Boston's Man-Eater

V

6.30 AM, I was already sitting by the hood of my car outside of Tony's apartment.

Impatience and anticipation gnawed through me.

But finally, (Ugh!) the doors burst open, and out he came rushing down with the camera belt between his teeth, hurriedly buttoning down his checkered shirt.

"Hey!" He breathed out with a flushed face.

"Good morning," I handed him one of the coffees from my holster.

"Thanks," he smiled gratefully.

"Welcome. Ready?"

"I guess."

God knows how much time I had left until my equilibrium shattered to pieces with my wheels racing down the route.

I looked crazed and overwrought, with a 5 o'clock shadow that I had not bothered shaving off.

How I wished there was a better song playing on the stereo, unlike that Pumped Up Kicks song that mismatched the situation at hand.

Tony slurped his coffee so loudly, too loudly. It took everything in me not to grab the cup and toss it out the window.

Thankfully I didn't—instead, I took mine and inexpertly tried to multi-task, but all it did was spill over and dampen the front of my black t-shirt.

Well thank God for black, or else I'd have lost it.

My breathing became irrelevantly heavy as we slowed down and parked in front of the familiar gate.

Stretching my arm out, I pressed the intercom and spoke to a man who reluctantly granted me entry access.

A loud, yet gentle clicking sound came from the gates, and they slowly pushed forward in a way that made me shiver.

"Okay?" Tony mumbled, taking a few pictures of the extensive garden and house exterior.

The driveway adorned black and white stones, and the sands crunched beneath the tires as we approached the oak-wood doors.

It was a pretty lavish house; I considered using it for an article, and ripping off Architectural Digest if there wasn't anything of use.

Tony whistled in awe as he craned his neck up to review the magnificent grandeur of His/Her Grace's castle.

I nervously rang the doorbell, and it creepily dinged and echoed from inside, as Tony urgently breathed and wiped the lens.

Why didn't he just become a fellow member of Boston's paparazzi?

After what seemed like an eternity, we listened to clicking footsteps until the double doors swung open.

I must've choked.

Why?! I screamed inwardly, mustering up a plastic smile.

"Miss Salander, hello."

Her short hair was tied into a top knot, and she flaunted her bare-face, cold eyes receiving me with scrutiny.

I flushed.

I had clearly disturbed the last minutes of her beauty sleep—or at least that's what I thought, because she had a silky robe on, transparent enough for the black lingerie to appear beneath it.

This woman did extremely well when it came to marketing her brand—I could've sworn she had less shirts than I had in my wardrobe.

"Keith," she finally acknowledged, sipped her red wine from a glass.