I know, I know – it’s been waaaay too long. Oh, well. There was work. And then there was other work. Then there was life. And then there was history. And all those things that keep you from writing, like discovering that Supernatural is actually a really, really good series.
But I’m digressing. NaNoWriMo is almost over and of course I didn’t participate (although I have managed to make a few edits in a manuscript that has been lying around for some time), so I’m already feeling bad for not writing enough these days. Shame on me.
To make up for it: more about Eliot, demon hunters and cats that can cook.
Demon Hunters and Other Problems – Part V
“I can’t! I won’t! This is totally out of the question!” I was sitting on Ross’s office desk, trying to explain why he should get some of our other ad people to create Mr. Fletcher’s campaign.
Unfortunately, Ross wasn’t interested in my repulsion. “So you don’t believe in demons, fine. Neither do I. But Mr. Fletcher has money. And we’re talking a lot of money. He’s paying us up-front and so we will do all we can to please him and create the biggest ad campaign this city has seen in years.”
I groaned. Nobody at the office knew that my owner was New York City’s famed demon hunter “The Destroyer”, and now insisting on my private life backfired massively. “Look, I don’t care if he owns the United States gold reserve, I just can’t work with him!”
“You have a problem with gay people now?”
I wanted to say something, but my mouth just hung open in confusion. I mean, my gaydar was famously bad, but Fletcher? Seriously, which gay man out there would combine shining white teeth with tanned skin and ash blond hair?
But Ross seemed convinced that he totally spotted it. “Come on, a man who wants to plaster New York City with pictures of himself? He’s gotta be gay. Plus he squeezed my ass when we were waiting for the elevator.”
Ouch. I shuddered and Ross didn’t look to happy either as he recalled the experience.
“Look, Eliot, I would ask someone else, but they’re all really busy with that new United Motors campaign. The new CEO doesn’t like our comic style anymore, so we gotta think of something else, and quickly.”
I sighed and nodded. There was really no way out—for the moment. If I created a few really bad campaigns—
“And don’t even think of screwing up on purpose. I knew what you’re capable of, I can spot sabotage from three miles away.”
I sat in front of my Mac and stared at the blank page in front of me. If this had been a campaign for Mommy, the page would have been full with words of praise and cool slogans that appealed to Millennials and Baby Boomers.
But writing for Mommy’s new arch-enemy? Impossible.
Instead of agonizing about it for another hour, I turned to my smartphone. To my delight, Oliver had replied to my messages. I had hoped for a selfie or maybe even a heart emoji, but he had opted for plain text. Oh, well.
Seems like you had fun last night.
I cocked my head. What on earth was he trying to tell me? “I had fun, too, let’s meet again tonight”? “You had fun, but I didn’t, don’t send any more messages”? “Why are you sending so many messages, are you a greenhorn kitten”? “I’m too shy to ask you out, please ask me”? “I’m bored, please call me”?
After giving it half a second of thought, I opted for the last option and called him.
“So you’re a housecat.” He didn’t sound particularly happy, nor particularly annoyed. A mystery cat. Which is totally attractive.
“I’m not. But my job is—annoying me.” Also, my job is really boring and I didn’t want to bore Oliver. “What are you up to?”
“Oh, just some magic shields. Our home isn’t secure enough yet,” he said casually and for some reason I found it extremely sexy.
“So you are a housecat,” I said mockingly, hoping he wouldn’t feel offended.
Oliver giggled. “I’m not. I’m a freelancer, it’s my decision when—and if I work.” God, he was perfect. No, more than perfect. I felt myself yearning for him. “I’ll probably go back to bed now. Or watch some Netflix. There’s that new zombie-horror, their algorithm thinks I might like it…”
I tried not to groan. Why did he have to tease me, why couldn’t he just suggest that we meet up right now? I showed my claws. Everything I had to do myself. “How about… We meet? For lunch? Right now?”
Oliver didn’t react for a few long moments and I almost believed he had hung up on me. “10:30 is a bit early for lunch…” he finally mused.
“Call it brunch, then,” I said slightly enerved.
Oliver yawned. “I don’t know…”
“I’ll bring salmon bagels,” I made one final attempt.
After what seemed like an eternity, Oliver finally said the word I had hoped for. “Okay. Franklin Street. I’ll send you a map.” And with that he hang up.
I sighed out of happiness. And then I remembered that Franklin Street was located in Tribeca. Like, New York’s most expensive neighborhood. What had I gotten myself into?