Boss I Love To Hate

by James, London

  “You should ask her out,” I start.

  “Funny, I was just thinking you should.”

  I laugh and take a long pull of my beer. “Seriously. You two would look good together.”

  Rider looks over and grins. “Yeah, you’re right. We probably would.”

  We laugh and make small talk until Mandy drops off our lunches and gives us a smile before she turns and sashays away. I give Rider a pointed look, and he flashes me a wry grin before getting to his feet and following her over to where she’s standing at the end of the bar. He leans in close to her, giving Mandy his best smile, and the two of them speak quietly. She giggles and actually blushes as he whispers something to her. But a moment later, he hands her his phone, and I watch as she presumably puts her phone number in for him.

  Rider saunters back to the table, a cocksure smile on his face. “Yeah, I guess you were right. She’s into me.”

  I give him a golf clap then take a drink of my beer. We eat in silence for a couple of minutes as Rider soaks in his own personal victory. In a lot of ways, he’s still getting used to having money and the prestige of being a powerful lawyer – and all the perks that go with it. I don’t know if it’s because he came from a humbler background, but sometimes Rider acts as if he’s ashamed of doing so well financially. He sometimes seems embarrassed to be enjoying it.

  “What about you?” he starts. “When are you going to find somebody you can be serious with?”

  “I’m serious with you all the time,” I retort.

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “I’m serious, Sawyer. You’re a good guy –”

  “Some would dispute that characterization of me.”

  He chuckles. “Be that as it may, you’re a good guy. You deserve to have a good woman in your life.”

  “Don’t you read the tabloids, man?” I grin. “Why should I? I can have a different woman every night.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Most eligible bachelor in Manhattan,” he groans.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still in the regular tabloid rotation,” he observes. “I mean, it’s not like you’re a well-known celebrity, or really, all that interesting.”

  “No offense taken, in case you were wondering,” I laugh.

  “Please. You know what I mean,” he waves me off.

  I shrug. “New York is built on power and money. I’ve got money; some people think I have power,” I answer. “And because of that, the fucking paparazzi are up my ass all day.”

  He seems to consider my answer for a moment and purses his lips. “I guess you being a stupid rich kid didn’t help much either.”

  I nod, a rueful smile on my lips. “No, it did not. I certainly gave them plenty of fodder back in the day.”

  It wasn’t always this way – the paparazzi constantly being up my ass. For years, I managed to live below the radar of the tabloid bullshit, and if I was mentioned, it was usually in connection with my father and as nothing more than another New York trust fund kid. But as I got a bit older, I admit that I did some stupid shit, and my antics caught the eye of the tabloids. Back then, I enjoyed being the center of attention and living a rock star lifestyle – endless parties, different women on my arm every night, and generally outlandish behavior. As my father was always fond of saying, I enjoyed the spotlight and making a spectacle of myself – though he usually said it with a heavy note of derision.

  He wasn’t wrong, but it wore thin pretty quickly for me. All of a sudden, I had cameras following me around all the time, documenting who I was with and what I was doing. My private life wasn’t private anymore, and everything I did was gossip column fodder. And once my father passed and I became the face of Compass Development, the fishbowl I’d been living in only seemed to get smaller.

  Yeah, it’s a monster of my own creation. I know that. I know it’s my youthful indiscretions that I’m still paying the price for. But I’m not that booze and drug-addled kid anymore. I’ve grown and changed. And yet, the tabloids continue to paint me as the idiot I used to be. They continually try to fit me into their preconceived narrative. Which is why I’m resentful about it and hate the paparazzi so much.

  Rider smirks. “I tried to warn you.”

  I run a hand through my hair and nod. “You did. And I didn’t listen.”

  Back when my fame – or perhaps notoriety is a better word for it – was first forming, Rider had tried to tell me to tone it down. He knows I’m an intensely private person about most things and tried to warn me about the train wreck that was coming. But I was too caught up in the party haze fueled by far too much booze, too many drugs, and way too many women to notice – or care.

  “All the same, I think it’d be good for you to find a girl,” Rider presses. “Settle down, have some kids. I remember once upon a time, you’d talk about wanting a family of your own. I bet minivan driving, soccer dad Sawyer West will be far less entertaining to the tabloids.”

  “Those ideas are long in the past, man,” I tell him. “And it’ll be a damn frigid day in hell before you catch me driving a minivan.”

  A frown creases the corners of his mouth. “It wasn’t that long ago you talked about having a family of your own,” he says. “And I have a friend who’s got a friend that –”

  I hold up my hands in mock surrender and laugh. “No more blind dates,” I tell him. “The last time I took you up on that offer, it was a fucking disaster.”

  “Okay, there was no way I could have known that woman had as many issues as she did,” he laughs along with me. “She hid her crazy really well, man.”

  “And what makes you think your friend’s friend will be any different?”

  “I’ve met her,” he tells me. “She’s great.”

