Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  I try first one knob and then the other but they’re both locked. One deep breath and I summon my self-confidence and knock firmly on the glass before turning to Naveed with a fake-ass smile.

  He gives me a nod of assurance and I want to hug him—and smack him for getting me into this.

  Before I can cross that line, though, the door swings open and we’re greeted by Charlize Theron’s twin sister.

  “Welcome. Come in, come in. I apologize for the mess.” She steps back and gestures around her.

  My lips lock in a toothless smile and I reach out a hand. “Hello. Poppy James from Warbey. This is my colleague, Naveed Shah.”

  Her handshake is firm, her skin dry, and I just hope she dismisses my damp palm as a consequence of the weather.

  “Elle Valentine.” Of course this is her name. Because with those long legs and gorgeous face, you need additional encouragement for men to fall in love with you. Sigh. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. My assistant has run off somewhere.” I can only assume she’s referring to Jonathan and I find myself a bit relieved I won’t be dealing with him again today.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Valentine,” Naveed practically oozes natural charm and ease.

  “Please, call me Elle.” Her smile is open.

  The space is even bigger than I imagined. The sound of our footsteps on the concrete floor echoes up and around the tall ceilings in this section of the building where metal beams crisscross and industrial lights dangle from huge black fixtures. Accordion metal partitions divide the space, hiding our view of the majority of the area, so I can’t see the battling ropes or the side window where I conducted my peeping Tom routine. There is very little natural light due to the lack of windows here, and bright fluorescents leave me feeling over-exposed.

  Elle leads us past a set of high white partitions to a large makeshift office to the left of the entryway. I want to check out more of the building, but common courtesy—and the mission at hand—keep me from sneaking a peek.

  “Have a seat.” She indicates two designer leather chairs sitting across from a sleek glass and iron desk before stepping to the other side and taking a seat in her own chair.

  “Thank you for seeing us… Elle,” I say as I sit and smooth my skirt over my lap.

  She waves me off with a smile and a casual sway of her straight honeyed tresses. “I understand you’re interested in Angus for the cover of your premier edition.”

  Naveed coughs and I want to sink to the floor, but I summon New York Poppy instead.

  “It’s a distinct possibility, provided the interview goes well, that is.” I want to swell with pride at the even control of my voice.

  I can feel Naveed’s eyeballs searing into my temple.

  “Well, he certainly has the face for it.” Elle emits a light chuckle and Naveed finally snaps out of it, thank God.

  “That he does, Elle. The focus on artisans is aimed at capturing a wide audience, but aesthetics are always the first thing to get the reader’s attention, am I right?” His return chuckle is more than convincing.

  I could kiss Naveed for playing into my scheme, knowing it’s undoubtedly painful for him to put hotness above good writing. Or maybe not. I mean, the man does dress better than anyone I’ve seen so far in New York. Either way, I owe him for not killing me on the spot.

  Elle leans back in her chair and crosses her impossibly long legs. “A cover would certainly bring him to a new echelon, and it would mean more clients. I’m always telling Angus he doesn’t use his… assets to his own benefit enough.”

  The two of them laugh conspiratorially and I have to force myself to join in, suddenly feeling a bit like a smarmy pimp negotiating some exploitative promo for a shy virgin.

  But the brute of a man I met the other night is no virgin, and from the sound of his phone conversation, he’s no pushover either. I’m sure he can stand on his own two feet without needing protection from anyone, much less his willowy gazelle of an agent. I need to remember I’m here with one goal in mind: make this magazine a success.

  If I don’t do every damn thing I can to get this publication off the ground, it’ll be my own damn fault when I go crawling back to Savannah with my tail between my legs and a smug Bobby Lee Collinsworth to greet me at the airport.

  “So, Elle, if you can see your way to smoothing the path for an exclusive with Mr. McKinley, I can assure you we’d be extremely grateful.”

  Elle re-crosses her legs and studies me with a steady gaze. I force myself not to blink under her examination. I’m not exactly sure, but the way I worded that last statement kinda sounded like I might be promising yet another thing I have zero business promising. What the hell am I doing?

