Page 44 of Shattered Veil
His hung-up shirts rival the best layout at Barneys or The Armoury. Rows of crisp linen and raw silk long-sleeve shirts take up a whole wall. One section is drawers of neatly folded polos, bright white undershirts, graphic T’s, Henleys, and in one drawer alone, MIT merch. Sweatshirts, logo T’s, joggers, and zip-up hoodies.
One wall houses his shoes. Loafers. Oxfords. Monk straps. Boat shoes. Top brand sneakers. And hidden in the back, combat boots.
The faint blue and white paint splotches suggest they may be from the paintball craze. Because this man certainly isn’t painting houses.
I never thought about being a stylist, but I love dressing up Balor. Once he’s put together and comes down to eat, I smile watching this handsome man beautifully dressed move through the kitchen pouring his coffee, thinkingI did that.
I catch his lingering stare that speak volumes about how much he wants me. But he hasn’t touched me.
“I saw something on the schedule about a meeting a few hours north of here?” I say, fixing his tie.
His eyes bore into me. “We’re visiting a semiconductor factory.”
Like other meetings, I manage his phone. In the passcodes he handed over without hesitation was his home screen lock pin.
I’m floored by his trust in me. Or it could be he knows I don’t have the slightest clue what to do with a stranger’s phone.
A man in a suit greets us at the factory, and a few minutes later, I realize he’s the CEO who works out of Hong Kong. He flew in to meet with Balor, personally.
This had been scheduled before I started working for Balor, and all I saw on his calendar was: Chip Warehouse Walkthrough.
For a hot minute, I thought we were going to Frito Lay.
After the standard tour, I’m handed a hazmat suit and minutes later, we’re in a quadruple-locked lab. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that they’re making custom semiconductor chips to Balor’s specifications. He talks freely around me, and my chest tightens when it all comes together.
I smile and nod, feigning boredom, all while my insides are twisting.
Balor is building weaponized drones.
We peel out of our hazmat suits an hour later, and when my legs tangle, I nearly fall on my face, but Balor catches me.
“I got you,” he drawls, his hands around my waist.
Damn, that feels good.
“You got me? Who’s got you?” I say with a smile.
He laughs and tugs the rest of the ugly plastic suit offme. “Superman fan, huh?”
“Sorry, Batman. I’m team Clark Kent. The movies, though. Not the comics.”
“I collected comics when I was younger.”
“They’re probably worth a lot of money.”
“I guess.” He shrugs. “I would never sell the comic books that got me through tough times.”
“Tough times? You?”
He pushes those dark, thick glasses up his nose almost robotically. “I was bullied as a kid.”
This floors me. “What suicidal moron bullies the son of...”
Balor tilts his head, alarm darkening his eyes. “There were a lot of us in my family. People lost track.”
“Some say it builds character.” I straighten my spine.
“And an enemies list,” he says low. “I got hurt rather bad my freshman year at MIT. My brothers... Took care of it.”