“What’s wrong, mister?”
Donnie hadn’t asked the obvious question: “Who are you, mister?” Donnie didn’t know him; not like he knew Donnie. But the idiot wanted to be helpful anyway. Such luscious innocence. It felt like falling naked into a mound of silk-encased pillows. In a city of lions, this guy was a lamb. He knew he’d chosen the right method, and the right victim.
“I’ve lost my kitty. Can you help me look for it?”
“Mr. Ruskin?” the woman’s edged voice shook Aiden out of his reverie.
He blinked and re-focused on his surroundings. His home office. The magazine interview. Right. “Pardon me. What was the question?”
The journalist gave him a penetrating look, pink-gloss lips thinning slightly before she re-assumed her charming smile. "I said ‘This is such a beautiful office.’”
“Thank you. When I first came to the City, I dreamed of living in the Village.” No need to mention the $13 million dollar price tag – that was a matter of public record. “I really fell in love with the history of this place, so when it hit the market I snapped it up. This house was the Place To Be Seen in New York during the 60’s - you wouldn’t believe the parties they used to have.” He chuckled and shook his head theatrically. “I’ve only hosted the one so far, but it was a success by my standards.”
At a signal, Aiden paused and there was a flash of the camera. He continued when the photographer lowered his lens. “I do think all those massive personalities and creative minds left something of themselves behind though - well, something besides great luck throwing parties! Since I’ve moved in the words just flow onto the page.” His smile was tight now. It sounded so good when he said that in an interview. Nothing to indicate it was his own personal Hell.
“Is it haunted?” she giggled while casting her large baby blues around the immaculately modern room. Did she expect John Lennon’s ghost to stroll in for a visit?
Aiden looked past her to the northern “wall” – a nearly transparent barrier made of black-framed skylights at a 20 degree angle and glass-panel doors which could be slid aside to open to the entire room to the patio garden and seating area. The early spring sunlight streaming in turned the woman’s short white-blonde hair into a halo Aiden hoped she didn’t deserve. The light also illuminated the tasteful and expensive oriental-style prints hung on the brilliant white walls. The scent of teak wafted from his desk, blending nicely with the subtle jasmine perfume the journalist was wearing. Creative spirits might make a nice joke, but a space less haunted was hard to imagine.
He also didn’t believe in ghosts. “Not that I know of. I don’t sleep here often enough to find out.” Wink.
Those pink lips quirked in response, closer to a suppressed laugh than a smile – even more promising in Aiden’s book. “I guess you would be very busy, given your amazing success.” She glanced back down at her notepad, black lashes kissing her tanning-booth skin. “How does it feel to have your name at the top to the New York Times Bestsellers list again?”
The tacturn, bushy-bearded photographer repositioned his subject. Aiden endured it, but having his photo taken was something he hated. Being reduced to two dimensions did nothing to improve his blandness and thoughts of soul-stealing cameras always crossed his mind. In the new pose he sat faux-casually, one hand propping his latest book upright so the lurid blood-red title of Shinbone Alley glowed under the reflectors. The other hand cupped his lightly-stubbled chin. It was a thoughtful pose, contrasting with the inanity of the question.
When his very first book had hit #1 and stayed there for months, it had floored him. The second time had provoked satisfaction. By now it was expected and a little draining. He didn’t say that - you couldn’t say that.
