Naive by Charles Royce (world best books to read .txt) 📕

and shivering body. His bare chest is splattered in crusty puke from the neck down to the waist, and his shoeless feet find it hard to figure out what his brain is telling them.

“You got this, pussy,” he says out loud. “You got this, pussy.”

He zigzags toward the sidewalk next to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, only to be struck by an oncoming cab, catapulting him onto its hood and discarding him onto the pavement below. He lands face up, contorted but moving. A brown soapy mixture foams in his mouth, as if he’d been spit from the sea. He convulses. Yellow pus begins to ooze from his left nostril down the side of his cheek, followed by a cascade of blood that carries the entire mixture to the ground.

✽✽✽

Jenna squeezes the last of her concealer onto her fingertips and spreads it under her eyes. She is at the offices of Cooper Harlow at 7am, as she often is, along with most of her coworkers. She is finishing the last of her makeup when she hears the ding of her text go off. She washes her hands, puckers her lips, and winks at herself in the mirror on the way out.

Morning light floods the offices of One World Trade Center. Jenna’s office is on the 52nd floor of the magnificent steel structure. As she walks to her desk, Hermès Birkin bag in hand, she relishes the breathtaking views of lower Manhattan and beyond.

Back in 2012, Cooper Harlow made national news as being one of the first tenants to sign the lease at One World Trade, which prompted other media companies to relocate downtown. The headline-grabbing move was also the major impetus that prodded Élan CEO James West to try and one-up his competitor by building the even more technologically advanced, more secure building to house Élan. Cooper Harlow has felt the hit, sparking countermeasures to offset their premature real estate move.

Even though she has had to live through the media giant having to sub-lease many of the floors because of their rival Élan’s dominance, Jenna closes her eyes for a second and smiles, grateful she has the opportunity to work here.

She grabs a quick cup at the small coffee station just next to her maple-clad, well-appointed Knowles desk station, which houses her and another assistant.

“Good morning,” she says to Petra, the other “her.” Petra is on the phone and does not acknowledge her.

Jenna tucks her white D&G blouse under her buttocks so it does not wrinkle, reaches into her purse, and pulls out her iPhone as she sits down. The phone’s face recognition doesn’t work fast enough for her, so she enters her password. 1-2-3-4-5-6.

She squints to see who sent the message. It’s James West, the CEO of her former company Élan.

Would you please come see me?

“What on earth?” she says out loud. Seeing a text from James West, her former boss’s boss, sends shivers down her spine. And she cannot recall a time when he was so formal. They used to work down the hall from each other, and when he wanted to speak with her, the usual subject was television shows and other pop culture nonsense. Most of the time he would just yell her name, with a loud “Get in here!”

“Petra, I’ve gotta run out, can you handle this nonsense while I’m gone?” She criss-crosses an open hand in the general area of her desk.

“Sure,” Petra is now off the phone. “You don’t do anything here anyway.”

The two assistants are both European, with similar senses of humor, so the sarcasm is not lost on either.

“Oh Petra, you always know just what to say!” Jenna does her best Karen Walker impersonation.

Jenna grabs her Jimmy Choos and slides them on without buckling the straps as she moves toward the elevator. She begins to call Josh on her way out, all the while dreading the long process of exiting the building through all the extra security protocols that had been put in place because of the murders and investigations.

She trips on the threshold of the elevator, losing one of her shoes as well as her phone.

“Josh, Josh!” she yells at the phone on the floor while she slips her shoe back on. She bends down and buckles the leather straps. She is fully aware of the three people in the elevator with her. “Josh, don’t hang up!”

She composes herself with little to no grace, and grabs the phone, only to find there’s no service.

“There’s no service,” says a short bald man in the elevator.

“No shit,” Jenna says.

She turns to the front of the elevator to await her exit at lobby level. Ray Montagne’s “Trouble” begins playing over the speakers.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Jenna says.

“Somebody has a favorite word,” says the bald guy.

Jenna, never diverting her gaze from her straightforward elevator stance, mumbles, “I’ll show you my favorite word, you sonofa—"

((Ding.))

Jenna exits and hits redial.

“Jenna, are you okay?” Josh says.

“Yes, darling, I’m about to go through security, lemme call you back.”

“You coulda just wait—”

((Click.))

Jenna throws her Birkin onto the conveyer belt, removes her David Yurman earrings and bangle, and throws them in the dog food bowl, as she calls it, along with her phone. She’s done this before. As her accoutrements go through screening, she walks through the metal detector.

((Beep.))

“It’s your shoes, ma’am,” the security guard says. “Those particular Jimmy Choos have metal spikes.”

“Dear God, is every man on this island gay?” She reaches down and begins to undo her heels, the leather straps making a whipping sound from the sheer force of her frustration. She throws them onto the conveyor belt. The guard smiles as he hands her back her phone and jewelry.

Jenna hits redial while she begins to re-accessorize. Josh answers.

“Jenna, I’m busy. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m so sorry. Thanks for your patience. You gotta help me.” She halfway throws on her shoes and hobbles toward the door.

She exits the building and turns left toward the west side highway. She bustles through the gathering