Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  “Interests you?” Pope repeats. “Interesting is a word you use after you watch a cool documentary about lion prides on Netflix, not how you describe the woman you’re having sex with.”

  Pope doesn’t understand, he just isn’t capable of it—or he hasn’t met the right girl yet—I can’t know which it is. Regardless, the kid’s an emotional black hole more that I am. And I know where we both get it from—and his name is on my fucking letterhead.

  “I don’t mean it like that,” I tell him. “Imagine you were holding something in your closed fist, and that everyone you walk past only sees that—your closed fist. And then you run into someone who can see through your skin, through all the physical barriers, and she tells you that you’re holding a quarter in that fist. That’s what Lyric is like. She sees me. No one’s ever seen me before.”

  “Well that’s beautiful, man.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “What? I’m serious—she sees into you. That’s deep.”

  “Never make fun of a man who can beat your ass.”

  “Yeah, in your dreams.”

  I love messing around with Pope. Even if he is a dick, he’s my brother and I love him.

  “We at two miles yet?” I ask. I like to get in at least five miles every morning. It wakes me up more than any cup of coffee could ever do, and it lets me start the day knowing that I can do anything.

  “A little further. Always a little further.”

  We stop for a water break a few minutes later when we properly hit two miles. “Listen, man, I’m not getting into your business. Do you. Do her. Be five minutes late to our run. Hire her for a job. I don’t really give a shit. All I’m saying is that this isn’t like you. You’re not a boyfriend. You’re Preacher. I’ve never seen you be like this with a chick—even one from when you were a kid.”

  “Don’t forget why I went ten years without seeing her.” I look at my brother dead in his eyes, and he knows not to look away. “Do I need to remind you why she’s ‘some chick from ten years ago’? Because she keeps asking me, Pope. One day I’m going to tell her.”

  “Go ahead.” He’s defensive. I’m not the type to throw things back in people’s faces most of the time, but the more he goes on about Lyric the more ironic the conversation gets. “We all make choices. You made yours. You didn’t have to. Don’t blame me for it now.”

  He’s right. Life is a series of choices and the consequences that come with those choices. Nothing else. “I’m not blaming you. You’re right, it was my choice to leave. All I’m saying is before you keep running your mouth about the girl I’m with, just consider where we’d be if I hadn’t made that choice. Think about it.”

  I leave it at that because he gets exactly what I mean.

  We get back to the office, shower in the gym I had built downstairs and change into business attire. The whole time we’re strategizing about what to do next with the building.

  “We can keep going, but I don’t think our little Cold War with Griffin is anywhere near finished.”

  Pope’s right, but he’s a lawyer, not a visionary. I never thought I’d be someone who saw the future like I do now—who would take the evil empire of my father and do something good with it, but I also never thought I’d be in bed with Lyric either. Life’s fucking weird sometimes.

  “We move forward anyway. We don’t sit around waiting for their attack. We prepare, and we counter attack if we need to. But if I stall then they win. That building is going up.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “I think I’m going to get shirts printed for the staff that have that phrase on it. Maybe as a Christmas bonus. What do you think?”

  “I think if you don’t give out actual Christmas bonuses you might have a riot on your hands. Bad look for PR.”

  “Fine.” We talk in my office for a few more minutes when my secretary buzzes in. “Yeah? What is it?”

  “Someone here to see you, sir.”

  “Fine,” I tell her. “Send them in.”

  Pope opens the door. Some guy I’ve never seen before, in a cheap suit, walks up to my desk. I stand to meet him. “Lucien Carter?” he asks.

  “Yes. And you are. . .”

  That’s when he hands me the envelope. “You’ve been served.”

  “I’ve been what?”

  Pope takes it out of my hands. “It’s fine. Thank you. You can go now.” The cheap suit walks out. I’ve seen this happen in movies, but never in real life. Pope opens the envelope and scans over the papers inside.

  “Let me guess? Another fucking injunction? Something about our permits or some other stall tactic?”

  Pope hasn’t looked up at me yet. He’s intensely focused on whatever it is he’s reading. “No,” he says finally. “This is much worse, and much more serious. You had a secretary named Jessica?”

  I already don’t like where this is going. “Yeah. For about a week. She was terrible and I fired her. That was a few years ago.”

  “Well terrible secretary Jessica is claiming that she was fired because she refused you sexual favors, which you demanded of her in order to keep her job. She’s suing you—suing us—for five million dollars.”

  What in the fuck? “That never happened Pope.”

  “Of course it didn’t, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “The truth doesn’t matter?” I ask.

  “Not with cases like this,” he explains. He’s in full lawyer mode. “And would you look at who’s name is on these papers.” He holds them up for me to see.

  Dan Holloran. That suit I called out in our meeting a few weeks back, who works for Griffin.

  “Are you serious? They lose in court so now they’re making up a sexual harassment suit against me?”

  “Dirty tactics win wars sometimes, Preach. No one said this shit was fair.”

  “I’m confused.” I close my door. The last thing I need is this getting out to the staff. “How does this change anything in their favor? Even if Jessica won this fake lawsuit, how does that affect the project?”

