Jeff stared at his phone for a long moment after the message sent. The blue sky outside the window mocked him—all that brightness, all that heat, and he couldn't feel a thing of it. He picked up his coffee, took a sip. Cold. He set it down and left it there.
His office was three floors down in the same building—a glass box overlooking the pool deck where the show had been set up yesterday. The crew had already broken everything down, and the space was empty now, the morning sun bleaching the concrete pale. He sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and stared at the email inbox. Forty-three unread. Mostly vendor invoices and booking requests for next season. He scrolled past them without reading.
His phone buzzed. Christian.
Brunch? I need to tell you something.
Jeff typed back: On my way.
He closed the laptop without sending a single reply and grabbed his keys.
Christian's apartment was on the twenty-eighth floor of a building on Brickell, all dark wood and white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass that made the city look like a postcard you couldn't touch. Jeff let himself in with the code Christian had given him years ago—still the same, still four digits: 1923. Christian's father's birth year. The man was sentimental under all that British irony.
Christian was already on the leather sofa, barefoot, wearing a white linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar. A glass of something amber rested on the armrest. He didn't get up when Jeff walked in, just lifted his chin in that way of his—half greeting, half assessment.
"You look like shit," Christian said.
"Felt like shit." Jeff dropped onto the sofa opposite him, let his head fall back against the cushion. "Tisha. The girl from the show. Eighteen years old, asked me for money for a bag and a nail fill this morning. I sent her home in an Uber with nothing."
Christian took a slow sip of his drink. "And you're surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm bored." Jeff opened his eyes, looked at the ceiling. "Same shit, different day. That's what I texted you."
"I got it." Christian's mouth curved. "Eloquent as always."
"What about you? How was your night?" Jeff sat up, reached for the bottle on the table—scotch, good stuff. He poured himself two fingers without asking.
Christian was quiet for a moment. Then he set his glass down and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "Interesting."
"Interesting how?"
"I met someone at the after-party. After you left with that girl—what was her name? Tisha. I stayed. Had a drink. Watched the crowd." Christian's eyes went distant. "Then I saw her."
The after-party was still loud when Christian spotted her. She was standing near the bar, alone, a glass of champagne in her hand that she barely touched. She was young—maybe twenty, twenty-one—with dark hair pulled back and a dress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. Deep burgundy, high slit, fabric so thin he could see the shadow of her hipbone when she shifted weight. And her ass—Jesus. Full, round, the kind that made the dress look like it was holding on for dear life.
He had a rule: he never approached first. He waited. Made eye contact. Let them come to him. That night, he broke the rule.
He walked over, ordered a water, then turned to her like he'd just noticed she existed. "You're not drinking that."
She looked at her glass, then back at him. "I'm not thirsty."
"Then why are you holding it?"
"Because it's something to do with my hands." Her accent was soft, maybe Colombian or Venezuelan. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they didn't flinch away from his.
Christian smiled. "What's your name?"
"Sofia."
"Sofia. I'm Christian." He held out his hand. She took it. Her palm was warm, slightly damp. Nervous. He liked that. "You here alone?"
"With a friend. She left with someone."
"So you're alone now."
"I guess so."
He didn't waste time. "I have a car downstairs. Let me take you somewhere."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she set the champagne glass on the bar and said, "Okay."
In the car, he didn't start the engine. He reached across and pulled her into a kiss. She tasted like mint and something sweet—lip gloss, maybe. Her mouth opened under his, and he felt her breath catch. His hand found her hip, slid down to her ass. Squeezed. The fabric of her dress was so thin he could feel the heat of her skin through it.
"I want to fuck you," he said against her mouth. "In the ass."
She pulled back, just a little. "I'm not comfortable with that."
"Not tonight, then. But eventually." He kissed her again, softer this time. "Tonight, I just want you."
She didn't argue. She let him put her on his lap while he drove one-handed, the other hand on her thigh, her mouth on his neck. She was small, light, and she fit against him like she belonged there. Every time he stopped at a light, he kissed her again. By the time they reached his building, her dress was bunched around her waist, and he could feel the wet heat of her through her underwear.
The apartment was dark when they walked in. He didn't bother with the lights. He pushed her against the door and kissed her hard, his hands finding the zipper of her dress, pulling it down. The fabric fell away. She stepped out of it, and he looked at her—small breasts, dark nipples already hard, a body that was soft and tight in all the right places. She was beautiful. Young. Vulnerable.
He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.
The sex was fierce. He laid her on the bed, spread her legs, and went down on her until she was shaking, her fingers in his hair, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She tasted clean and sweet, and she was tight when he slid two fingers inside her. She gasped, arched her back, and he felt her clench around him.
When he entered her, she screamed. Not a moan—a full, raw scream. Her hands gripped the sheets. He paused. "You okay?"
"Yes. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He fucked her hard, deep, the sound of his hips against hers filling the room. She was so tight, he could feel every ridge of her walls gripping his cock. She came twice, maybe three times—he lost count—and each time she screamed his name.
And then, when he pulled out, he saw it. A smear of blood on his thigh, on the sheets. Bright red. Fresh.
He stared at it. "Sofia. Were you a virgin?"
She didn't answer. She was on her side, her back to him, her breathing still ragged. He saw her shoulders tremble.
He got up and went to the bathroom. Found some ointment, a clean towel. When he came back, the bed was empty. The blood was still on the sheets. Her dress was gone from the floor. The front door was closed.
She was gone.
Christian finished the story and picked up his drink again. His hand was steady, but Jeff noticed the way he didn't meet his eyes.
"She just left?" Jeff said.
"I was in the bathroom for maybe ninety seconds. She was gone when I came out. No note. No number. Nothing." Christian took a long swallow. "I don't even know her last name."
Jeff sat back, processing. "So you fucked a virgin and she ran away."
"Apparently."
"And you want to find her."
Christian's jaw tightened. "If she was a virgin, and I was her first—that's not something you just walk away from, Jeff. That's not nothing."
"It's a one-night stand, mate. Same thing that happened to me with Tisha, except she wanted money and yours disappeared."
"It's not the same." Christian's voice was low, sharp. "She didn't ask for anything. She didn't want anything. She just—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "I fucked her, and she bled, and then she left. That's not a transaction. That's a person running."
Jeff was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "What do you want to do?"
"I want to find her." Christian met his eyes now. "I don't know how. But I need to. If she's out there, and she's scared, and she's alone—"
"You think she's your soulmate?"
"I think she might be something. And I'll never know if I don't try."
Jeff shook his head slowly, but there was no mockery in it. "You're serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything."
Outside, the Miami sun was climbing higher, bleaching the city white. Jeff finished his scotch, set the glass down, and said, "Well, then. I guess we've got a girl to find."