Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  “You’re wasting my time.” MacLaine’s chair pushes away from the table as he rises to his feet.

  My gaze stays trained on the spot he just vacated. “Sit.”

  “If you think”—

  “Sit.” The command booms from me. He lowers into his chair.

  I let him stew in his cowardice for a moment—let him linger in the humiliation of accepting my command. It’s better than I imagined, bringing a MacLaine to heel. He’s not the one I want at my feet, but he’s delicious practice.

  “Those men don’t know it yet, but they no longer have an interest in MacLaine media or your family’s assets,” I inform him.

  Green eyes bug from their sockets before he can rein himself in. He clears his throat, his fingers loosening the silver tie at his neck. “I’m not sure my investors”—

  “Your collectors,” I correct him. “The day your father died all partnerships and subsequent financial arrangements died with him. But you know that, don’t you? Mr. Harding would have advised you as much.”

  Malcolm glances, stricken, to the man at his right. Later, Harding will explain who I am and how he knows me—I wonder if he’ll tell the whole story—but even he isn’t up-to-date on current events.

  “No Senate seat to dole out favors,” I continue. “No almighty media network to stir the pot. Not after the fines from the FCC and the loss of half your family’s newspapers to bankruptcy. Do you know how many of your papers have been liquidated recently, Mr. MacLaine? I do.”

  “That’s none of your business.” His voice shakes as he speaks. He’s putting on a front. I can’t exactly blame him for that. I would in his position. Although, I’d never be in his position.

  “It is my business. As of this morning, I hold a significant share in MacLaine media.” I pause to let the news sink in and relish his shock. The pleasure is second to only one thing, and, before long, I’ll have her just where I want her, too. “Your father divided his interests poorly. I’m sure Harding told you that.”

  “How much?” He mouths the words more than he speaks them.

  “Enough, I’d imagine.”

  There’s a flash of triumph in his eyes at this revelation. “You don’t know what he left us.”

  “No, I don’t, but I do know that forty-nine percent of MacLaine Media holdings were sold off by your father before his death. Care to guess how much of it I bought?” God, I couldn’t enjoy this more if I had Adair bent over the table so they could watch the family getting fucked in more ways than one.

  Even across the room, I see the slide of his throat as he swallows this information. Maybe Harding hasn’t broken all the bad news yet. Silence roars between us, deafening in its implications. I’ve always been comfortable alone with my thoughts—comfortable weighing my words before I commit them to the world. Malcolm doesn’t share this characteristic.

  “That’s impossible,” he explodes. “Harding?”

  The lawyer’s lips press into a thin line. It’s answer enough even for Malcolm, who seems the type that needs things spelled out for him.

  “I want to see the will tomorrow,” Malcolm mutters.

  “The reading is set for”—

  “I don’t give a damn. Make it happen. Now,” he snaps.

  Harding’s head shakes as he exits the room. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s exchanged one tyrannical business man for another, but this is worse. Malcolm MacLaine is a class below his father. From my research, he’s half as shrewd and nowhere near as cunning. Still, a snake in the grass can bite.

  Neither of us speak for a minute after the lawyer is gone. Malcolm is smart enough to weigh his words. There are no witnesses to what happens here. He knows that. Normally, that might induce him to tell me off, but now there are other considerations. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. If I’m telling the truth—if I’m in possession of a significant portion of the MacLaine assets—it won’t be hard for me to snipe his business associates. It won’t matter what he claims happened between us. Money talks. Money speaks a language of lies, greed, and betrayal and everyone wants to be fluent in it.

  “What do you want?” He manages to say evenly, although white-knuckled hands clench the table edge.

  It’s a loaded question. There’s what I’ll tell him I want and what I really came for, but the two desires are inextricable from one another. I hesitate to look as though I’m considering. I’ve planned this moment, waited for it, and perfection can’t be rushed.