  Naveed is scratching his chin, something that tells me I’m fully justified in my panic. I need to back up, restate, undo whatever I just did. I open my mouth to begin my retreat, but another voice fills the room instead of mine.

  “Making arrangements to sell my soul?”

  Double damn!

  Elle stands, a stiff smile spreading her lips. “Angus. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “I wasn’t. But I am now.”

  Naveed stands and I’m the only one left who hasn’t turned to face the man I now know to be Angus McKinley, urban blacksmith and sexy beast of the East Village.

  Would it really be so bad to call it quits and go back to Georgia?

  Despite any preferences I may have on the matter, I’m being forced to face the music as Naveed lightly kicks my foot and I gird myself as I stand and turn. It’s possible I’m wearing the same expression I had the time Cookie caught Iris and me leafing through our granddaddy’s Hustler stash under the bathroom sink, but there’s no helping it.

  My eyes take in first one bicep and then another, although they’re covered by a long sleeve button down this time. I forgot how damn tall the man is, so I’m feeling at an even bigger disadvantage as my gaze sweeps up to take in his scowling face. The whiskered chin and slash of thick eyebrows are the same as I remember, as well as the deep scar across the right side of his nose.

  But gone is the neutral expression from before. His mouth is set in an angry twist while his nostrils flare and those flashing eyes are filled with fire. It’s a wonder I don’t shrivel up into a pile of smoking bones on the concrete floor with the look he’s giving me. The beast has transformed from King Kong into a fire-breathing dragon. One that doesn’t appear to recognize me, thank God.

  Naveed steps forward with a hand extended, which is a good thing since my throat has closed in on itself to the point where I’m lucky I’m still breathing.

  “Mr. McKinley, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  But Naveed may as well be a tiny gnat for all the attention Angus McKinley pays him. The dragon only has eyes for me. I whimper inwardly as I begin to leak sweat from every pore.

  Until my new favorite person on the planet rescues me and puts me firmly in her debt for all eternity.

  “Stop terrifying the neighborhood, Angus,” Elle scolds with a playful air that impresses the ever-loving shit out of me. She strides over and pets his arm like she’s soothing a riled-up stallion.

  His expression doesn’t change, and his eyes don’t stray from me, but the tension in the air eases just enough to allow me to suck in a reviving—if not shaky—breath.

  Elle continues stroking his arm as she speaks, “Angus, this is Ms. James and Mr. Shah from Warbey.”

  He doesn’t move a muscle apart from the rise and fall of his chest and I make a concerted effort to block out any image of the tattoos I know to rest beneath the cotton of his shirt. I need to get my act together and salvage whatever I can of this mess.

  I force my spine to straighten and I channel Dixie Carter and all the Golden Girls put together. “Mr. McKinley, we were just discussing how we could benefit your business with an article in our forthcoming publication this winter.” My voice isn’t wavering even a tiny bit so I push on before all my nerve evaporates. “We believe the m
en and women of our readership are exactly the kind of target—” My resurrected confidence spoke too soon, however, as he cuts me off.

  “I don’t do interviews.” He finally rips his gaze from me and fixes that stare on Elle who, I might note, is not presently sweating like a whore in church. “Made that more than clear.”

  Elle smiles—she smiles—back at him and pats his arm. “Relax. We’re just talking.”

  He stares her down for another few beats and then shakes off her hand before turning to stalk from the room without another word.

  Naveed clears his throat as I stand, wishing I had a bath towel to mop up the puddles of sweat that have probably ruined my new suit. Appearing utterly unaffected, Elle leans her hip against the front of her desk and crosses her arms.

  “I’ll talk to him. Email me your proposal and a contract and I’ll be in touch by the end of the week.”

  * * *

  “I thought you said you knew him!” Naveed perches both hands on his hips like a true Kardashian.

  “I never said that!” Okay, well I did, but I explained myself quite clearly, I thought.

  We’re standing on the sidewalk outside Angus McKinley’s studio whisper-yelling at each other. I need a stiff drink right the hell now.

