by Maya Rose
Eli
◆◆◆
I cringe when the fob buzzes the door unlocked. It’s only a slight static sound, but at 1am it might as well be a blare. I start to turn the handle slowly open, before I catch myself. This is my place. My condo. It’s smaller than the space we were used to, but bigger than the two of us need. And nobody can take it away from me. Then why the hell am I walking in like an intruder? I followed his goddamn rule, like I always do. He said it with such a straight, earnest face, when we moved out of Warren’s house seven years ago. No bringing back the women you sleep with, Eli. Sleep. At fifteen, he could have said fuck. He didn’t. My brother, a grown up and a kid all at once. But I listened. So why does this always feel like a walk of shame? He’s twenty two now. Old enough for me to remove the training wheels. And yet, it’s like he’s still twelve in my head. Frozen in time, when I found him in the rustic treehouse he’d built in the backyard, that day we lost everything. Weeks later, he insisted on going back and watching the new owners tear the treehouse down.
I get my shoes off, but don’t bother to remove my suit or change into anything else before slumping straight into bed. I’m drifting off when my phone peals. Maybe one of these days I’ll keep it on silent for one whole minute and see what that’s like. Or be even more adventurous and switch it off.
It’s one of the Walton hotel lines, and my mind goes immediately on alert. “Yes?”
“Umm Mr King, it’s Josie.”
Damn it. Her untimely calls have hiked up in the last month. One insipid kiss that I forgot two seconds after it happened. Clearly, she hasn’t. I need to stop going to these employee events. The women fawn over me unabatedly, and although I never sleep with any of them, I invariably end up flirting or kissing or light petting with one, followed by weeks spent shaking her off. Then I stop, until I get bored again. Rinse and repeat.
“What is it, Josie?”
“Ummm...Eli...I mean Mr King…I’m so sorry to call you this late. Were you...were you...uh...sleeping?”
The coded subcontext in the stress on the last word is hard to miss. Is she actually calling me in the middle of the night to find out if I’m with a woman?
“Ten seconds, Josie. Then I’m hanging up.”
“What?! I--”
“9, 8…”
“A guest is threatening to sue.” She blurts out quickly.
People do it a lot, for really trivial reasons, and even though these dumb lawsuits don’t affect our reputation, they are a tedious overhead. Rubbing circles on my eyelids with my thumb and index finger, I sit up. “Why?”
“He slipped and fell near the swimming pool. Hit his head against the floor.” She’s talking really fast now, like my ten second counter is still running.
“Injuries? Concussion, bleeding?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Was it during pool hours?”
“Umm...I think so.”
Her replies rankle me. I can deal with her advances, and her newness at the job, but I draw the line at carelessness with details. But what did I expect from a former model trying to see if she can have a real career? That’s literally what she said in the interview. Goddamn Warren. I keep warning him against hiring people without any background in managing a hotel. And he always gives me the same answer. You didn’t have any experience either when you started, Eli. Now you’re the chief operating officer of 3000 of them. “You don’t have to think, Josie.” I grit out. “You have to know. Find out every single thing about the incident and then call Jason from the legal team for next steps. Find his number from the company directory. Text him if he doesn’t pick up. If he doesn’t get back to you by 9 am, escalate with Selena.”
“Uh...can I just call you instead, Eli?”
Eli?? Jesus, can they build a radar to spot the crazy ones? “No. You shouldn’t have called me at all.” I’m her boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss, for fuck’s sake. “You skipped 4 goddamn levels.”
“I uh...just thought…” She stammers, “...that night…”
“Don’t. Call. Me. Directly. Again.”
I disconnect the call and let my head hit the pillow again. Maybe I should call Selena so that she can keep an eye on this. But I’m still in the self-loathing phase of my post-sex routine with her. Five minutes of temporary relief, followed by resolve to not do it again, then self-loathing at how easily I broke the last resolve, then rationalizing that fucking the Chief Legal Officer is more convenient than spending time, money, and effort on the Josies. They always want more--more pampering, more publicity, more investment, more commitment...discreet no strings one-time fucking is not a concept most women seem to get, and that’s the extent of what I’m capable of.
