Breakfast was at the table when he finally walked through the double doorway from the lounge room, which had a hallway that ran down the side of it to the bedrooms and the rest of the house. The kitchen had a nice view of the front of the house, through the large window in front of the dining table. Peter was still busy getting ready for work when his wife called out to him. As he finally took his seat, he made sure his tie was slotted properly into the collar of his shirt with a careful yet deliberate tug.

Scrambled eggs over two pieces of toast and a glass of orange juice was the only menu available, but his appreciative smile and his a peck on his wife's cheek showed he approved. He let his hand linger on her protruding stomach, still smiling at her as she sat down next to him.

"You better eat up. You'll be late again."

Peter nodded. He may have been the bread winner outside the home but she was the boss around the well maintained, above average representation of his status. They'd done alright for themselves. He had a decent paying, secure job. And his wife was also to become the mother of his child.

Being the head editor of New Orleans Daily had its perks. You knew what was real or not, given the contacts and the industry itself. News flooded everywhere. Sometimes it was legit. Other times, a rouse of some sort. Something to get the masses excited, and possibly to forget about the reality unfolding around them.

His life was simple. His ambitions, even simpler. As he gazed into his wife's eyes, still touching her belly, it was about the life to come. That small bundle of anticipated Joy. It would change everything. But maybe, the winds of change were already afoot. With the radio softly playing Annette Hanshaw's Body and Soul, Peter took his wife's advice and tucked into the light meal before him. Today was to be a big day at the office.

As with his home life, Peter's time at work was simple. He'd meet and greet members of the writing staff to hash out ideas for them to go away and work on. He'd meet with executives to be reminded of his place within the company and what he was suppose to be doing. And in between it all, he'd try and keep a slither of his soul by listening to whatever melody came across the radio in his office.

He sat there, eyes glued to the envelope on his desk. It was about time to go home again, the day coming and going like a blur. They usually did, unless something tragic kicked off a storm of reactions that had him feeling like he was on the front line in a world war of gossip. Today was normal. No massive worldly happenings to shake a news team at. Except for what his gaze just couldn't pull itself away from.

The figure had come and gone, just like his work-a-day routine. Most had already left the office. He was the last to leave on most days, but half an hour after the cleaner was a new one for him. His hands were firmly clasped behind his head. His arms, stretched outwards. His feet, kicked up on his desk.

Alexander Knight's Emergence was soon to debut. The envelope, containing instructions on how the paper was to handle the review. The business was cut throat. Yet instead of daggers, the industry used propaganda to slay the competition. A wrongful article at the right time and within the right readership could spell disaster. It could inflame and stoke the beginnings of a soon to be damaged reputation. And in turn, a flop of a career.

The information inside the envelope was simple. Peter had already read it and was sitting on the demand. The headline accompanying Alexander's release would be 'Emergence? More Like Disappearance of Music Chivalry.' As Georgia on My Mind played on a radio in the background, Peter sighed. Today was turning out more difficult than he'd anticipated.

It looked like dinner was being served at The Black Horse. That, or dessert. Whichever way you looked at it, Peter was here for something similar. With briefcase in hand, he eased past the two bodyguards at the front and went straight for the bar once inside. The place was thick with it; the walls practically dripped with lust. Peter sat down at his usual seat and nodded towards the barmen.

Moments later, he felt a hand run across his shoulders before it lay there as a familiar voice made itself known. It was a sultry voice. It spoke of the environment they were both in and how she could take him to another realm. She spoke of what she could, and would do to him. What her body would do. What her hands would do. And what her lips would do.

He was a family man. Peter had a baby on the way. He lived to provide for them. But he also had needs. Those which weren't currently being fulfilled, and one's that The Black Horse could. He was a man of principles yet he was also a man, and as she spoke her sweet nothings into his ear, his arousal kept growing. A family man, who was horny enough to forsake his marital vows.

