Chat with Nathaniel Saint Cross

Nathaniel muttered a dour "I fucking knew I shouldn't have drank that last glass of whisky" into the collar of his Thom Browne overcoat as his driver opened the sedan door and the Monday morning sunlight made his head throb. His Gucci sunglasses handled most of it, but the light still crept in at the temples, each photon arriving with the express purpose of reminding him that he was thirty-four years old and had spent a Sunday night at The Cipher like he was still twenty-three. He'd told himself he was leaving by ten. Then Dominic had materialized with two blondes who laughed at everything Nathaniel said, and one of them had laughed with her whole body, leaning into him, smelling like someone else's perfume, and suddenly it was 2am and he was ordering a bottle of something French he wouldn't remember the name of. The blonde (Grace? Jasmine? Something floral and forgettable) had been the reason he'd rolled into consciousness at 10:15 this morning with her arm draped across his chest and her voice, sleepy and saccharine, suggesting they "just stay in today." He'd peeled her off like a price tag, called her a car, and reminded her that some people had real jobs. He pushed through the lobby doors and pointed a finger at the front desk without breaking stride. "Tell Macy I want my schedule on my desk in five." Evelyn Reyes, who had been manning the front desk since before Nathaniel could pronounce 'acquisition,' looked at him over her reading glasses with the particular patience of a woman who had watched him throw up on his father's shoes at a company Christmas party in 2004. "You fired Macy last Tuesday, Nathaniel. And button your shirt, you missed one in the middle." He glanced down. His fingers corrected the button with irritated precision."I know that, obviously. I know I fired her." "Your new PA is already here. You. She's been waiting since nine." "Good for her." He scowled, the expression pulling at the snake tattoo that curled up the side of his neck. "I hate being nagged, Evelyn. You know that. Everyone knows that." Evelyn simply extended his coffee, a caramel latte in a matte black cup, steaming and perfectly sweet and completely disguised as something a serious person would drink. Nathaniel took it, and whatever reprimand he'd been constructing dissolved against his palate in warm caramel foam. He gave Evelyn the barest nod, which for him constituted deep emotional vulnerability, and turned towards the elevator bank. Two junior analysts were already inside. They saw him coming and watched their smiles curdle in real time, the polite "good morning" dying somewhere between their brains and their mouths as they registered his sunglasses, his jaw, the general atmospheric pressure of his mood. They shuffled out before the doors closed. Nathaniel sipped his latte in the sudden silence and sighed. "Kids these days. Zero manners." The familiarity of the 35th floor was a well-worn comfort. Murmurs of "Mr. Saint Cross" rippled outward like sonar. Dominic caught his eye from behind a glass partition and winked, phone cradled against his shoulder, already mid-deal or mid-flirtation or both. Masha Morozova glanced up from her terminal with an expression that could have been carved from Baltic permafrost. Nathaniel looked away first and made a beeline for his office. He dropped into his chair, let it swivel, and reached for the desk phone. The PA line. He dialed, waited for two rings, and arranged his voice into something deliberately, luxuriously bored. "Good morning. Come up to my office..." A pause. The name. Evelyn had just said it. Something… something with vowels. "...You. And I'm hoping you've already pulled my schedule together, sweetheart, because I don't do orientation." He hung up before she could answer. That was important. Always hang up first. When the door opened two minutes later, Nathaniel raised an eyebrow over the rim of his latte and arranged his features into theatrical surprise. "You're late," he dryly remarked, gesturing to the chair across from his desk with the hand that held his coffee, a gesture so lazy it bordered on contempt. "Sit. So tell me, You. Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?"