We need to stop. Doing it once was an oversight. I was hard and she was available. But continuing to do it is moronic. Warren doesn’t like employees hooking up. And this is his chief legal officer and chief operating officer flipping a bird to company policy every few nights. But it’s easy. Without strings or expectations of exclusivity. Except sex on my terms, I don’t have anything to give and she doesn’t ask for more than I give. She doesn’t complain when I only take off my pants and underwear. Or that I never go down on her. She doesn’t even insist on eye contact. All of which is a pain to explain to random fucks, who start building some imaginary connection in their head with Eli King, the future of Walton hotels. Look at me, Eli, look at me. Why won’t you look at me? It’s sex. It’s mechanical. Penis, meet vagina. Why do we have to look at each other? I can only hope that someday, when it’s all mine, this arrangement with Selena doesn’t bite me in the ass. And with Warren’s illness, it’s not going to be long before the day of reckoning is here.
I’m up in a few hours, without an alarm. I don’t need one anymore. Sleep is not really my thing. I can only ever seem to take in a few hours at a time. Only ever enough for me to function without crashing. And today I want to catch Scotty before he leaves. You know what his answer is going to be. I’m still going to ask.
I find him finishing his breakfast in the kitchen. Some continental cold shit. We can now afford to order in the gourmet crap that I know he likes. But he won’t do it. He eats whatever he finds in the cabinets or the fridge. If there’s nothing, he eats out. Heaven forbid he ever has to initiate a conversation with me, asking me for something. Not after that last time, right after dad died, when he wanted me to complete my final year in NYU. So he wouldn’t be left alone with Warren and Jenna. My tuition was paid through till the end of the year at Stanford--why would I not use it? So I left. And reached to find Carter and Molly going at it like rabbits in my penthouse, on my bed. Apparently it had been going on for a while. They didn’t even pretend to be sorry. Then Seb pinned everything illegal he was doing in the other house on me. Warren resolved it of course, but Christ, the embarrassment. Fuck me for thinking I could be more than mom or dad. For foolishly trying to make friendships and relationships work. Fuck me for thinking I had them in the first place. It was quite a day. Had to give up my penthouse. Then spend two semesters living in the library and crashing on a sophomore’s couch, because I didn’t want to call any more favors from Warren. I lost a girlfriend I didn’t love, and friends I never had. Squandered my ego. Hardened my heart. Permanently alienated my little brother.
Now he won’t even ask me for butter at the table when it’s on my side. He’ll get up and get it himself, or he’ll go without it. I signed up for goddamn alerts on his tuition due dates just so he’s not kicked out of school. Then he goes and earns a full scholarship for college, so now I hardly have to pay for anything anyway.
He doesn’t look up from his tablet when I take the chair opposite him. Not a big surprise there.
“There’s this new property we’re renovating in Portland,“ I open straight away, “...and we need someone to design the lobby interiors.” He doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. So I go for it. “We’re thinking of a blended theme--traditional and modern. I was thinking you might like to give
it a go.”
He gives me that inanimate look he’s perfected over the years. “Thanks. But no.” He replies finally, and goes back to his reading and eating.
He hates me. I get it. Even eight years of just me and him against the world has not changed that. But why is he turning down the opportunity to do what he loves? In a Walton brand hotel for God’s sake. “Scotty, this is a great--”
“I said no, Eli.” Preoccupied with some drawing again, he doesn’t even glance at me.
I want to scream. Throw something. Tell him to look at me. Not even talk, because that’s clearly too much to ask. I’ve learnt that lesson. But just fucking look. Acknowledge. I hate you but you’re still my brother. But it doesn’t happen. Again, I rationalize, needing to keep this conversation in check. I wasn’t exactly expecting him to jump up in joy at the prospect of working with me. It’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t want to. So I digress. “What happened with the Caldwell contest?”