After a quick drink, then another, and a third to build the courage, she led them both upstairs. It wasn't his first time here. He knew what to expect, but each time he felt more and more guilty. If he didn't have those relaxants, he may have turned around and walked back out. His first time here was that way. And his second. On the third, he couldn't leave. His work and his home life had him in need of a release. Three drinks later, he was on his way to doing exactly that. 

The glow of the dim red light against the number 11 reminded Peter how much this was already like the last few visits. Same room. Same worker. And hopefully the same experience. As they entered, she went to the bathroom, but not before turning on the radio where In the Mood by Glenn Miller chirped out of the speakers.

Peter loosened his tie, placed his briefcase next to the bed and got himself comfortable on an armchair situated in the space between the bed and the bathroom. Her show, would be the usual. The tease before the business end of it. As she exited the powder room, the sex oozed off and out of her. She exaggerated her movements, and her posture. Her seductive glances were overdone too. But it was what he wanted. What he ordered. And she was just the worker to serve him what he needed.

Her life wasn't the best. Rough childhood. Rougher relationships because of it. She worked at different spots, at more reputable and respectable jobs before making a go of prostitution. But with the economy on the slide and a child to take care of, the single mother went with what she knew best. She had the looks. The long legs. The full lips. Eyes that spoke of her intentions before she could even mouth them. And the experience. She figured, if she can't make money doing the most natural act in the world, she didn't deserve to call herself a women.

And so here she was, taunting Peter with her femininity. Her sex appeal, on fire. As she finally sat on his lap, she shot a quick glance towards a side table next to the bed. An envelope caught her attention. Her facial expression changed slightly because of it. Lost was her teasing eyes which were replaced with nervous energy. Before it took full hold of her, she turned her attention back to Peter and began kissing his neck.

She'd been paid to be here. And not just by the man she was to pleasure.

The next morning Peter was already at the table. His wife's rally call as she walked out of the kitchen was cut short. Usually he'd still be upstairs meddling about with his attire. He always wore the same thing. White pressed shirt with striped tie, black slacks and matching blazer. It wasn't that he needed to think too much on it, as his wife sorted his clothes for him every morning. It wasn't even that it took him that long to get ready. It was simply his compounded guilt that ate at him and which sent his mind reeling into the land of nothingness.

Today though, he was already seated. Startled, she paused a moment before continuing her daily morning routine. Cereal, milk, some dried fruit and a glass of orange juice were added to the table which already had a thick envelope on it. Peter was lost to the world. He didn't even realize his wife was now in the same room as him. His hands flicked at the corners of the envelope, rhythmically, as his mind sank deeper and deeper into an inner abyss.

He could barely hear her as she spoke to him with a concerned look on her face which resonated in her voice.

"Peter."

"Hello"

"Darling."

"Peter, are you okay?"

"Peter?"

He glanced up casually at first, still carrying a blank expression. Then suddenly the shock hit him which caused his panic to knock over the orange juice, onto the envelope.

"Peter! What's the matter?"

Instinctively, his wife went to clean the mess her husband had made. But in a tiff, as he just wasn't himself, he snatched the envelope which she was in the process of moving, right from her hands. He couldn't let her see the contents. It would ruin her. It would ruin them. He'd practically already done that, but it was still hush hush. A secret not yet let free. This would change that forever. And his dream of finally becoming a dad.

Peter's mundane existence as head editor for New Orleans Daily wore on him too. Once he got to the office, he tucked away the envelope in his draw and just as Susan walked in. He sighed deeply, as she began spouting off the day to come. It was always the same. Meet this person to hear some shitty story. Meet that person to hear some shitty story. The place was dead. It had no pulse. All it spewed out were headlines that captured nobodies attention, because they weren't about the real issues, and content that fluffed over shit people shouldn't be reading.

That was the business in general. The media kept people asleep so the real issues weren't addressed. And so the real problems kept being profitable for those that knew how to twist them into some greenback. The soulless world he was stuck in already pulled what was left of his spirit into the underbelly. He fucked his troubles into someone not his wife because of it. It was putrid, but it was all he currently knew.