  I drain the last of my beer and sit back. He’s right. It wasn’t all that long ago I thought about having a family of my own. There was a time when I thought settling down and having a kid or two would be about the best thing ever. But a long string of failed relationships with women who were more interested in my money and family name than in me have convinced me that maybe that’s a life I’m not cut out for. I’m not one for trophy wives – not like some of the old corporate CEOs I know who marry women thirty years their junior as a status symbol. That’s not what marriage is about for me. I want more than that.

  If I’m going to get married – which is very unlikely at this point in my life – I want it to be an equal partnership. I want somebody who can challenge and push me. Somebody who can complement my strengths and offset my weaknesses. I want to be with somebody who wants to be with me for who I am. Not just for the sort of luxurious lifestyle I can provide for them.

  But because of who I am, and my aforementioned notoriety, most of the women I cross paths with are of the latter variety, rather than the former. For me, that ideal life I used to entertain notions of is no longer a viable option. It’s something out of a fantasy realm that doesn’t exist anymore – if it ever really did. It’s a realization that makes me a bit melancholy; I’m not going to lie

  “I’m more focused on the company right now,” I sigh. “I’m not looking to get involved with anybody, man.”

  “You’re a smart, capable guy Sawyer,” he responds. “I know you can multi-task –”

  “I’m just not interested, Rider.” My tone is harsher than I intended. “I don’t want to get involved with anybody. I’m trying to get my house in order and keep my priorities straight. Right now, I need to focus on growing and expanding Compass.”

  He looks at me for a long moment then nods, knowing he’s not going to be able to change my mind. He wisely turns back to his beer and drops the issue rather than keep pressing it with me. Rider knows better than anybody that pushing me will only make the situation worse. He’s seen firsthand how much of a bastard I can be when somebody doesn’t heed that advice and keeps pressing an issue I don’t want to talk about.

  Our conversation tapers off, and the sudden tension in the air bet
ween us casts a pall over the rest of what had been a good day.

  Chapter Three

  Berlin

  “You have to do something,” she cries. “You can’t let them just toss us out onto the street like garbage.”

  “I’m going to do what I can,” I promise her.

  “Please, Miss Roth –”

  I take her hand and give it a tight squeeze. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep, Maria,” I reply. “But I’m going to do what I can.”

  The older Hispanic woman looks up at me through eyes welling with tears as she nods and shuffles back to her seat. The desperation is etched deeply into her face – into the faces of everybody in the borough board room. The fear and uncertainty permeating the air is palpable, and I swallow hard. The chamber, which seats a couple hundred, is standing room only tonight, which for me, underscores just how important this issue is – there are literally hundreds of lives hanging in the balance.

  The weight of the burden resting on my shoulders suddenly hits me, and it’s heavy. Though I’ve done advocacy work for low-income people ever since I earned my law degree, I’ve never handled an issue this important before. I’ve never had so many people depending on me. If I fail, there will be hundreds of people – families – who are going to be out on the street with little money and few options.

  The borough president, a stately African American woman, named Margaret Carver, raps her gavel and calls for quiet. She and the other board members exchange curious glances with one another as they survey the crowd. Sessions of the local zoning board rarely garner a crowd this size. But I felt it important to show them just how many people this decision impacts, and to put a personal face on it, which is why I encouraged all the residents of the building to attend. And to my delight, it looks like most all of them have.

  As I survey the chamber, my eyes fall on two men sitting well off to the side of the room, almost hidden behind the throng of people, who look way out of place among the blue-collar crowd. Both are in obviously expensive and well-tailored suits, have hair that’s perfectly styled, and just reek of money. The taller of the two – a large, fit man with dark hair, dark brown eyes, and sharp jawline I could see despite his facial hair – looks familiar to me for some reason. There’s something about him that calls to mind somebody I knew a long time ago, but I can’t quite grasp the foggy memory of who it might be that’s floating around in my head.

  “We’re ready to begin,” Carver intones, her voice echoing through the speakers mounted around the chamber. “Everybody please find your seats and settle down.”

  It takes a long few minutes and some impatient rapping of Carver’s gavel, but the room finally grows quiet as everybody settles in. I cast a look around, more than satisfied with the turnout, but as I look at the faces of the residents, I feel a flutter of nerves in my belly. The sheer weight of this responsibility settles down over me once more.

  But I took this responsibility on, and I intend to see it through. I will fight like hell for these people because they don’t deserve anything less – and they certainly don’t deserve what Compass Development is trying to do to them.

  I clear my throat as I take my place at the podium. Fifteen feet or so in front of me are the nine members of the borough board – the people with the power to halt this travesty. And it’s up to me to impress upon them the absolute necessity to do just that.

  “I understand you are speaking on behalf of the residents, Miss Roth?” Carver addresses me.

  “I am,” I nod and confirm.

  “Very well, proceed.”

  “Thank you, Madame President,” I begin. “As you know, the residents of the Atwell Place Apartments have recently been served eviction notices –”

  “My understanding is that the residents all received sixty-day notices,” one of the other board members, a snotty looking older man named Richard Jones, interrupts. “Surely, that’s a sufficient amount of time –”

  “With all due respect,” I cut him off. “The residents of the Atwell are mostly lower income individuals. Most of them don’t have the resources to simply pick up and move at a moment’s notice.”