“I won it.” His voice is light, eyes still down.
Christ, that was an international thing. With over 350 design nerds from across the world. “Win meaning first place?” I can’t screen my surprise.
“Yeah.”
Fuck, he’s really good, isn’t he? I’m so glad he stuck with his passion. “Scotty, that’s amazing. What did you get?”
“Money. Fifty grand.” Then he does look up. Fully. “Do you want it?”
He delivers it with an intentional casualness. It cuts more when he looks on with a civil look, like he’s waiting for me, really fucking seriously, to ask him for his prize money check. I’ve never been much of a brother. I know that. And yes, I’ve been obsessed with earning money. But can he fucking blame me? We were this close to being out on the streets, had Warren not taken us in. But after I finished college, I provided for him. I made sure he finished school. I bought him every single thing kids his age are supposed to have, without him even needing to come to me. And now I’m just beat. What more does he want from me? Screw it. We’re strangers anyway. It’s just a couple more years. Maybe less, judging by his grades and the number of trophies he’s accruing. He’ll move out soon enough. At least then we won’t be forced to share the same space.
“Clean up before you leave.” I tell him, and haul my ass out of there. He’s gone by the time I come out showered and ready. The nag of self-reproach doesn’t take more than my first meeting of the day to disappear.
So much arguing over switching a housekeeping contract. Too many opinions flying across the room. I let them, using the time to go through my emails. Decline mentorship and trash fraternization requests. Then finally respond to the emails that matter, until my unread inbox for the morning is clear. Then I bring it home.
“Gentlemen.”
The timbre of my voice is low, easy. The effect is anything but, as the group gives me their uncontested attention. I learnt that from Warren. He sometimes only had to clear his throat for people to drop what they were doing within a second. Although in my case, it’s unenthusiastic. They listen to me because they have to. So be it.
I go on. “Let’s stop haggling over the price. We’ve seen an increasing number of complaints about EasyClean’s staff. They’re tardy, sloppy, and rude. And they’ve been given enough opportunities—and time—to course correct. But they’re not handling it. It’s unacceptable. We’re terminating their contract. Jack, don’t let them know till we have a replacement. I want this done by the end of next month.”
Jack, my director of operations, does not look pleased. It’s not about the contract. It’s about a punkass 31 year old, telling career hotel industry veterans what to do, when they’ve been here a lot longer than I have. There was a shit ton of dissent when Warren handed me the position. I ignored it and kept my eyes on the prize. Walton hotels. All ten billion worth of it. Because Warren has no one else. No kids. His wife Jenna, miscarried several years ago, before I knew them, and they told her she was done trying. Her body wouldn’t be able to handle another pregnancy. Maybe that explained the underlying despair in their relationship. To the world, they’re a fairytale. The dashing hotel tycoon, and his beautiful childhood sweetheart. I saw it though. The gaping hole between them, who knew why. But it meant no kids ever, not even adopted. The discovery psyched me out. Made me believe it. I’m meant to be king. It only made me work harder. I lived and breathed Walton hotels every moment of every day. Still do.
“Maybe we should talk to Warren before going down this path.” Jack says carefully, shifting in his seat.
I hate how it gets to me. How it makes me stop and doubt myself. Every fucking time. Am I making a mistake? Is this the right call? Just because I’ve made the right decisions so far, doesn’t mean I’m not going to fuck up sooner or later. Is that why they don’t respect me? Why despite being a raving workaholic, I’m just not cutting it? What do they see? Me or the ghosts of my father’s failures?
I don’t let them see any of it, and put up a stony front. “We can do that.” I tell Jack, without backing down. “And he’ll tell us to stop wasting our time on pointless discussions when the chain’s image is at risk. Do I need to remind you of the media nightmare that happened the last time you dallied on a decision?” He waited too long to fire a front desk attendant who kept harassing single female guests, and the tabloids painted it as a cover up to protect the employee.
