"Good work," I began again with my exit spiel.
"He stood me up again." Chandler took another swig of water. "I'm telling you—this guy is Douche Juice with a capital D. It's a wonder the two of you aren't friends."
I narrowed my eyes. "In other words, you've taken the very long route of telling me that you've been unsuccessful in this endeavor.”
I headed to the wet bar and poured a glass of Macallan. Two fingers.
"Au contraire! I made another phone call. This time to Shelley. Used all my charm and discovered that Mister Douche Juice isn't even in the country right now. But! He's opening up a new club in Austin and will be there in person tomorrow. I fly out first thing in the morning."
I picked up the glass and turned toward him, my brows raised in surprise. "Good work! Sounds like you really didn't need me at all." It felt surprisingly nice.
"Here’s where I need you,” he said, stepping over my congratulatory toast. “I need to know what the fuck you did to this guy to make him hate you so much and how the hell I’m supposed to get him to want to work with us now."
So much for that feeling of relief.
I crossed over to him, took the bottle of water out of his hand and replaced it with the glass of scotch.
"Well, thank you, bro. But it's only two-thirty. A little early for a drink, don't you think?"
"You asked me how I suggest you deal with him. This is my answer."
He scowled, but he took a sip of the scotch. “And why does he hate you?”
I didn’t even think before I answered. “We had a schoolboy rivalry. Simple as that.”
“No fucking way it’s that simple. Not when he’s going out of his way to mess with me because of my connection to you thirty years later.”
“Thirty years… It was half that long ago.” I paused a moment to do the math. Time flew faster than it had seemed. “Twenty years ago, anyway. How old do you think I am?”
“Don’t worry about your age, Hudson. You look good for pushing forty.”
“I’m not pushing…” I trailed off when I saw Chandler flash his cocky grin and realized he was trying to press my buttons.
I usually didn’t let him rile me up. The pressure was obviously getting to me.
“Might this Rutherford be our guy?” Jordan asked, leaning forward.
“No,” I dismissed quickly. Then I reconsidered. “Perhaps. If he’s really still holding a grudge.”
“What guy? The guy for this job, because if he’s not, tell me now before I fly to Texas tomorrow.” Chandler asked. “And is he really still holding a grudge?”
“Jordan’s talking about something else. He’s definitely still the guy for the Atlantic City job.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “Unless he is our guy,” I muttered to myself. “Which is very unlikely. I couldn’t possibly have wounded his ego enough to push him to this extreme now.”
I felt both men’s eyes on me, but it was Chandler who spoke first.
“Want to tell us what happened between you and Satcher and let us decide if he deserves to hate you today? Let me rephrase—because I know you don’t want to tell me anything ever, especially anything that has to do with you or your past, but maybe you could make an exception this once.”
He was right—this wasn’t a tale I wanted to tell. Jordan should hear it, but I could wait and tell him later, when we were alone. I’d worked very hard to protect my brother from knowing about the games of my youth, and there wasn’t any reason to change that now, but perhaps he did deserve this one sliver of my history.
I glanced at my watch to confirm the time. Two twenty-four, to be precise. I didn’t have to rush off just yet.
Unfortunately.
“Fine,” I sighed. I needed a drink first.
I headed to the bar and poured another glass of scotch for myself while Chandler slung himself into my armchair.
“What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing to the screen set-up where we’d been watching more victims from my past be interviewed for the sham tell-all. “Binging Scandal on Netflix?”
Jordan responded before I got the chance. “Something like that.”
“Nothing at all like that,” I corrected, not wanting Chandler to get the idea that I sat around on my ass, accomplishing very little with my days and still taking all the credit. “Remote interviews.” I took a swallow of my liquor, embracing the warmth of the burn and the way it loosened the tightness of my jaw and shoulders.
"As I said," I began, returning to the couch with my drink in hand, "we were kids when this took place. I’ve known Satcher for as long as I can remember. Our families were very close friends. I'm several months older than Satcher, but it worked out to being the same grade level. Before high school, we’d usually only seen each other on the rare occasions where our parents would bring their children to socialize with them—birthday parties, summer events. We didn’t tend to ever enjoy each other’s company, but it was never an issue until we were freshman together."
"Hold up, hold up," Chandler interrupted. He sat forward, pausing dramatically before asking, "Our parents had friends?"
I wondered for a moment if he was trying to be smart, but then remembered that Chandler was eleven years younger than I, and had seen a very different side of our parents then I had. "Yes. A long time ago, they had a small group of friends. It consisted of the Werners, the Rutherfords, and two other couples. They were all very entwined in each other’s lives, especially the Rutherfords and our parents. They were almost as wrapped up in each other as they were wrapped up in business and shopping."
"Why do you sound so sour about it? It’s kind of sweet, thinking about Mom and Dad hanging out with friends like regular people." Chandler had that puppy-dog look in his eyes that he often got. He was the kind of guy who overly romanticized most situations.
"There was nothing sweet about their entangled lives. It was scandal and dysfunction and alcoholism, each of them enabling each other in their addictions and encouraging one another to further ignore their children."