  “I figured that was how you got the meeting in the first place.” Naveed leans in until I can see the flecks of gold in his dark irises. He has really long eyelashes for a dude.

  I throw my hands in the air and back up a step. “Well, it wasn’t, okay?”

  “So you got it by promising his agent a cover story?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know!” My eyes go to the sky looking for help I don’t deserve. “I don’t have a damn clue, to be perfectly honest.” I balance on one foot while I reach down and remove one of my heels before I lose circulation and need to amputate my pinky toe. The other one comes off after it and I practically sigh with relief as my bare toes grip the sidewalk. “God, that’s heaven.”

  “Focus, Miss Peach,” Naveed hisses. “What are we going to do when Elle gets us the interview and JoJo Ames appears on the cover instead?”

  “Jeez Louise, Naveed, I haven’t thought that far ahead.” In truth, I haven’t thought at all—and I’m beyond caring if my South shows its mouth.

  Naveed whips out his phone and starts typing with his thumbs while I strip off my suit jacket and fan myself to get my mind rolling. If the contract doesn’t promise a cover, then technically I didn’t do anything wrong. But will Elle still be interested if a cover isn’t part of the deal? It’s clear she wants exposure for her client, as any good agent would, but she’s shrewd so she won’t be a pushover.

  “Are you sure there aren’t any other reclusive artists we could call on and woo out of their lairs?”

  He doesn’t even look up from his phone as he hooks a thumb to the brick building. “Not one as fine as that.”

  I sink my ass down to the curb, not caring how dirty my skirt gets anymore. A passerby hits me in the head with her huge purse and I give up. “I’m sorry, Naveed. I thought I could… I don’t know what I thought.”

  He looks down at me for a few seconds and then sighs, dropping his phone to his side. “Don’t worry your adorable little melon about it.” He leans against a signpost and takes me in. “It’s not like I helped much.”

  My mouth curls in a defeated smile. “That right there is the problem.”

  “Harsh.”

  “No.” My smile is a touch more genuine at that. “It’s my ‘adorable little melon’ that’s the trouble. Nobody is gonna take me seriously if y’all see me as some airhead hick playing at the publishing game on some kind of whim. I know what I’m doing. Well, usually—” I huff. “When it comes to design, I know what I’m doing.” I could tell him about his bitchy writer colleagues, but it’s too embarrassing.

  Naveed crosses his arms and frowns. “The fact that you’re here in New York told me from day one that you know your shit. Athena Lennox doesn’t hire charity cases and she sure as shit doesn’t keep slackers around.”

  Well, that’s a relief, I suppose. And I know that deep down, but I’ve got so much riding on this.

  “Is that why you only have a Southern accent when you’re talking to yourself—or yelling at me on the sidewalk?”

  I groan and cover my face.

  Naveed laughs. “Why do you think I keep calling you Miss Georgia Peach 2010? The day we met you were having a full conversation with yourself while reviewing layouts. I was ready to pull up a chair just so I could see how the story ended. Riveting stuff.”

  “Pull out the shotgun and just get it over with, will you?”

  “Hey.” When I don’t respond, he nudges me with his foot. “Hey. I understand where you’re coming from. Believe me.” I look up and he’s gesturing up and down his designer suit as he looks at me. “I’m a thirty-six-year-old gay Pakistani man in a position usually held by fifty-year-old straight white folks with pedigrees the Queen’s corgis would envy. There was a time when I tried playing the part, but it doesn’t work. You can’t do your best work when you’re worried about what everybody else is going to think. Now,” He straightens his lapels that are already crisp as an origami swan. “Do I look like I give one single fuck if someone doesn’t get me?”

  I can’t help the smile pulling at the corners of my mouth as Naveed runs a hand over the side of his close-cropped hair like he’s posing for a cologne ad. “I’ll have you know my mama would skin your hide for cursin’ in front of a lady like that.” I let loose with all the Georgia I have.

  He drops the act and grins at me, holding out a hand. “Now, that’s more like it.”

