Birds of a Feather

1/ the games we play

The chill that runs down my spine fails to cool my heated skin. Cold sweat coats my forehead as I stare at the half-drunk martini in a tall, sugar-edged glass. One would think the air would be thinner up on the fortieth floor, but it's just as thick as near the dry asphalt.

James Charles, The Guardian's eccentric investigative journalist, drinks rum and coke at the counter next to me. He's a rather handsome guy; green-blue eyes, light brown hair, high forehead, broad shoulders. His hands are too nice, though, moisturized and manicured with nimble, thin fingers. His suit is too expensive, too. Black Desmond Merrion, a special collection I've only seen worn once in Dubai. The sheik wearing it thought too highly of himself as well.

However, it is neither his looks nor his money, but his reputation that which catches attention. In the past two years, he's investigated everything, from corporate fraud to organized crime.

Conversation starters exchange in my mind, all dumb and vague. It sure is hot in here, isn't it? I hope the heat wavers soon. How's the drink? The waiters are impossibly slow, aren't they? Would you like to risk your life by reporting about the most dangerous crime family in NYC at the moment?

My dark hair glues to my neck, heavy and sweaty on my olive skin. The cherry-red material of my gown should be pure silk, but the way it sticks to my body makes me think there's polyester in the mix. I should've worn something loose-fitting; the tight dress squeezes my waist as if trying to choke me to death.

Terrace sliding doors are all open, allowing the thick, humid air inside, but it does not reach me. People mingle through the open area filled with red lounges and dark carpets, all dressed in the finest evening gowns, black suits and bow-ties.

I can barely hear the violins over the pounding in my ears. The high-pitched notes pierce through my skull, though, like a reminder that I'm not alone in here. I take a sip; the martini feels dry on my tongue.

The words slip from me almost by accident.

"God, how can it be so hot this high up?"

James Charles chuckles, his blue-green eyes sliding over me, "The people here suck all the air out of the room."

"Agreed." I salute.

He lifts his rum and coke in the air, "Join me on the balcony?"

"Why not?" I offer a smile. "I seem to be stood up anyway."

The journalist pulls away from the counter and a small frown etches between his eyebrows as he looks over me. I watch his eyes slide over the tight, off-shoulder dress and the slit spreading from my thighs. The frown deepens for a moment as if his brain is trying to make the connection. Forcing my face into neutrality feels harder than usual, especially with my heart still pounding in my earlobes. The frown disappears.

"Who in the world would stand you up?"

A sigh leaves my lips as I stand up, "An interviewer."

"That's a shitty interviewer." James offers a hand. "I'm James."

I take his soft hand in mine, "Emma."

Lie.

He gestures towards the balcony, "So, what are you interviewing for, Emma?"

I follow him through the crowd, "A job. Well, an internship."

Lie.

"At the 1211 Avenue?" James faces me, a small smirk grips his lips but I don't hold it against him. "Someone's aiming high."

The view of New York City spreads in front of us as if on a platter; thousands of lights flicker underneath, creating an illuminated veil of buildings, sky-scrapers and streetlights. Above the veil, an unnerving, moonless sky sharply contrasts the buzz and the clamour.