"Oh," he said nodding his head as though he understood. "Mom gave people attention other than you and you got jealous. Got it. Your life is suddenly becoming quite clear.”
I stared hard at him and scowled. "If you want me to go on, you will keep your inaccurate commentary to yourself."
He mimed zipping up his mouth, but his eyes gleamed like he'd scored some point in an imaginary game he undoubtedly thought he was playing with me.
I ignored him, and instead focused on Jordan. "As I said, Satcher and I didn't have much to do with each other in our younger days. Not much that mattered, until we were freshman, and finally in the same school together, where it became obvious that he had an agenda to earn a certain notoriety among our peers. Apparently, he felt that said notoriety would be best achieved by engaging in a feud with me. I'm still not sure why he chose me to be his rival—perhaps because I was the head of my class, an obvious choice, or because of our parents acquaintanceship—but our freshman and sophomore years were very tense, to put it lightly."
"Like what did he do? Steal your girlfriend? Instigate a fight after study hall? Did he get you sent to detention?" Obviously, Chandler had forgotten he’d zipped his mouth shut.
"I have never served a day of detention in my life," I said, making sure the air, and facts, were clear. "Our rivalry was much subtler than that. Yes, there were stolen love interests, both on my side and his, but that was nothing compared to the levels we eventually reached. Once he found out the subject of my final presentation for honors economics, he stole the idea and presented it before I did. I had to come up with a brand new idea and work frantically through the night to have mine ready the next day. Another time he convinced a student teacher that I was obsessed with her, and she ended up transferring classrooms because of it."
I didn't mention that I’d gotten him back for that one by writing a series of love letters to the men's rowing coach on Rutherford’s personal stationary signed in his name. That s
ituation had been quite sticky, leading to the coach confronting Satcher one day in the locker room. Thankfully, the kid knew judo and the teacher was fired.
In retrospect, I suppose the teacher was less thankful.
Of course, Satcher’s real wrath got taken out on me. Quietly and unnoticeably to the adults around us.
The two of us had kept on our war through two grades. I’d practiced manipulation on Satcher Rutherford, matching each of his moves with one of my own. We’d been quite alike, the two of us, each smart and witty, but where I had been cold with my calculations, he’d been passionate. His moves always had flair. He’d intrigued me for that reason. I’d envied him that—his heart. His fire. His ability to both feel and plot. It wasn’t a brand of power I’d encountered before, and I hadn’t understood it. He'd been a good chess player, for that reason. I'd seldom been able to guess his moves. Often, he’d had me cornered.
Until he couldn’t anymore.
“So then what happened?” Chandler asked, eager for more. It was strange how much I enjoyed his rapt attention.
I forced myself to quit drawing the thing out. "Long story short, the two of us didn't get along, and by the summer after tenth grade, I'd had enough of it. So when both of our families summered together at the Hamptons, I upped my game."
"You know," Chandler said turning to Jordan, "this is almost as good as Scandal. And that has a Pierce Industries in it too."
I could see the effort it took for Jordan not to roll his eyes, and made a note to give him a bonus.
“So? What did you do?” Chandler asked.
"I convinced Satcher's parents that one of them was having an affair." It had been easier than I’d expected. Their marriage had apparently already been fragile and on the brink. The simple placement of a pair of skimpy women's underwear, which I'd stolen from Chandler's nanny's quarters, tangled in bed sheets, along with a spray of my mother's perfume inside one of Satcher's father’s dinner jackets was all it took. It had been so simple to sneak up to their master bedroom plant the items I needed to while everyone was distracted during a summer weekend party.
I couldn't have predicted how far the stunt would go. Not only did the scandal cause the Rutherfords to separate, they also moved away from New York. “How was I supposed to know that neither parent would feel emotionally capable of handling their son on their own?” I asked innocently.
Chandler looked from me to Jordan. “What does that mean? I’m lost.”
"They got divorced and sent their kid to boarding school,” Jordan guessed, with no judgment in his tone, just clarification of the facts.
I nodded. "An all-boys school in upstate Connecticut. I haven't spoken to him since.”
Chandler's earlier look of awe turned to one of utter shock. "But that's… that's… that's so mean!”
“That type of unresolved animosity from one’s formative years might show up later in life.” Jordan’s meaning was clear—he was adding Satcher to his suspect list. Wisely, now that I’d thought about it. “I’ll follow up.”
“And you should say you’re sorry!" Chandler exclaimed, indignantly.
I threw back the rest of my scotch and set my glass down with a thunk before setting him straight. "I'm not sorry. That preppy little asshole wreaked havoc in my life. I was glad to see him out of it."
For once in his life, my brother’s mouth was open, but he had nothing to say.
Now I just needed to steer Chandler in the direction I wanted him to go.
I stood up and buttoned my jacket.
