pick you up at your door and escort you to the car personally.”
I hesitate before answering. Not only is it stupid to invite some stranger up to my apartment, it’s also a waste of time for him to make the trek.
“That’s all right. I can just meet you out front.”
“Orders, Miss Peters,” he says, as though that’s supposed to mean something to me.
Randall sounds pretty committed to fulfilling his boss’s instructions and I don’t feel like arguing with him. After living in Brooklyn for the last six months, I should be tougher.
“Okay, come on up.” I press the release button for the front door.
Randall knocks twice, firmly, instead of using the buzzer. I open the door and I’m met by a man with sparkling gray eyes and a polite smile. Randall is probably in his early sixties with a full head of salt and pepper hair and a face lined with wrinkles. He’s dressed impeccably in a black suit and tie. My apprehension about inviting him up disappears immediately. A kindness glows in his expression that can’t be forced.
He extends his hand to me. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Peters.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.” I smile and shake his hand. “I feel bad about you coming all the way up here. The elevators are awfully slow. I could’ve met you outside.”
“It’s my responsibility to escort you to the car, madam. One needn't bother with the elevator when they can take the stairs.”
The stairs? That fast?
Randall shows no signs of exertion. He’s a lot older than me and even I couldn’t walk up ten flights in that short amount of time without being at least a little out of breath.
“Shall we, Miss Peters?” He gestures down the hall.
I think about telling him to call me by my first name, but perhaps that can wait awhile.
“Okay, let me grab my things.”
I pick up my black clutch purse and house keys from the coffee table. After I lock up, Randall escorts me to the lobby. Thankfully, we take the elevator; my feet wouldn’t fare well if I had to walk down all those stairs in heels.
Randall holds the front door open for me. My jaw drops when I see my ride. A vintage, shiny dark gray Rolls Royce sits in front of my building. I thought my street looked run down before, but it looks ghetto in contrast with this luxury automobile. I’m surprised the car isn’t sitting on cinder blocks already and spray painted with profanities.
If Randall wonders what he’s doing picking up Mr. Merrick’s date from such a ragged apartment building, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he holds the rear passenger door open for me, smiling politely. I climb inside the vehicle and sit down, crossing my legs and placing my purse in my lap.
Randall shuts my door. The engine engages automatically and the flashy dashboard lights up like the Manhattan skyline. A wide LCD flat screen television is mounted in front of me. There’s ample legroom and the white leather seats are embroidered with Mr. Merrick’s initials.
Randall takes his seat behind the wheel and looks over his shoulder at me. “Seatbelt, please, Miss Peters.”
I stop gaping and clip my seatbelt into place.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Randall faces the front again, punches a code into a keypad positioned next to what could be a stereo or an instrument panel for a rocket launcher for all I know, and then we’re off.
The center console hums as it moves toward me. The lid lifts and a yellow light glows from within.
“Mr. Merrick arranged for several items to be available during the drive for your convenience and comfort,” Randall says. “Inside the console you will find a computer tablet with a selection of magazines and books, and if you look to your left, we have a cooler with a lovely selection of vintage wine as well as non-alcoholic beverages such as distilled water and soda.”
“Uh, thanks.” My response sounds more like a question because I’m not sure what to make of all this yet. Next thing I know, Randall will
I hesitate before answering. Not only is it stupid to invite some stranger up to my apartment, it’s also a waste of time for him to make the trek.
“That’s all right. I can just meet you out front.”
“Orders, Miss Peters,” he says, as though that’s supposed to mean something to me.
Randall sounds pretty committed to fulfilling his boss’s instructions and I don’t feel like arguing with him. After living in Brooklyn for the last six months, I should be tougher.
“Okay, come on up.” I press the release button for the front door.
Randall knocks twice, firmly, instead of using the buzzer. I open the door and I’m met by a man with sparkling gray eyes and a polite smile. Randall is probably in his early sixties with a full head of salt and pepper hair and a face lined with wrinkles. He’s dressed impeccably in a black suit and tie. My apprehension about inviting him up disappears immediately. A kindness glows in his expression that can’t be forced.
He extends his hand to me. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Peters.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.” I smile and shake his hand. “I feel bad about you coming all the way up here. The elevators are awfully slow. I could’ve met you outside.”
“It’s my responsibility to escort you to the car, madam. One needn't bother with the elevator when they can take the stairs.”
The stairs? That fast?
Randall shows no signs of exertion. He’s a lot older than me and even I couldn’t walk up ten flights in that short amount of time without being at least a little out of breath.
“Shall we, Miss Peters?” He gestures down the hall.
I think about telling him to call me by my first name, but perhaps that can wait awhile.
“Okay, let me grab my things.”
I pick up my black clutch purse and house keys from the coffee table. After I lock up, Randall escorts me to the lobby. Thankfully, we take the elevator; my feet wouldn’t fare well if I had to walk down all those stairs in heels.
Randall holds the front door open for me. My jaw drops when I see my ride. A vintage, shiny dark gray Rolls Royce sits in front of my building. I thought my street looked run down before, but it looks ghetto in contrast with this luxury automobile. I’m surprised the car isn’t sitting on cinder blocks already and spray painted with profanities.
If Randall wonders what he’s doing picking up Mr. Merrick’s date from such a ragged apartment building, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he holds the rear passenger door open for me, smiling politely. I climb inside the vehicle and sit down, crossing my legs and placing my purse in my lap.
Randall shuts my door. The engine engages automatically and the flashy dashboard lights up like the Manhattan skyline. A wide LCD flat screen television is mounted in front of me. There’s ample legroom and the white leather seats are embroidered with Mr. Merrick’s initials.
Randall takes his seat behind the wheel and looks over his shoulder at me. “Seatbelt, please, Miss Peters.”
I stop gaping and clip my seatbelt into place.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Randall faces the front again, punches a code into a keypad positioned next to what could be a stereo or an instrument panel for a rocket launcher for all I know, and then we’re off.
The center console hums as it moves toward me. The lid lifts and a yellow light glows from within.
“Mr. Merrick arranged for several items to be available during the drive for your convenience and comfort,” Randall says. “Inside the console you will find a computer tablet with a selection of magazines and books, and if you look to your left, we have a cooler with a lovely selection of vintage wine as well as non-alcoholic beverages such as distilled water and soda.”
“Uh, thanks.” My response sounds more like a question because I’m not sure what to make of all this yet. Next thing I know, Randall will
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