I will overtake.
Three male voices boomed inside the private room.
One of them — Cal’s — quieted as he leaned over a large rectangular table, eyeglasses in hand, twirling them by one of their arms.
Bill — the man with the protruding belly, the buttons on his too-tight shirt looking ready to burst — stood across from Cal. And the third — a short man, the one they’d been waiting for, Martin, the latecomer who had insisted on transacting business in the home of a man Cal didn’t know — paced near the other end, locks of greasy hair hanging over his forehead, a hand in his pocket, a paper in his fist, mumbling under his breath.
A moment later, Cal stood tall and glanced up.
The flapper stood right outside the study in her gray 1920s-style dress, tugging her necklace and peeking through the wooden blinds of the closed French doors.
Cal smirked, then went back to work, his voice echoing with authority, eyes domineering. For a few minutes, he forgot about her.
But she hadn’t moved.
Bill and Martin continued debating as Cal stalked toward the doors. Upon reaching them, he began to pull the string and close the blinds while peering into this lonely woman’s eyes, absorbing the blue-star-flower color of her irises as they faded against the whites. Cal’s own eyes shone bright, absolute, communicating something else entirely: I shall have what I want. I will overtake. I will lay you out and be done.
He blinked.
Bit back another grin.
Then the shutters finished smacking shut.