  I take it and let him pull me up next to him.

  “I guess I got in a little over my head with this Angus guy, huh?”

  He pretends to consider it. “Eh, maybe just a bit. Let Uncle Naveed take care of it.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Now you’re just being creepy.”

  He smiles and the dimple makes an appearance. He is one pretty man, I gotta say. “Leave it to me. You focus on being a creative genius and leave the interviews to us pros.”

  I want to do just that, but I feel responsible—and I don’t know if I can rest until I’m sure the magazine will be a success. I clearly ruffled the beast’s feathers and I like to clean up my own messes.

  The question remains, how in the hell am I gonna do that?

  Six

  “God never liked a liar, unless it was a woman complimenting her mother-in-law’s cookin’.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  Needless to say, my evening plan involves some intense internet stalking of one Angus McKinley. But I need to properly prepare first.

  Kate is thankfully off with her boy toy so I’m in no danger of being discovered and I can play my stalking playlist as loud as I want—not that I technically have one, per se. Now all I need are snacks, drinks, a comfy seat, and a notebook for keeping track of pertinent details. Yes, this is serious business. If something I can find will help us secure an interview, I’d be an idiot not to at least do a bit of snooping.

  As soon as I’m settled on the couch with a glass of Moscato, potato chips (don’t judge me), and my laptop, I’m ready to begin the hunt. I try unsuccessfully to block out the mental image of his angry snarl and press forward.

  “Okay, Mr. McKinley, let’s see what you got.”

  The initial search brings up a couple articles and about a hundred social media profiles, most of which I can immediately dismiss based on age, profession, or location. A couple executives, a pastor, a chef, and several random dudes. It takes a little bit of digging, but I uncover the website Naveed showed me earlier listed under McKinley Forge and Design. I admit I get a bit distracted gazing at all the pretty things I want in my future home, but I purposely avoid stopping for too long at the man’s photo. He’s sort of like a bad rash—super annoying and impossible to ignore.

  The website has very little personal information on the artist himself, so I go b
ack to my friend Google and type in the headline I remember from earlier.

  “Tenneson/McKinley Lawsuit Settled for Undisclosed Sum”

  Aha! There it is. I sip my wine and start scrolling.

  Shipping magnate Dan Tenneson has paid an undisclosed sum of money to settle a lawsuit filed against his family by his former son-in-law stemming from an incident last year.

  Angus McKinley, Sr., 56—formerly married to Tenneson’s daughter, Margaret Tenneson-Pile, 54—suffered life-threatening injuries after a fall last June from a second-story balcony at the Tenneson home in Norfolk County, Massachusetts. McKinley remains paralyzed from the neck down.

  Tenneson, 78—the Boston-based owner of Ten Fleet and whose estimated net worth is just over four billion dollars—declined to comment on the lawsuit’s settlement. Bert Dunlaven, a New York attorney representing Mr. Tenneson, issued a statement on Wednesday stating, “Mr. Tenneson and his family are happy to put this ugly episode behind them and get back to the business of shipping. While his deepest sympathy extends to Mr. McKinley, my client admits to no wrongdoing and wishes his former son-in-law only the best.”

  No response to inquiries for comment from the McKinley family has been received as of the time of printing.

  Notably, at the time of the incident, McKinley and Tenneson-Pile’s son, Angus McKinley Jr., 35, unsuccessfully pursued criminal charges.

  There were no witnesses to the incident and no other parties were injured.

  How awful. Suddenly the growly blacksmith’s persistent bad mood makes a little more sense. I scroll back to the top to find the date. The article was printed almost three years ago. I do another quick search for Angus McKinley and Dan Tennison and discover something even worse.

  “Paralyzed Man Succumbs to Injuries Following Tenneson Settlement”

  I close my laptop, unable to bring myself to read any more. So much for a fun evening of internet stalking. My stomach hurts so I pour the Moscato down the sink, put away the chips, and turn off my music. Serves me right for digging into someone’s private life for my own gain. I send a little apology up to the heavens and decide my night would be better spent doing laundry.