator zipped up to the 40th floor.

“So, no idea what any of this is about?”

A quick shrug of the shoulders,

“I think I know, but ...” he said.

“But what?”

He looked at me as we approached our
floor.

“But I hope I’m wrong,” he whispered as the
elevator came to a gentle halt.

The doors opened.

To chaos.

Secretaries stood next to their cubicles as
dogs sniffed for bombs.

Security guards checked IDs. Again.

And yet more guards lingered in doorways or
roamed the halls, their eyes behind the dark glasses scanning and
searching.

Janey waited near my office.

“The Byzans,” she whispered.

“All this for them?” I asked.

She nodded.

The Byzans. A ridiculously wealthy family
from Europe. One of my department’s biggest clients and a
persistent pain in my ass.

“Yeah, they’re evidently on their way, or
something. And they think they’re fucking royalty now or, I don’t
know. Whatever.”

A nearby guard cocked his head our way,
obviously overhearing us, before strolling several steps to a
second guard for a quick whisper in his ear.

I gently pulled Janey into my office and
closed the door.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I said.
“They’re a wealthy family, not the President or royalty or anyone
really important. I mean, seriously, this is just stupid.”

There was a knock on the door.

Sighing, I opened it.

An anonymous dark-haired man in dark glasses,
earpiece firmly in place spoke.

“All doors remain open.”

“No,” I said, closing the door in his
face.

This was my office and my job. And I had work
to do. Sensitive work for discreet people that wouldn’t appreciate
anyone -- asshole security guards, emotionally immature rich
families, even trustworthy co-workers -- knowing their
business.

“All doors remain open” my ass.

I returned to my desk, Janey looking nervous
as she lingered nearby.

“And, honestly, knowing their business,
they’re spending money like crazy, the Byzans. They’re already deep
in debt and gunning for more. Mansions in LA. Apartments here in
the city. All of it gaudy and flashy and way, way over-priced.

“And this? This mess out here? This is just
tens of thousands of dollars pissed down the drain to make them
feel important and necessary. It’s ridiculous.

“Though I must admit I am more than a little
curious how they got the city to agree to close down 42nd.

“Now that’s impressive ...”

“Money talks,” Janey said with a smirk.

“Ain’t that the damn truth.”

The door suddenly opened.

“Miss,” the security guard said, his pearly
whites clenched in an angry grin as he pushed the door all the way
back and held it open. “Please.”

And then he left.

“I don’t fucking believe this,” I said under
my breath.

Seriously, we’d had billionaires stroll these
halls. Titans of industry. Leaders of nations. Hollywood royalty.
Spoiled trust fund kids on the verge of inheriting more money than
they’d ever be able to spend.

And no one had ever upended our office and
work with this much unnecessary security overkill. Or treated us
like worthless pieces of shit.

No one.

Although I was familiar with their businesses
and accounts and financial planning needs, I’d never met the
Byzans. And, after all this bullshit, I didn’t think I wanted
to.

My phone rang.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Can you please come to the conference room,
Miss Grace?”

Abigail White, partner and perennial thorn in
my side.

“Now?” I asked.

“Of course,” came the cool, emotionless
response followed by a click as the line went dead.

I hung up the phone.

“They’re here,” Janey said from her perch
near the door.

“And I’m off to the conference room,” I said
as I stood to go.

A burly arm blocked my path once I stepped
into the hall.

“Excuse me,” I said, curbing my
frustration.

A finger to his earpiece, he nodded as he
listened, glancing at me before silently insisting I wait, the
raised finger silencing any argument.

So, left little choice, I waited.

The elevator doors opened.

A small man in a loud silk shirt and wrinkled
khakis stepped out and paused, confused before security immediately
surrounded him and guided him down the hall toward the conference
room.

I stepped forward to go.

The guard wouldn’t let me pass.

“I need to go,” I quickly said. “There’s a
meeting I need to be at.”

“Wait, please,” he insisted, his eyes behind
the sunglasses watching the elevators.

“Wasn’t that Mr. Byzan?” I asked. “He’s my
client. It’d be rude to not be there to greet him. I have to go.
Now.

“So ...” I finished as I tried to maneuver
past his arm.

Again, he stopped me with a shake of his
head.

“The daughter,” he said. “She always takes
her own elevator. Wait.”

I looked to Janey who simply shrugged and
shook her head.

This was beyond annoying.

A ding as the second elevator doors
opened.

After a moment, she stepped forward, making
her entrance.

Tall, skinny, young, and very, very tan.

