Cruz threw himself down in his office chair, ignoring the incessantly ringing phone. For once, someone else could answer that. Someone else would answer that if they wanted to keep their jobs. They had a damn receptionist, so why did he always answer the phone?

He would have slammed the door shut when he came into his office, but he didn't have a door. And to be completely technical he didn't have an office. The editor of a local magazine with a readership of exactly 15,000 didn't rate an office. He had a desk. A big desk in the back of the room, but it was still a desk.

He leaned back in his rickety chair, placing his feet on his scarred and coffee-stained desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Why him?

Cruz had thought his staff would have learned their lesson after last week when the issue almost didn't get to the printer because they missed deadlines. Not to mention the computer issues that occurred when two of them had spent time downloading some elaborate instant message system that was supposed to allow you instant message at work without your boss catching you. Causing the entire system crash probably wasn't the ideal way to accomplish that goal.

But no. His lone computer guy, who also doubled as the music critic, just informed him that another set of illegal downloads from another group of his writers were causing major slowdowns. His only reliable photographer had not shown up for his assignments and at least two of his writers had yet to book an interview with their subjects.

It had to be easier to just fire everyone and start over, he reasoned. Surely somewhere in this city there were decent writers and photographers who understood the concept of deadlines and using the work computer to work.

As quick as the thought passed through his mind, he dismissed it. His magazine was too local, which meant low pay. Most of his staff were in college or had just graduated the spring before. Cruz was both the longest serving member of the staff and the oldest.

"Yo boss man!" Axe, his computer expert/music critic yelled back to him. Axe's name would bring to mind pictures of shredding guitars, Ozzy Osbourne, and seas of moshing teenagers. In reality Axe's name was Glenn Williams and he adored musicals. "Phone call."

Cruz sighed. Typical. The one time he didn't pick up the phone it would be for him. "Rodriguez."

"Well don't we sound just peachy this morning?"

"This is not the morning, Spencer. Not the morning."

"All not well in the glamorous world of publishing?" It had taken years of careful listening Cruz could hear when Lucky was trying to keep back his laughter.

"Is there a point to this call or do you enjoy torturing those of us with real jobs?"

He had to give his friend credit. Lucky knew when to end a joke and get serious. "Just a heads up. Possibility of a CD test concert next week for Side Project. We're thinking at Stewars, but it could end up at Jake's. I'll get you the details later."

Cruz quickly scribbled the information down. Every since Lucky had become the head of A&D, he had passed along information about concerts and given early copies of the CDs to Cruz. It was a profitable relationship. Lucky got early word on the reception of the music and Cruz got an exclusive.

"Excellent. I'll tell Axe and he'll be there." He leaned his forehead onto his palm. "Dude, you have no idea how much this helped me out."

"Staff issues?"

"Three are AWOL, two are crashing the computer and Axe is..."

"Axe." They both finished at the same time.

"Relax my friend, this won't last forever."

"It won't?"

"Nah. You'll get a whole new staff of them come May."

"As my friend you are supposed to cheer me up."

"As your friend I'm supposed to be honest." In the background, Cruz could hear several voices entering into Lucky's office. "Look man, I gotta go. I'll catch you later okay?"

"Later. Don't work too hard. You don't want to hurt something."

"Go lose a reporter." Lucky replied cheerfully as he hung up.

He glanced towards the front of the office, spotting Axe easily enough. At six feet five inches he was hard to hide. Well that explained why the receptionist hadn't answered. Axe was standing right next to her, in a manner that clearly said, "flirting."

As the boss he should probably stop the flirting, but Axe was a decent reporter and the receptionist was a sweet girl. Let them be happy. The flashing new email icon in the lower right hand of his computer screen caught his eye. Idly, he clicked on it.

To: Hey sweetie!

Hey sweetie!

Just wanted to drop you a line today before it got too crazy here. Sometimes I think I actually work in a zoo. But anyways, I hope your day goes well and I can't wait to see you tonight.