  I know all about Malcolm MacLaine. I know he went to Valmont University and graduated summa cum laude. I know that his education was purchased, courtesy of a time when the wealthy could still buy their children success. I know how he met his wife. I know her secret. I know his secret. I make it my job to know the dirty truths people try to hide. The only thing more valuable in this world than money is knowledge. The right information is a never-ending paycheck. All of my research on Malcolm MacLaine tells me that he rivals his father for heartlessness. But even the heartless have vulnerabilities. His father’s was his children, whether or not they saw it. Malcolm’s weakness is his wife. He’ll protect her over all else, but Ginny MacLaine isn’t the type of woman to stay with a ruined man. If he loses his fortune, he loses her. We both know it.

  That’s why I know he won’t have a problem with the MacLaine asset I’ve come to claim.

  “Your sister. I want your sister.”

  There’s a long pause as my demand sinks in. “My sister isn’t for sale.”

  It’s an admirable show of chivalry, but we both know his refusal reeks of bullshit. Business is business or we wouldn’t be sitting here now.

  “Malcolm.” I lean back in the chair and regard how he flinches when I call him by his first name like an old friend. “We both know that everything is for sale, even Adair MacLaine.”

  4

  Sterling

  Five Years in the Past

  Valmont Tennessee is nothing like the city. In New York, every street is crammed with life. It bursts out of cracks and alleys. It assails your senses. Tourists find it overwhelming. To me, it’s as close I get to feeling home. At least, it was before.

  Before Francie got ideas in her head about my future. Before my test scores came back and my teachers took notice. Until that point, I was just another foster kid living on time borrowed from the state. After, people started tossing around words like genius and university.

  I filled out the applications to make Francie happy. I’d had enough shit foster moms to know things with her were as good as it was likely to get. I didn’t expect the acceptance letters. Not from the schools I applied to, even with the high test scores and the decent grades.

  When she walked into our cramped kitchen in Queens, clutching an envelope with the Valmont University crest on it, her eyes glistened.

  “We can’t afford it,” I said flatly. That was my plan all along—set the bar impossibly high so it was easier to just duck under and continue on with my life—the life I’d built here. I’d cleaned up my act enough that I’d gotten to stay here for three years. I wasn’t leaving now. “Community college is fine.”

  “You’re too smart to get stuck here, Sterling. You don’t belong on the streets.”

  That’s when I’d noticed she was actually crying. I couldn’t stand it when she cried—and I had made her cry a lot. I’d broken more than a few foster parents in the first few years I was in care. That’s how I wound up with Francie in the first place. I never understood why she kept me. But every time I’d come home with a bloody nose, she’d gotten me cleaned up, washed my clothes, and got me a hot meal. Then she’d laid down the law.

  There were rules in Francie’s house. Rules that my friends hadn’t had. Good grades—and I’m talking there had better not be a minus behind that A—were expected. Dinner was at six. On Sundays, I escorted her to mass at Our Lady of Mercy. For that, she didn’t kick my ass out. I’d barely managed to meet those expectations my first year with her. She’d been more lenient back t
hen. Over time, I’d done more. I listened when she told me to take harder courses, even though it meant taking shit from the guys. I let her read some of my stories, but not everything I wrote. Some things didn’t need to be shared. This is where good behavior had gotten me. Despite my frequent street fighting, which was inescapable in our neighborhood, I’d kept my grades up and had taken the stupid college entrance exam—without actually planning to go. Until the fucking score came in the mail. I should have known by how excited she was that she expected me to go. Or when the guidance counselor called me in to her office to have a serious talk about my future.

  I never decided if I’d failed to set the bar high enough or if Valmont University had lowered it to accommodate me. I’d read the brochure, but I didn’t buy what it was selling. It was a bit too glossy, too photoshopped to be believed. It wasn’t a world I belonged in. Valmont may be a half hour outside Nashville, but it has one foot firmly planted in the past while the other tries desperately to drag it along toward the future.

