The Chancellor building downtown bustled with a revolving door of people coming and going from the twenty-story high-rise filled with a variety of businesses. One of those was the city’s fastest-growing newspaper, CityBeats. Not waiting to ride the merry-go-round of traffic, Dylan blasted through the double glass doors and barreled through the sea of frustrated corporate types to a bank of elevators in the middle of the ground floor. With a quick glance at the wall, she noted the suite number and slipped in between the closing doors.
The oppressive stench of cologne and perfume choked Dylan on the ride up. The malodorous chemicals in such tight quarters were one of the many reasons she hated the corporate world. At least in her line of work, the aroma of sex and sweat masked whatever floral scents women wore. When the door opened on the next floor, she prayed it would alleviate the claustrophobic pain in her chest. It didn’t, as even more people pressed together in this rising can of sardines.
At last, the automated voice called out, “fifth floor.”
Dylan slammed her way out, more so to ease the poisoning by chemical warfare disguised as beauty products. With a cough, her lungs opened and so did her eyes. The logo for CityBeats. Everything flooded back to her. Ari. The club. Her report. The lies. And her missing angel. She needed to have a word with this Terry Bradwell fellow.
Everything in the office sparkled with gold trim. Not a rich shade of gold, more like an ultra-neon gold that burned her eyes. It also hinted to those who knew better that CityBeats wanted to be high-end but just hadn’t made it yet. The three-dimensional letters behind the spunky receptionist called her forward. Dylan cast a wide survey of the news desks to the left, rows of grunt workers in front of computer screens with cell phones to their ears. Probably all looking for the next gossip story that held no relevance to actual news. She didn’t care about those people. Her hunt was for the man who hired and fired, and his face wasn’t among them.
“Hi. May I help you?” the little spunkster behind the desk said, offering a fake smile because if she didn’t, someone would complain, and they’d replace her with someone else. That was how corporate politics played.
Time was of the essence and if it had been any other day, Dylan would have flashed an egoistic grin of pearly whites that would have this woman questioning her sexuality. This was not one of those times. “I’m looking for Terry Bradwell.”
“Mr. Bradwell is in a meeting right now. Do you have an appointment?”
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