  “It doesn’t,” he answers. “Not directly. It could affect your position as CEO though. If the scandal got big enough, or you actually got convicted, you would have to step down. Our shareholders would vote you out if you didn’t step down voluntarily. They probably think that if you’re removed as head of the company then they can more easily defeat this building going up in court.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “What we always do, man. We fight.”

  Just then my phone goes off. I can’t believe what’s happening right now. I didn’t expect this of all things. It’s a text from Lyric.

  Lyric: Got your note. It was. . . sweet? Don’t want to bother, I know you’re busy, but after all the dates you planned I can’t wait to see what we’re going to do for my birthday next week. Text me later.

  Her birthday! Fuck.

  For the first time in a while I feel overwhelmed.

  I remember Pope’s words—which are just my words—we fight. We win.

  Thirty-Eight—Lyric

  The Present

  My sister’s visiting from upstate. It’s our birthday in a couple days.

  It’s about a three-hour drive from Mom’s house in Arkham, which means she should be here at any minute now—probably nice and crabby from the long drive. Jess hates driving. The only saving grace is that she can listen to really long and really boring audiobooks on black holes or quantum mechanics or whatever nerdy stuff floats her boat. I really can’t believe we shared time in the same womb, as we couldn’t be more different.

  As I wait for her to get here, I’m borderline obsessed with thoughts of Lucien and what happened last night. I have a headache from the booze but nothing coming close to a full out hangover. One day I’ll remember that my body and alcohol are just not friends. But, until that day, I have Tylenol and lots of water.

  However, the pain in my head pales in comparison to the ache between my legs—the one that never quite goes away whe
n I think about him. I don’t know what part of me is blocking me from being all in, emotionally, because physically everything inside is screaming for me to jump on top of him and ride him into the sunset. But that feeling is always followed by a reminder—the past—always the past.

  Whenever he says something funny, or witty, or when I feel those things he makes me feel, I’m reminded about what he did. I spent two years in therapy myself when I got to the city for college. I didn’t tell anyone except my sister. Every week the only topic of discussion was him—who my therapist called “the ex”—and the subject of the first six months of our work together was how fucked up I was after he disappeared.

  And when I say disappeared that’s exactly what I mean. Gone without a trace. One day here, the next day gone, like Matt Damon at the end of Good Will Hunting. He wouldn’t return calls or texts. I asked his brother what happened, and he wouldn’t tell me anything, only that Lucien was alive and okay as far as he knew. That’s when I stopped talking to Pope also—when he knew something that he’d never tell me, even though I was the one whose boyfriend had vanished with no word. To this day I have no idea what happened to him.

  I get a text that Jess is leaving her car in the parking garage down the road. I told her not to bring a car to the city unless she was ready to pay hundreds of dollars to keep it parked while she visited, but she hates public transportation more than she hates driving.

  What can I say, my sister’s. . . different.

  She’s also the only person who can keep me sane sometimes.

  After a while I hear two knocks on my apartment door and when I open it Jess looks disheveled with wind blown hair and an expression of annoyance on her face. “Driving in the city is like a sport. Nothing has changed since the last time I was here.”

  “I told you that. You never listen to me.”

  “I like to experience things for myself, you know? Form my own opinions.”

  She’s aggressively independent. Always has been. “And how’s that working out for you?”

  She smiles. “You were right, don’t get me wrong, it was a total disaster, but I had to find that out for myself. Next time you come to me.”

  “Fat chance. I don’t ever want to go back to that town. Mom can come visit me if she misses me.”

  Jessalyn still lives in Arkham, even though she complains about all of the small-minded people every chance she gets. My sister should have been summa cum laude at MIT with her level of intelligence. Instead, the small town trapped her—our mom trapped her—and she stayed behind to be the ‘good daughter’ who cared for our endlessly depressed mom. I keep telling her to move to the city, but so far she’s not buying what I’m selling.

  “A talk for another day, I suppose. How are things with you?”

  “Good.” I don’t want to be evasive, but I also don’t want to drop all of the new information on her right away the second she gets here, so I downplay everything that’s been going on. “Have a new job opportunity, maybe. I’m seeing Lucien again. Practice is good also. . .”

  “Wait, excuse me? Back up. What? Lucien? From back home?”

  “Yup. We’re kind of. . . seeing each other.” Seeing each other sounds so much nicer than occasionally fucking, doesn’t it?

  “Let’s go get a cup of coffee. I need to hear the whole story.”

  I text Kennedy. She wanted to see Jess when she got in, and she’s been so busy with work that our weekly lunches have been on hold, so a half hour later we all meet at the closest Starbucks to my place. I’m doing my best to tell them both the story of the last few weeks of my life. I try not to leave anything out—Lucien, the job offer, my feelings, everything. Hearing myself say it out loud like a story is strange for me, and I already know some of the things they’re going to say.

  “Are you fucking crazy, Lyric?” That’s Kennedy. Of course it is.

  “I’m not, thank you very much. I’m perfectly sane.”