  I’m not stupid enough to believe my scholarship covers the entire cost like she claims. Watching her eat off the dollar menu on the fourteen-hour drive confirms my suspicion. That’s why Francie is different. She could have kicked me out when I turned eighteen, but she didn’t. It’s also why I’ve agreed to give Valmont a try. One semester and I’m out. Before we hit the Tennessee border I’m already checking local help-wanted listings on my phone. I doubt she can afford this, no matter what she says.

  When we reach campus, certainty replaces doubt. I’ve been on college campuses before. NYU sits in the middle of the goddamn city, after all. But this isn’t a cluster of buildings crammed into Manhattan, it’s an entire city itself. Thick, wrought iron gates open to University Drive, and overhead, oak trees form a canopy of shade as dappled, emerald light dances off the hood of our white Mazda.

  “This is the oldest remaining stone street in the city,” Francie informs. She’s been devouring every bit of information she can scrounge up on this place. She sighs, drumming her long, brown fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m jealous.”

  “Of what? The shitty road? It hurts my balls.”

  Her smile wilts at the corners of her mouth and she casts that look at me—the one that says my attitude is not appreciated. I’ve flattened her mood, one skill I’m particularly adept at: hurting good people. It must be genetic. My piece of shit father was the master of it.

  “It’s nice,” I say, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. The stone street really does hurt my junk. I wonder what kind of sick fuck decided to keep that delightful bit of history around.

  “With that enthusiastic endorsement,” she says with a groan. I can hear it in her voice. She can’t wait to get rid of me.

  “You could have just kicked me out,” I mutter. It would have been easier. I had friends in New York that I could squat with. I ignore the hollowness inside me. It started as an ache then formed a pit when we reached the Pennsylvania border. By the time we reached Tennessee, I was nothing—just a void.

  “Why would you think that?” she asks quietly. For a second, I think she’s read my mind. Francie’s freaky like that. Then I realize, she’s responding to what I said.

  Why did I say that? I don’t know? Because she packed up all my stuff, shoved it in the trunk, and plans to drop me nearly a thousand miles away? Just a guess. The easiest way to solve a problem was to get rid of it. That wasn’t what was really bugging me though. It was how she’d gone about it. Forcing me to take the harder classes, making me sign up for the entrance exams, paying for my applications—she didn’t want to simply be done with me. Francie doesn’t solve problems like I do. She fixes people.

  She’s too blind to see that I’m a lost cause, and fuck if she’s not going to pay for that mistake. I’d seen how much Valmont University cost. “You aren’t obligated…”

  “Like hell I’m not. If your”—she cuts herself off. Whenever she’s tempted to talk about my family she stops herself. It’s her rule—never speak ill of your family. She told me about it when we first met. I was allowed to resent them, be angry at them, even hate them, but she drew the line at trash talk.

  Words become actions, she’d tell me.

  I know a thing or two about that.

  Valmont University looks like the brochure. Large oak trees line the road that winds past the main campus. We pass building after building named after what I’m assuming were old white guys with deep pockets. Beauford Hall. MacLaine School of Journalism. Eaton Library, across from which a smaller, brick building sits: Tennyson Hall. The home for the English department is named after a famous poet. Go figure. There’s no money in books. Past the ivy-clad halls, the largest building of all reigns over the others. A sign post pointing in its direction declares it the West Student Union. Students spill from each building we pass, bags slung over their shoulders. Classes don’t start for another week. I wonder what its like to be so fucking eager to learn that you’re walking around on the first day with your books already. It’s all a little too perfect. I guess a college is always selling some version of ideal—the ideal campus, the ideal career, the ideal future.

  “Greek row is down there.” Francie jerks her thumb in the opposite direction.

  “So?” The location of the university’s fraternities and sororities is so low on my list of interests it’s practically off the list entirely. If I’m being honest, I don’t mind knowing where the sororities are. That’s useful information. I just don’t see why she’s pointing it out.

  “You could rush. It would be a way to meet friends.”