I know I have him when he falls into a brittle silence, mouth set in a thin line. How do these people not learn? When it comes to unhappy guests, Warren doesn’t care what the price is. Jack doesn’t offer another argument again, although I know he’s far from convinced. What’s he gonna do though—escalate to Warren?
That’s exactly what he does.
Hours later, on my daily video call with Warren, he tells me with an entertained gleam on his face. “So Jack seems to have problems with your young blood.”
It’s not the first time somebody’s gone behind my back to get Warren to override me. But it still makes me defensive as fuck. “Warren, we’ve tried to get EasyClean to resolve their issues, but—“
He sighs and shakes his head. “Eli, you know it’s not about that.”
Here we go again with his damn be approachable lecture. It might have worked for him but these people need to be kept in line. They already doubt me. If I appear even marginally yielding, they’ll tear me to shreds. I’ll never be able to get anything done.
“They’re all adults, Warren. I’m their boss--they need to learn to deal with it. What do you want me to do? Sit them in a circle and sing kumbaya every day? Give them hugs?” I rant off before my brain gets to vet it. Shit, did I go too far? I’ve never minced words with him, it’s the reason why he trusts me. But my tone is always respectful, because that’s what I feel for him.
He adopts the stern look I never once got from either mom or dad, but have been overdosed on since I started at Walton Hotels. It equally thrills and irks me.
“If that’s what it takes for them to like you, then yes--that’s exactly what you need to do.” He declares flatly.
“Warren, they don’t like me because they want what I have. That you chose me over them.”
“Wrong. They don’t like you because you constantly remind them of it. Instead of persuading them and bringing them along, you walk all over them, acting like their opinions don’t matter. For fuck’s sake, you’re the only executive in the goddamn company who doesn’t honor the open door policy with interns.”
Acting? I’m not acting. And teaching or correcting bumbling interns is not how I want to spend the five fucking free minutes I get in my day. “Warren, we’re talking about overseeing operations for one of the world’s largest hotel chains. If I start caring about how each of our 100k employees feels, it’ll make me look--”
“Human.” He finishes.
“Weak.” I amend.
Bringing his elbows on the desk in his study, he starts to clasp his hands together. Then winces and drops them on the armrest, like they’re too heavy fo
r his elbows. He’s lost more weight. It’s one of those things that stop standing out because you see someone every day. Although it’s been weeks since I’ve seen him in person. Since the cancer regressed.
“Eli, they’re what makes this business work. The people that work here. You can’t treat them like they’re dispensable.”
He means well, but he’s mistaken. Relying on people sticking around is naive. Especially when they keep making mistakes. “Times have changed, Warren. People leave. It’s literally the one thing we can count on them to do.”
“Times have changed, Eli.” He tosses back levelly. “So why are you still living in the past?”
I don’t live in it. But I sure learn from it. From neglectful parents, ungrateful friends, gold-digging cheating girlfriends, mercenary relatives. But I know better than to go down this rabbithole with him. “Fine. I’ll talk to Jack about his concerns.”
He gives a short, wry chuckle. “For your sake, I hope you’re a better liar than you are at making friends.”
“And if I’m not?” I ask him pointedly. He’s the smartest man I know. He knows what I’m asking. And by now, I’ve asked him in every way possible except outright. Is Walton hotels mine?
He gives me this grave, maudlin stare. “Then take it from someone who knows, kid. It’s not a fucking myth--it is lonely at the top.”
Only, I’m counting on it. But he’s sidestepped my question. I really can’t tell if he just likes keeping me in some sort of contrived suspense, or he’s actually undecided. Is it because Jenna doesn’t like me? Or because his reservations about how I handle people run deeper? But who else is as capable or as driven? Time’s running out. He’s been given months to live. If he doesn’t profess a preference before he...shit…, then the board is going to choose his heir. And none of those vintage fucks have a particularly soft spot for me. I’m too aggressive for their old-fashioned tastes. But then why did he promote me? And if he did, what the hell is he waiting for now?
I get my answer a week later.