"I don't expect you to grovel for me either, Chandler. If that’s the route you choose to go, that’s on you. Frankly, I’m not keen on going into a business venture with him, either. My original intent had been… more subversive. If you had asked me, I wouldn’t have approved of the route you chose, clearly. But since you’re already walking that path, I recommend you use our dislike for each other to your advantage. Assure him that my feelings for him are mutual and that a partnership will both keep an enemy close and allow him to make money off me at the same time. He might find that gratifying. It’s the only reason I’m allowing you to keep on with this proposal.
“Or, you could take the simpler alternative,” I continued. “Call the secretary back, charm her into giving you the number of a consultant to help revive the club, and you won’t have to do any more business with Rutherford at all. It’s your choice.”
I was snippy, but I had enough guilt built up on my shoulders for the deeds of my past without my brother adding to the pile. And, for all the things I had to make amends for, Satcher Rutherford was not even close to being on my priority list.
In fact, I was rather proud of how that one had shaken out.
Little shithead.
“Now I’d love to stay and listen to you continue to compare my very real life to some overly-dramatic television show that has obviously used the name of our company in it’s scripting—Jordan, make a note to talk to a trademark lawyer—but I have another place I need to be. Enjoy your time in Austin.” I crossed to the elevator and left the loft with my head held high.
I was reasonably sure that after my speech, Chandler would stay away from Rutherford. An investor had been a good idea, but dealing with Satcher would come with risks. And all we’d really needed was someone to help guide a re-launch. It would be an easier task to find that person, and we wouldn’t have to worry about a foe from my past. A foe who very well could be currently threatening me.
But later, in the car to my appointment, I pulled out my phone and texted Jordan, just to be sure.
Make sure Chandler has security on him at all times.
11
Alayna
“My mission was fruitless,” I said, sinking into the chair across from Gwen when I returned to The Sky Launch.
Good friend that she was, she shut her laptop and gave me her undivided attention. “Tell me about it.”
“Mira didn’t think I should be investigating. In case it’s dangerous.” I propped my chin up with my hands, my elbows anchored on the desk. I left out the part where she was furious with me. I needed someone to be my cheerleader after all of this.
“I feel like I might have said the same thing…”
“And then you took it back, which is what makes you a better friend,” I said pointedly. She hadn’t really taken it back, but at least she’d humored me with my intentions and hadn’t threatened to tell on me to my husband. Good enough.
Though, if the situation really was dangerous, maybe a good friend should have been yelling at me.
But was it really dangerous? Or were the letters a scare tactic? What about the guy Stacy referred to? Who was that? Why wouldn’t Hudson tell me anything?
My head was consumed with questions—none of which Gwen could answer.
"Help me take my mind off it,” I groaned, wanting solidarity as much as anything. “Tell me something going on in your life. Anyone from the past haunting JC?"
Gwen chuckled. "No, but…" She craned her neck to look behind her, seemingly making sure that the door to the office was shut. Even though she had confirmed that it was, she still lowered her voice and leaned in to continue. "JC and I did decide that we're going to go to that party."
"The sex party? The orgy party?" I did not keep my voice down. I practically squealed. I was deeply, deeply excited by this distraction.
"Shh." Her face turned pink. "It's called an erotic party, and yes. We're going tomorrow night, so by the next time I see you, I should be able to tell you all about it."
"I want you to tell me all about it right now." I sat forward. "What are you going to wear? What are you going to do? Oh, shit, what if you see someone you know?" This definitely was getting my mind off people who wanted to do me and my family harm.
"It's formal attire and both JC and I have decided to wear masks. We are not doing anything. We are simply going as spectators. That's all." She looked at the clock. “And while I’m scolding you, it’s time to get you downstairs. M
y impression of Lee is that he's a pretty punctual man."
I stood up, once again smoothing my outfit. "All right, all right. But I want details after, okay?"
"Same to you. Tell me everything Lee says. Good luck!"
I grabbed my laptop and walked down from the office to the hostess station. I could tell the answer to my question before I even asked it, from the expectant way that she looked at me as I approached.
"Elsa, is there someone here to see me?" I asked.
She nodded with a smile. "Yes, Mrs. Pierce. He's waiting for you in Bubble Room Four."
Gwen was right about Lee Chong and his penchant for punctuality, it seemed. Just like my husband. By my clock I still had another seven minutes. But then, Hudson always said that on time was late.
I hustled across the floor and up the stairs to the bubble rooms, only stopping to catch my breath when I was outside Number Four. And then I paused, wondering if I should knock on the closed door, or walk right on in. It was always these details that fussed me.
I decided walking in was the strongest—and the bravest—so I threw my shoulders back, took another deep breath, put on a bright smile, and walked in the door. "Mr. Ch—Hudson." I froze, halfway to the table, my eyes locked on the man sitting there, who was definitely not Lee Chong, but was still familiar.
"What are you doing here?" I quickly replayed the conversation I'd had with Elsa. Neither of us had specifically mentioned Mr.Chong's name. There'd obviously been a miscommunication.
"I could ask you the same thing, Precious," he said, that sly grin of his turning up the corner of his mouth. "You said you weren’t going anywhere today. When I told you to stay put. Remember?" His gaze pierced into me. Challenging me.
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