  I raise an eyebrow, biting back more commentary. She won’t appreciate it. I know she’s just trying to help but sometimes I think Francie has lost her mind. “I’m not really the frat type.”

  That’s the nice way to put it. I had a group I ran with back in New York, but even my best friends didn’t qualify as brothers. I’d be a brother once I knew it was more than a secret handshake and keg access on the weekends.

  The residence halls are outside the main campus. Cars are parallel parked in front of every dormitory despite signs declaring Fire Lane: Violators will be towed. The curbs are so tightly packed we can’t find a single space near my building.

  “We’re going to have to hoof it,” Francie announces wearily after we circle it twice. “I’m glad you don’t have much to carry.”

  I shrug. That’s an understatement. When she finally pulls into a spot at least a quarter of a mile from the closest dorm, I jump out of the Mazda and pop open the trunk. My whole life fits in the compartment. I didn’t come to Francie with much—just the clothes on my back and a bruised left eye. I’m not leaving her with much either. Grabbing one of the two boxes to my name, I swivel to find her watching me. Tears stream down her face.

  Francie doesn’t look a thing like my mother. At least, not as far as I can remember. My memories of my mother exist in shades of black, white, and red. They’re ugly and harsh. Her face is the only beautiful part of them. Pale with luminous eyes and ink-black hair that fell silkily over my face when she would bend to kiss me. Francie’s dark skin and riotous curls are as far from my mom as possible. But for one second, I see my mother looking back at me. I hate what I see shining in Francie’s eyes:

  Pride.

  I’ve done nothing to deserve it—from either of them. Shifting uncomfortably, I zero in on the dorm at the top of the hill.

  “I don’t have all day.” I hope I sound bored. Disinterested. Anything to get her out of here faster. She’s done her part, fulfilled the role the state gave her years ago. She doesn’t have to keep at it. The sooner she leaves, the better it will be for both of us.

  “You have all week,” she reminds me, falling into step beside me, the other box in her arms. “Orientation starts tomorrow according to the email I got. There’s going to be fun icebreakers and…”

  She rattles off a list of activities that she knows I won’t bother with. I have a schedule and a map. There’s no way I
’m going to sit through whatever fun-filled activities they’re hocking to parents. Instead I focus on navigating the gauntlet of idiots crowding the sidewalks. Everywhere I turn a mom is sobbing and clutching an uncomfortable teen. A few dads watch these embraces with equivalent discomfort, their eyes darting to the street and their illegally parked vehicles. A long-ignored emotion wells in my chest but I shake it off.

  “This is it,” Francie says brightly.

  “Thank God you were here. I would have kept walking.” I shift the weight of the box to my left knee as I try to reach for the door handle, but I lose my grip in the process. The box falls to the sidewalk as the door swings open. The guys coming through it jump out of the way. Cold, gray eyes glare at me.

  “Watch it,” a dark-haired guy barks. He’s wearing a worn Ramones t-shirt and jeans I suspect cost more than the total value of the contents of the box at his feet.

  Anger bubbles inside me and I open my mouth to release it. Before I can, his friend punches him in the shoulder.

  “Don’t be a dick.” He rolls his eyes as he bends to retrieve the fallen box. “Let me help you, man.”

  “Thank you.” Francie sounds a bit too enthused and I wonder if its because she expects Southern politeness or because he’s good-looking. I hope the flush on her cheeks has more to do with hauling a box up that hill. Her attitude cools when she glances to the other man even though he’s equally handsome, I guess. Much older men had frozen under that icy stare, but if it bothers him it doesn’t show.

  “Money,” the one who picked up the box addresses him with the bizarre nickname, “what have we discussed about being around other humans?”

  “Now who’s being a dick, Eaton,” he bites out, but he lifts the box Francie is carrying from her arms.

  Eaton. Now that sounds familiar but before I can place the name, Francie says, “There’s the Southern hospitality I expected. Thank you, gentlemen.”