Read Johnson and the Monsters :: Just Johnson (4/4) — Productive

Evelyn barely remembered getting home.

Only fragments remained: yellow subway light, the reflection of his own bewildered face in the dark window, someone's shoulder brushing his at a transfer.

Everything else was Marcus Johnson.

His lips.

The sharp teeth that appeared when he smiled. The long tongue. The almost-white skin. Elegant, powerful fingers resting on a dark folder. His height.

That low laugh that sent an electric shiver down Evelyn's spine.

Again and again, Evelyn replayed the interview with painful clarity, remembering every pause, every delayed yes, every moment he'd openly stared at his potential employer instead of answering a basic question.

Mr. Johnson probably thought he was an idiot.

Or someone incapable of maintaining attention for more than thirty seconds.

Or — considerably worse — he had understood perfectly well what was actually causing Evelyn's distraction.

The thought made Evelyn hot all over again.

***

Marcus watched Mr. Gilmore leave.

The young man crossed reception with his spine held unnaturally straight and the concentrated expression of someone navigating a minefield between the office door and the exit. His cheeks were still noticeably flushed. His gray-blue eyes looked slightly wider than they had when he came in, and he held the folder against his chest as if worried it might try to escape.

Near Ollie's desk, Mr. Gilmore nearly tripped over his own foot, caught the slipping documents, and — without sacrificing so much as a fraction of his exaggerated politeness — said goodbye a shade more sharply than necessary.

Then he disappeared through the front door.

Marcus watched the frosted glass for another second as the candidate's blurred silhouette passed beyond it.

The young man had not come here by accident.

That had become obvious rather quickly.

An education far too good for an assistant's position. Two years of scattered contracts. A dead father. An unmistakable interest in restricted Department material.

Mr. Gilmore was looking for something, and he expected the agency to give him access to places he had been unable to reach alone.

The sensible decision would be to reject him.

Unfortunately, Marcus was already curious.

Gilmore was intelligent, too. Even badly flustered, he answered precisely, occasionally with a satisfying edge, and made no attempt to play the obedient applicant eager to agree with every word spoken by a prospective employer.

At first Marcus had assumed the strange behavior was simple surprise.

Humans sometimes lost their composure the first time they saw a visibly nonhuman lineage in person. Especially when they had expected an ordinary man with an ordinary surname like Johnson.

But surprise would have passed quickly.

The hungry look did not.

Gilmore had stared at Marcus's hands, mouth, and shoulders with such naked interest that any other explanation would have been an insult to Marcus's powers of observation.

The flushed face, uneven breathing, and increasingly desperate attempts to drag the conversation back onto professional ground merely confirmed the obvious.

It was amusing.

And, admittedly, a little flattering.

Especially because Mr. Gilmore himself was quite attractive: well groomed, slender, pleasant-featured, with the particular cultivated restraint that usually hid a much livelier temperament underneath. He wore a subtle, expensive fragrance, something Marcus — whose nose routinely suffered under aggressive cheap cologne — could not help appreciating.

Ollie slowly looked up from his computer.

"Boss, what did you do to him in there?"

Marcus shrugged.

"Conducted an interview."

"He looked like..." Ollie searched for a comparison. "I don't know. Like he'd seen your dick."

Marcus clicked his tongue softly. The brief hereditary sound carried more amusement than irritation.

"Hardly. In that case, I suspect the good boy would have lost consciousness."

Ollie stared at him for several seconds.

"I don't want to know."

"You asked."

"I asked about the interview."

"It was... productive."

Ollie grumbled.

"What is it now? His resume's excellent. The Department, elite education, artifact analysis. Can we please hire somebody already? I can't tail a guy in Docklands, answer the phone, and explain to clients why you refuse to write reports all at the same time."

"I write reports," Marcus said, mildly offended.

This did nothing to soothe Ollie. He rolled his eyes.

"'Subject turned out not to be the right person' is not a report."

"But he genuinely wasn't a person."

The phone on the desk gave a sharp chime and its indicator began to blink. Ollie grimaced as though the device itself were personally responsible for both overtime and every other misfortune in his life.

"Phelps called. Wants to discuss our Hauler."

"The van is fine," Marcus pointed out.

"It spent the night inside a freight container that did not exist in the registry."

"It drove out under its own power in the morning."

"Under my power," Ollie corrected flatly. "And for some reason William does not consider that convincing evidence that there was no insurance incident."

"Any damage recorded?"

"Dent in the roof. Unlicensed artifact rolling around in the back."

"The artifact belonged to the client."

"Which is exactly why Phelps would like to know what it was doing inside the insured van."

Marcus adjusted his cuff with complete composure.

"I'm busy."

"That was the last candidate today!" Ollie protested.

Marcus was unmoved.

"Then I have a meeting now."

"With who?"

"Myself."

He headed for his office.