  “Sixty days is hardly a moment’s notice, Miss Roth,” Jones snaps.

  “The point is that most of the apartments in the Atwell are rent-controlled and forcing the residents to move in such a short time frame constitutes an unreasonable hardship,” I explain. “You’re not asking billionaires like the executives at Compass Development to move to their summer homes. You’re asking normal, hard-working people who are on fixed incomes or working low paying jobs to find a new home, in a city as expensive as New York. As I said, it’s an unreasonable hardship to the good people of the Atwell.”

  “So what is it you’re asking us to do, Miss Roth?” Carver questions.

  “My first choice would be for this borough board to deny the permit to tear down the Atwell at all,” I respond. “Do we really need more luxury condos in this borough?”

  “I understand that as the attorney representing the residents you have to ask, but without any legal standing, we can’t deny this permit,” Carver says. “So do you have a reasonable request to make?”

  “If quashing the permit isn’t a viable option, I would ask for a delay that would allow the residents ample time to resolve their living situation,” I say.

  A low rumbling mutter rises in the audience behind me and a feeling of hopelessness – a greasy, disgusting feeling – saturates the air around me. I don’t even have to turn around and see their faces to know that people are rapidly losing hope – and it feels like a kick to the gut. The bitter tang of failure fills my mouth, and my heart aches painfully. But we’re not done here yet. I need to keep it together and my wits about me.

  “And what is your idea of ample time, Miss Roth?” Jones sneers at me.

  “I would request a stay of twelve to eighteen months.”

  “Twelve to eighteen months?” he retorts. “That sounds like an unreasonable burden for Compass Development. They’ve already secured –”

  “That is a very unreasonable burden to place on Compass Development,” Carver chimes in. “And we are not inclined to grant such a stay.”

  With every passing second, it feels like more oxygen is being sucked out of the room. I prepared the residents coming in that this was going to be an uphill fight. I did what I could to manage their expectations – which, given how things seem to be playing out, was a wise decision. I’m not the sort of attorney who is going to give somebody false hope. I’m honest about the process and will always give maximum effort, but I refuse to sugarcoat anything.

  “With all due respect to the board,” I jump in. “You were all elected to your positions to serve the people of this borough – not Compass Development and not the big corporations –”

  “Young lady do not lecture us on our responsibilities,” Jones hisses. “You need not remind us of who we serve –”

  “No? Because from where I’m standing, it certainly seems like you need a reminder,” I clap back. “The good, decent, hard-working people of this borough put you in a position to represent them. To serve their interests. But it looks to me like all you’re doing is getting into bed with Compass Development and forgetting your responsibility to the people who put you in those chairs.”

  “That’s enough,” Carver rails, banging her gavel on the desk. “I will not tolerate this level of disrespect and lack of decorum in this chamber.”

  I take a moment to glare at the borough board, meeting the gazes of each and every one of them – and interestingly, they all look away, as if they still have some degree of shame. Except for Jones and Carver, anyway. I think they sold any sense of shame or decency long ago.

  “The disrespect in this chamber is what this board is showing to the hard-working people of this borough – the same people who put you in your positions – and it is appalling,” I snap. “After all, let’s not pretend this is the first time you’ve given Compass Development a sweetheart
deal, which makes me wonder what’s on the other side of that quid pro quo.”

  “That is quite enough, Miss Roth,” Carver growls. “We will not sit here and tolerate your veiled accusations –”

  “I’m not veiling anything. I’m saying it straight up,” I spit. “How much is Compass Development paying you to push the permits through? And how much have you earned on Compass’ payroll since you’ve been sitting on the borough board?”

  The board members all flush red and start muttering amongst themselves, outrage on all their faces. The crowd behind me erupts as people shouting some variation of ‘corrupt assholes’ fill the chamber with a cacophony of voices. The sound of President Carver banging her gavel on the desk is lost in the din.

  It takes several moments for the commotion to stop. I do my best to get everybody to settle down, but I can’t say I blame them – Carver, Jones, and the rest of the board are the ones responsible for taking their homes away from them. And for what? Profit. That’s what this all boils down to – people looking to turn a buck on the backs and at the expense of other people.

  When the room is quiet again – or at least, something close to it – Carver and the rest of the board glower down at me. They’re used to doing most of their work behind the scenes. Borough board meetings are usually little more than a formality – and usually only conducted in front of a handful of people. They aren’t used to being called out in a room packed with people demanding answers, and they don’t like it.

  Good.

  “We will take your request into consideration, Miss Roth,” Carver finally says. “But I will tell you right now, given your theatrics here tonight; we are disinclined to be – helpful.”

  “So what you’re saying is because I question your ethics and motivations – and because you don’t like me – you’re going to punish the decent folks living in the Atwell to be punitive?” I snap.