I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There’s an immediacy to texts and emails that can’t be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.
By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don’t know the street address of Damien’s Malibu house. Odd, considering how much time I’ve been spending there. But it doesn’t matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:
Damien Stark, CEO
Stark International
Stark Tower, Penthouse
S. Grand Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90071
I can’t remember the street number for the tower, but under the circumstances I imagine that the post office can deal. I find a stamp in my wallet and affix it to the envelope. Then I slip out of the car and smile at Edward. “I need to shower and change and grab a few things. I might be a while.”
“That won’t be a problem,” he says, and as I head toward the stairs, he slips back behind the wheel.
I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about my plan. Edward undoubtedly has an audiobook, and it’s not as if he needs to go back to Malibu in order to drive Damien around. By the time he realizes that I have snuck down the back stairs to my own car, I imagine he’ll have gotten in quite a bit of quality time with whatever book he’s enjoying.
I slide the letter through the outgoing mail slot before I hurry up the stairs to the condo, calculating the time I have to shower and change and get to the office. Traffic was worse than Edward had expected—there was a wreck on the 405—and I am going to be more rushed than I’d intended. I know I could have simply worn one of the zillion outfits that Damien has stocked for me, but this new job is my territory. And silly or not, I want to wear my own clothes and drive my own car.
I expect to find the door unlocked, because Jamie never remembers to lock the damn thing, so I’m surprised to find both the dead bolt and the knob locked up tight.
I dig my keys out of my purse, then frown as I enter the dark apartment. She’s probably asleep, and I hope that she’s alone. She probably is. Though Jamie drags men home like stray cats, she routinely kicks them out once they’ve given her bedsprings a thorough shaking. It’s dangerous and I worry, because it’s almost become a game with her. Unlike the games I play with Damien, though, I don’t think there’s any sort of safeword for Jamie.
Her door is closed, and I consider passing by. But this is my first day at work, and I want to see my best friend.
I tap lightly on the door, then lean close to listen. I expect either a groan or a startled apology followed by a rush to the door and a hug for me on my first day. But there’s only silence.
“James?” I tap harder, but there’s still no answer. I take hold of the knob and turn, trying to both look and not look, just in case she finally let the guy she dragged home stay for the entire night.