  Jess steps in as the rational peacemaker. Even though we barely see each other anymore, it’s funny how when we do, it feels like I’m a kid again. People get older, but dynamics never really change. “I think what Kennedy is worried about is that last time Lucien was in your life, you were. . . how do I say this politely?”

  “Screw polite,” Kennedy interrupts. “You were a goddamn mess, and it was us who helped pick up the pieces.”

  “Correction,” I say, sipping my coffee. “I was a mess when Lucien disappeared from my life. There’s a difference. And I’m not eighteen anymore, guys, can you give me a little credit here to make big girl choices?”

  I change the subject quickly. I don’t need everything to be about Lucien and I, and frankly I also don’t need everyone in my business. “How’s the case going?”

  “Difficult,” she says. “But you know me, I like a challenge.”

  “I know you do.”

  “And I’m trying like hell to make partner, so I need a win.” She looks tired. Kennedy was always tough, but this job seems to be running her into the ground. “I need to get into corporate law, I swear. This criminal prosecution stuff looks much better when it’s Sam Waterston making closing arguments on a TNT marathon of Law & Order. In reality it’s crazy hours, shit pay, and. . . actually I’ll stop there, crazy hours and shit pay. I should have done corporate law like I wanted to.”

  “Make the switch.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It can be,” I tell her. “I don’t know what being a lawyer takes, but I do know all about switching specialty areas. I went from family therapy, to developmental therapy, and finally to where I am now. It’s work, but you can do it.”

  “The only difference is you did those things in college—once you’re already into the job it’s not like switching majors in school. I’d have to think about it.” Kennedy’s dad is still one of the richest men in Arkham, and by the time college came around she’d decided that it was her duty to reject her privilege, so she went into law and she chose a career path that paid a lot less than other types of law. Once her parents cut off the money, Kennedy found out real quick what the other half lives like. I’m pretty sure she hates it.

  “Forget my job,” she says. “What are we doing to celebrate your birthday?”

  “I don’t know,” Jess says. “I’m just a guest. Lyric, you choose.”

  “I want to do something fancy. Like fancy, fancy. The kind of restaurant that you feel like you don’t belong in, where they fold your napkins when you get up to get up to go to the bathroom. I want to feel pampered and elitist just for one night.”

  “I’m down with that,” Jess says. Kennedy seconds my sister’s enthusiasm, but then she asks what I know she’s going to ask. “I assume Lucien will be there.”

  “Not only,” I tell her. “I was thinking of inviting Pope.”

  That was intentional. This is the second time I’ve brought up Lucien’s brother in a few weeks, and it’s the second time she’s tried to hide the fact that she used to have a thing for the kid. When Lucien and I were dating, Pope and Kennedy spent a lot of time with us as a group. She’ll deny it till her dying day, but she was into him. She used to do things that were tells if you knew what you were looking at—things I saw her do when she was into other guys. If Pope was going to be wherever we were, all of a sudden, her hair would look like she just came from a salon, she’d wear her nicest clothes, she’s laugh at things he said that were not funny at all. There had been rumors about the two of them, but if they were real she’s keeping her mouth shut about it.

  “Him again, huh?”

  Jessalyn catches wind of Kennedy’s reaction. “Oh, I forgot, you were into him, right?” That’s my twin—blunt as the day is long.

  “I was not into him,” she declares. “Don’t let this one poison your mind.”

  “Oh,” Jess says, clearly sarcastically. “Sorry. My mistake. He’s ugly anyhow, right?”

  Kennedy smiles and shoots her eyebrow up. “Nice try. We both know he’s gorgeous. I w
as never a fan of Lucien but I will give it to the Carter boys—they have good genetics.”

  One day I’ll get it out of her. But for now, I’m just happy that I have some caffeine in me and that we have tentative birthday plans.

  I get a text from Lucien that he needs to talk to me. Usually his texts involve sex in some way, but this is strikingly serious for him.

  Me: Out with my sister and Kennedy. I’ll swing by your place after work.

  Lucien: Okay.

  He’s never that curt with me, and the insecure parts of my brain start to think the craziest things, like he’s going to take back his offer, call things off with me—something bad, because ‘I need to talk to you’ is almost never something good. I should know, I did it to him not long ago.

  I give Jessalyn the key to my place and head to Lucien’s. When I get there, he looks like he’s had better days.

  “You look like your dog just died.”

  “Come in,” he says. “There is something I need to tell you about before you hear about it in the media.”

  The media? What could this possibly be about?

  Thirty-Nine—Lyric

  The Present

  The last thing you want to hear from the guy you’re sleeping with is that he’s been slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit because he demanded sex from his secretary, but Lucien was up front with me and told what was really going on—how this is all a tactic by businessmen who are opposed to his project. I believe him, and it makes me sick that someone would do such a thing.

  The only part that annoyed me was him not telling me about the whole thing with Draven and his family.

  “I didn’t want to open old wounds,” he told me. He was so upset that he didn’t even see the painful irony in his own statement. Lucien’s existence in my life was a giant, gaping old wound, but at least he didn’t want to open up any more. I guess that’s something.

  “I appreciate it,” I told him. “Just keep me in the loop from now on when something involves me or people I know.”