After not listening to most of what Susan was saying, Peter waved her away. She noticed he looked different. She would've asked how he was if she herself hadn't lost that compassion many desk jobs ago. He slumped forward on his desk as she left his office. He breathed in the stale air that hardly circulated in his shitty excuse for an space. Not because the room sucked, but because the job sucked the life out of him, everyday.

His hands were outstretched as his face rode the pine. The cool surface was comforting, in an odd way. It was a contrast to everything else. It stood out and soothed him. As he felt like he'd finally broken, something happened. All of the months of fucking about behind his wife's back and dreading coming into work seemed to be the catalyst for something ironically freeing.

There was a spark in that moment. Something that shun through his consciousness. There was a gap, that came about due to his not really giving a fuck anymore and throwing in the towel. He was at the lowest point he could get, and yet, there was a silver lining. He pushed himself up and opened his desk draw, removing the envelope.

A smirk finally appeared on his face. Then, light laughter. Then, a louder bit of laughter. It made sense now. He slapped the envelope back into the draw and moved towards the typewriter in front of a window that had a view over the lively street below. With fingers punching the keys, he typed what his heart wanted and what someone had gone to hefty lengths to make happen..

'Emergence by Alexander Knight; The Shining Armor in Today's Music'

And as he typed away, the sound of Love For Sale on a radio within the office seemed to have been turned up a notch and was appreciatively heard by Peter as he continued to punch out his positive review of the new album.

It was now night time and Peter was looking outside his office window. Only parts of the street were lit up by a single street light or the glow from the stars. Peter glanced over at his desk clock. He had somewhere to be. His meeting was a very important one. Peter packed up his desk and locked everything away before collecting his brief case and coat. He pushed himself out of his chair and skulked solemnly across the office towards the front door.

The rain outside was lashing down, bouncing off the curbs as it struck. Peter took a look at his watch, he could not be late so would have to brave the conditions. Stepping out into the street the rain splashed against his face, sometimes so hard it was blinding him. He almost wondered if this was Gods way of punishing him but he quickly rubbished that thought. With his briefcase now being used as an umbrella, Peter made his way to the Race Street Pier.

Approaching the Pier, Peter was somewhat of a wet mess, his only ambition was to find some shelter but he knew that was not possible. He looked around for a brief moment, taking in the sights of the Pier while he did this, wondering where the man he was supposed to be meeting here could be. Out the corner of his eye he noticed the shadow of a tall man, holding an umbrella.

Smoke filled the air around him and he could just be made out under the light of a single lamp post. Approaching the man, slightly envious that he had an umbrella, he could be seen wearing a smart dinner jacket and just a casual pair of slacks with smart shoes. Eye contact was found and the two men stared it out, with no word spoken for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, the corrupt agent handed Peter another envelope. He took it swiftly from his hand and stuffed it into his soaking wet coat and without a single word the corrupt agent turned and left. The man worked for Race Street. He was employed to take care of this thing, and to do it in the right way. It was a bit of a mess. But everyone involved was fighting for something. They were all survivors. All family orientated. All paid off by Race Street Company to make sure Alexander Knight's album wouldn't be tarnished before it even got a chance to make its own mark on history.

Peter stared up to the stars, rain dripping off of his face and running down his hair. He let out a single sigh of relief and while he was standing there, he took a moment to reflect on what had just happened and he wondered to himself if it was at all necessary. He nearly on a daily basis ruined his family life by meeting those whores and he had to fight to survive getting himself wrapped up with gangsters. But what else was he to do?

Peter turned away from the pier and headed back home. While he walked in the drizzle, his thoughts were about various things as he hummed his favorite song. Music kept him strong. Music kept him going and in that very moment he realized how important music was, and not just to him, but to everyone. He had a lot of things to change in his life and a lot of problems to sort out but he had a new inspiration to do it. And he'd start by publishing that article the way it should be.