Skin tight jeans pushed into bright blue
thigh high boots. A glimpse of taut tummy beneath a half-buttoned
green silk blouse. Her bright purple fox bolero slipping off her
slender shoulders and ropes of chunky, clunky diamonds wrapped
around her neck to spill into her enhanced cleavage. Large, round
sunglasses covering half her face. And a bejeweled tiara -- yes, a
tiara -- perched tenuously in her artfully messy beehive of
bleached blonde hair.

Mara Byzan.

The daughter.

She paused as she looked from left to right,
hand on her hip, a thick red ruby the size of a large thumbnail
glinting on her fist, her eyes taking us in from behind the
designer shades, judging us, her glossy pink lips set in a
sneer.

And then she spoke, her heavily Eastern
European accent chewing the words and spitting them out.

“And this, this nothing place with stupid
little nobodies, this we pay for?”

Then, her security in tow, she strutted her
way to the conference room.

“I need a drink.”

I laughed.

“Bill, it’s not even Noon.”

“Still ...” he said, “A drink would be really
good right about now.”

In all honesty, I had to agree.

The last hour had been hell. A hell only Mara
Byzan could create.

Mara Byzan slapping the table with her open
palm as she interrupted us, shouting over us, making one of her
many endless points, the metal of her ring thwack, thwack,
thwacking against the polished glass.

Mara Byzan sighing. Or rolling her eyes.
Bouncing her platform heeled foot as she dramatically leaned her
head back and groaned. Or checking her text messages. Again and
again and again.

Yes, after what felt like an eternity with
“the Byzan”, as she called herself -- often --, a drink did sound
good.

Still, it wasn’t even noon.

“Sit,” I said, gesturing to the guest chair
as I slid behind my desk.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh as he sat.
“But I’m literally counting the seconds until lunch.”

“Fair enough,” I answered with a light
laugh.

“So, Ronan, how are things?”

Although close, our paths hadn’t crossed in a
while, him often walking one way while I walked the other, the
opportunity to catch up often lost in the chaos of our respective
days.

“Good, good.”

“And Mikalo?” he continued.

A slight pause.

“Good,” I finally said. “He’s good.”

“Ah.”

“What?” I asked.

“I hear doubt,” he said, his eyes watching
me.

I nodded.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“Bullshit,” Bill said quickly. “I’d be
worried if there wasn’t doubt.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I mean, I love him --”

“Good.”

“But there’s this nagging ... something I
can’t escape. Can’t get away from.”

“Of course there’s going to be a nagging
something, Ronan. It’s life and relationships and love and the
heart. And anytime you get those mixed together, you’ll have doubt
and dread and bliss and euphoria.”

“I feel like I should know this by now,” I
said, only half joking.

“You know what I remember about my wedding
day?” he quickly asked. “And this is, what, twenty-six,
twenty-seven years ago?”

“You’re asking me how many years it’s been?”
I teased. “Boy, you better figure it out before your next
anniversary.”

He laughed.

“Oh, she’ll be sure to remind me,” he said.
“But, no, seriously, what I remember most about my wedding day all
those years ago --”

“Good dodge --”

“-- Thank you --, was how terrifying it was
to say those two simple words: I do. They just sat there in my
throat, as if they knew they were the most important words in the
world.

“And they were, very important. Two little
words, two simple syllables. ‘I do.’ Two life-changing words.

“Man oh man,” he then said with a laugh. “I
thought I was going to die. Watching her walk down the aisle.
Gorgeous. The church gorgeous. My parents proud and relieved. And
now in debt. Everyone there in their Sunday best. Watching.
Waiting.

“And those words sticking in my throat.

“And it wasn’t because I didn’t love her. I
did. It was just this knowing that with ‘I do’, that was it. We’d
be in it for the long haul.

“Hell of a time to make a mistake, you
know?

“But it’s fixable,” he added, watching me.
“If that ‘I do’ should’ve been an ‘I don’t’ or, better yet, an ‘I
better not’, well, you split, separate, get a divorce. Whatever.
Nasty and heart-breaking and totally sucky to the extreme, but
absolutely fixable, you know?”

He nodded, his grin stretching from ear to
ear.

“Despite your doubt and questions, if this is
a mistake, whatever this is with Mikalo, then it’s fixable.

“So stop worrying and just enjoy it.”

I didn’t answer. He made it sound so easy,
but ...

“What?” Bill asked, responding to my unspoken
doubts.

“It’s so frustrating,” I said. “I’m not
usually this neurotic and insane --”

“No, you’re not --”

“Right. Thank you. But I can’t put my finger
on it. There’s this ... something.”

I stopped, the words for whatever this was
still not on my tongue.

“A something,” he repeated.

“Yeah. Like, a ton of questions. You know, is
this moving too fast? Is this real? Is he sincere? And what,
exactly, is this? Exactly? And why me? Right? He could have anyone
in the world probably. Why, out of everyone, why me?”