Keep your nose clean, arrive on time (for once) and who knows...maybe you'll be handsomely rewarded.

Yours

There was motivation and then there was motivation. Cruz grinned widely at the promise in her note. Suddenly his staff problems just didn't seem so big anymore.

He didn't have a case against Emily Quartermaine, and Patrick knew it. She must have known it too, because she was sneaky in her stalking. The petite heiress made sure that only he saw her. If anyone else answered his phone, she would hang up. Her number came up unknown caller and there was never a way to call her back: where she failed in brilliance, she made up for in sneakiness. No one in his or her right mind would believe her of any wrongdoing. Of course she wasn't capable of slashing all four of his tires; he must have been mistaken. She could have paid a photographer to follow her around and take perfect portraits, so why would she waste her time obsessing about one measly picture Patrick had done of her?

He tossed and turned, his maroon sheets tangling at his ankles, leaving him trapped. Closing his eyes, he tried to figure out how he had gotten to this point and what it would take to dig himself out of this hole. Logic said that he should simply redo the photo, charge the girl nothing extra, and sleep easier at night. Patrick had tried to reason with her, but her reaction had been to cry. She had cried so loud, she had attracted attention—her secret agenda—and Patrick had had to take her elsewhere.

She was a spot on his spotless record and he gritted his teeth as he heard her in his mind berating his work; not just what he had done for her, but his other pieces too. He had all but thrown her out and, due to his poor choice in bringing her to his apartment, she now knew where he lived and had memorized his work schedule. That last point was an accomplishment considering he was freelance, but she remained unperturbed.

Patrick clenched his fists together when he thought about what she had done to his precious blue Ferrari. It hadn't been enough to slash the tires, leaving them flat and useless, but she had also busted in his front windshield with a tire iron. Patrick had cringed at the figure his paint and body guy had handed him. Nine grand! It was then that he wondered if bringing the authorities into the matter would help, that is, until he realized he was truly cornered. Emily Quartermaine could twist the story any way she wanted to and he doubted anyone would take the time to listen to the truth. She was mentally insane, not so drastic that she would commit these malicious attacks when or where she could be spotted, but enough to make Patrick want to change the locks to everything he owned.

The man in him said that being frightened of a woman half his size called his masculinity into question. The logical part of his mind pointed out that, without much effort, she could call him on a number of false crimes and destroy his reputation. She showed no signs of giving up until she got what she wanted. His business would be under scrutiny until she made up her mind about what she actually wanted from him.

Was that a scratch he heard? Had she climbed the fire escape and used her fingernail to tear through the screen on his window? He was sure he had shut and locked it, but he wasn't willing to put anything past that psycho. Patrick reached for his phone and called the front desk, reporting a strange noise and possible burglary. Ten minutes later, he was still awake, waiting for confirmation that she had been caught. Ten minutes turned into thirty and finally a call came for him.

"Mr. Drake?" Of course, Patrick gritted his teeth together. Who else would answer his phone?

"Did you catch her…er the prowler?" Patrick quickly corrected himself.

"It was a cat, Mr. Drake. If you have any other problems, please don't hesitate to call." It was code for, 'If you call me again, I'm going to have your phone disconnected.' Patrick placed the phone in its cradle and almost jumped out of his skin when the shrill sound of the phone pierced through the quiet apartment.

"Yes?" He was angry, but cautious. "Hello?"

"You're getting better. It's about time you joined the game; I was getting worried that this was all for nothing." It was her.

"This isn't a game, Emily. This is my life!" He argued.

"You can end this at any time." Emily assured him.

"I'm hanging up now." Patrick told her.

"You might want to have your brake lines checked out. They seem loose to me." And then, she hung up.

Patrick's next call wouldn't leave him feeling helpless. "Little cousin, I need you to meet me at my apartment, and do me a favor, huh? Don't ask any questions."