Primal Promise

One

"Move that piece of shit outta my way!" 

"Fuck you! You're the son of a bitch who can't tell a red light from his daddy's dick!" 

The cacophony of horns around the sudden fender bender at Broadway and Yamhill made the few minutes he was trapped in the creeping line of rubbernecking masses feel like days. Even inside the climate-controlled and soundproof Escalade, he could smell the stench of urban humanity. Jameson Holt despised coming into the city.

He had been alone on an island in the Caribbean for two weeks, the only sentient being for miles. Clean air, blue sea, white sand... Paradise. He'd hoped the vacation would clear his head, but if possible, he was more frustrated than when he'd left. 

If he had his way, he'd remain at the vineyards, at the ranch, or at his little mountain cabin. Thanks to the glories of internet communication and delegation to trusted employees, he rarely had to venture into Portland. Still, there were occasions like today that demanded his personal presence. He'd had Herb put as many of the 'only the C.E.O. will do' type jobs into a single day as he could. Jameson would deal with them, then flee back to the quiet of the country life. 

The car pulled up at the service entrance. It was the only way to reach his office without having to wade through the inevitable throng of sycophants and tattletales that pounced on their oh-so-rare opportunity to speak directly to the boss. 

He inhaled deeply, jaw clenched and eyes closed, a last cool breath taken before plunging into the inevitable overwash of scent. His driver opened the door and he sprang out, seemingly in mid-stride even before he hit the pavement. 

Six feet, three inches, he walked with purpose and held himself in a way that made him seem even taller. Though more comfortable in casual attire, he had put on the required 'I'm the boss, be impressed' suit, its dark wool seeming to catch the light and draw it in. 

His blue eyes shifted with his mood, and like his temper now, they were stormy, clouded by deep swaths of gray as he fixed them on the door just a few yards away. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked, muted by carpet when he stepped inside. The asphalt exchanged for polished white tile, the warm Oregon breeze turned to the more sterile coolness of A/C. 

As he walked, a figure moved up from a side door to trail just a step behind and to his side. "You look better. The island must have agreed with you." 

Though a good six inches shorter and three decades older than Jameson, Herb Downey moved like a man in his prime. His hair was what every man over forty would envy, still thick and wavy, though it had gone to snow-on-steel, a white underlaid with a deeper gray that highlighted his eyes of dark iron. 

Where Jameson was lean and lithe, Herb was square-shouldered and thicker under his suit jacket. His face wore lines that betrayed a propensity to deep emotion, crinkling at the corners of his eyes and mouth that whispered of a thousand smiles and lines in his brow that told of long nights worrying over things. As both his godfather and the man who he trusted to keep things in check - as he'd always done for his father - Jameson viewed Herb as the single good thing about having to travel into the office. 

"Herb." He gave the man a nod. "What is on the agenda today?" 

"Here you go." Herb handed him a color-coded spreadsheet of every meeting he had scheduled for the day. It would have been useful to have had the agenda emailed to him last night, or even on the way in, but Herb was rather slow to pull himself into the world of electronic devices and preferred the feel of paper in hand. 

Jameson listened to Herb run through his own copy as he perused his. The schedule was quite packed but that meant he'd be able to get things concluded quickly. The Smythe-Cotton would never take the hour it was occupying. There'd be handshakes, a short recap of the season and he'd sign the check to fund another round of theater for the inner-city youth. Ten minutes tops. If he worked through lunch, he might be able to get out of the city far sooner than expected. 

He was inwardly shortening meetings, moving things about, when he found himself being restrained by Herb's hand against his arm. He stopped short and looked up. The elevator door was closed, though the panel beside it was open and bare wires stuck out at all angles. As if on cue, a workman in heavy gloves came around the corner, toolbox in hand.

"Watch it..." Herb chuckled. "Looks like we have no choice but to go through the lobby."

Jameson growled under his breath at the inconvenience. "You can go through the lobby. I'll take the stairs." Even as he spoke, he was already heading toward the stairwell.

"Are you implying I can't keep up?" Herb scoffed amiably, following in Jameson's wake.

In silence, they mounted the stairs, the echo of swift footsteps in the stairwell making a staccato cadence as, one by one, the floor numbers passed by. The distance between them growing slowly larger with every floor they passed.

Herb lost sight of Jameson on the landing of the ninth floor, and by the eleventh, was contemplating slipping out and taking the elevator the rest of the way. He'd never live it down if he did that though.

Huffing as he pulled himself up to the next landing, mouth opened to say something about young pups when he caught sight of his boss again. Jameson was standing stock-still on the landing of the fifteenth floor.

Herb's steps slowed as he drew closer. The empty stairwell fairly crackled with the tension radiating from Jameson. It thickened the tongue, making it seem dangerous to speak, to move, so Herb remained where he was, halfway up the stairs, coiled in the wake of the unseen storm brewing.

Jameson had only caught a faint note of mingled scent as he breezed past the door, but it was enough to hit him like a baseball bat in the gut. Instantly he was back there. Fifteen days, thirteen hours, thirty-seven minutes ago. 

The night he'd nearly lost everything.