by Gage Grayson
But, like Lush Republic is just a fucking bar, this gothic Woolworth Building beauty is just a fucking office.
There’ll be others. Oh boy, will there be others, I’m sure.
I can’t start getting sentimental about the concept of offices.
I’m not too sentimental about this office in particular, anyway.
Well, maybe just a bit.
The elevator doors open with a ding to a nearly empty lobby.
I take a careful step into the elevator, which I have all to myself.
Staying as steady as I can on my feet as the cat lurches upward, I settle slowly down to the floor as the vestiges of last night’s boozing re-emerge.
I’m going to miss those Saturdays and Sundays, with an upper floor of a skyscraper all to myself.
Did you know that this steel and terra cotta motherfucker was the tallest goddamn building on Earth for twenty years? It all started in 1913, with Woodrow Wilson—that’s President Woodrow Wilson—smashing a remote control button in the freaking White House and illuminating the floodlights atop the Cathedral of Motherfucking Commerce for the official goddamn opening.
Fuck. I might be swearing more than usual, because I’m tired—or it might be because I’m feeling patriotic.
At least in a historical sense. Tallest fucking shit in the world.
Just a mere fucking century ago.
Yeah, I’m a tad sentimental about this office. I can’t deny that any longer.
It’s been an escape for me, especially during that half-decade bridge between my honeymoon on Hawaii and my brief odyssey with Maddie.
That odyssey ended yesterday, but it’s feeling like a fucking lifetime ago already.
Hanging out all night at Lush Republic will do that. With all the time I’ve spent there, I never knew how hard the staff liked to party after the doors close at four.
Whiskey shots, tequila shots, fucking grain alcohol shots…
And it all just ended a couple hours ago.
My already substantial respect for Stacia took on a whole new dimension after seeing the way she can drink.
All in all, it was a proper sendoff for Lush Republic. I know it’ll be around for a few more weeks, but I don’t know if I can handle any more staff-level sendoffs.
A few more open-hours visits to the bar in a civilian capacity would admittedly be more my speed.
I could probably do without stumbling out the bar’s service entrance at six-thirty before stumbling in a half-aware daze back to my neighborhood and proceeding to walk into the wrong fucking building for a Sunday morning.
But as I lie on the floor of the rocketing Cathedral of Motherfucking Commerce elevator, I’m hit with the blunt realization that I’m not ready to even walk into my fucking apartment yet.
The walk down to the Financial District was the first time I’d been alone since Madeline left, so I was more than happy for the blanket of intoxication that still covered me then.
The time and exercise of the walk down here lifted the blanket just enough for me to realize that I’m not ready for the intense flood of memories that walking into Ten Barclay would bring—even though it’s my fucking home.
So, I realize now, I semi-consciously chose my office building because it’s my first choice for an escape from the stresses of the world.
From what I’ve gathered, it’s the polar opposite of the way most people view their workplace.
You couldn’t invent a better way to rob me of that notion than hearing Kallie’s and Barrister’s voices—and Phil’s and Rosen’s—echoing through the lobby in front of me on a fucking Sunday.
I don’t think any of them saw me, but I doubt I can avoid running into them on the twenty-eighth floor.
That’s what I’m dreading as the elevator ticks closer to my floor.
Reality and sobriety and a monster fucking hangover are now just beginning to sink in. I was enjoying the giddiness on the way up here, but it’s going to be time to sit the fuck up soon.
Not to mention—standing, walking, and talking with the execs and Kallie Fern.
I wonder how many office workers are hanging around this building on a Sunday. Probably not too many. Probably very few, in fact.
What I’m driving at is it might be plausible for me to just sleep in this fucking elevator for a few hours.
But no, I’ll get up out of respect for the janitorial and maintenance staff.
On a more selfish note, if Kallie and the execs were to find my hungover ass sleeping in an elevator car, it probably wouldn’t strengthen my candidacy for the Switzerland contract very much.
Fuck that fucking shit.
Not wanting to go home this morning is understandable—at least, in my book, it is—but maybe I should’ve booked a room at the fucking Club Quarters or something instead of going to work.
“I’m not even wearing a fucking suit,” I say out loud.
Ding.
Fuck.
Welcome to Sunday morning in the Cathedral of Commerce. My little half-drunk decision to come to work this morning may have jeopardized one of the best shitty fucking options I’ve got right now.
Then again, maybe that’s for the best.
And the fucking door is closing again.
Rolling out of my temporary bed—also known as the elevator—I’m relieved to find the outer hallway the reception area as peaceful and as abandoned as I would’ve expected on this most restful of days.
That infamous quartet of voices makes itself known as I scuffle down the corridor. The voices are coming from the boardroom, and I can see that the door is closed—completely.
That’s weird, seeing as how—as far as they know—they have the office to themselves. The only other person any of them would expect to be here on a Sunday is me.
And I don’t think it’s common knowledge that I sometimes come in on weekends.
When I do, I’m not exactly running into a lot of coworkers.
Or any coworkers, for that matter.
I don’t know what they’re trying to fucking conceal themselves from. It could be me or everything or just fucking nothing.
If this meeting or whatever is supposed to be is that secretive, I don’t know why they’d even have it here.
Unless it’s to seem less suspicious.
My oxfords clack on the floor as I reel back and forth for a moment.
The surge of unsteadiness and mild nausea passes quickly, but the headache of the fucking century is snaking its way into my forehead and temples.
Last night’s Pacific Ocean of booze is rubbing its palms together, just getting started on its mission to make me pay for my few hours of the hazy drunken mood-lift.
My shoes are also the loudest fucking clacking sounds imaginable in the empty hallway, but I manage to stop them enough.
Or, maybe it wasn’t soon enough. The conversation’s barely understandable from where I am, but it seems to stop for a moment.
There’s no reason I should fear them discovering me in the hallway, but they just might have a reason to be very wary of anyone here besides the three highest ranking partners.
And Kallie Fern, who’s becoming a constant fixture in those circles.
A loud volley of laughs from the boardroom tells me they either don’t care someone’s out in the hallway, or they have no fucking clue.
The latter is much more likely. Once the laughter stars dying down, I hear Kallie imitating someone in a dumb voice.
Yeah, more of this shit.
The laughter starts anew, and their voices all start chattering away like gossipy middle schoolers.
Fuck it, the office is not the place for me today.
My headache commences a full-court press during the elevator ride down.
There’s probably more going on than just gossip. Even if there’s nothing illegal happening per se, shit’s getting done in the shadows of a conference room on a Sunday morning.
It’s another cool day, but holy fuck does the colder air feel nice the second I step bac
k outside.
I’m sure there’s been things done in the shadows at the firm since the beginning—well before I was even hired.
Most of the deals made and alliances formed during my time at the firm all seemed to emerge from somewhere I never saw. I’ve managed to avoid witnessing any of this furtive shit until recently.
What I see might not be pretty, and it might seem fucking nauseating to me in the moment, but I can’t act so shocked at something which I know has been happening for a long time.
If I see evidence of anything illegal, that’ll be a different story.
It wouldn’t be all that shocking either, though.
I settle onto a bench in City Hall Park to take in some more of the healing, cool breezes off the river before I give up and go back to my apartment.
In just a few minutes, my headache is waning, and my nausea’s almost completely gone.
The drunkenness is also almost completely gone, along with any traces of giddy denial of actual fucking reality.
I’m sobering up now, and it’s time to face reality.
Maddie’s gone, so I might as well accept that. I’m trying, at least.
My options all seem to suck now, but if I do go to Switzerland, I can be out of this world sooner rather than later.
Since I’ve been leaning in that direction recently, I need to start taking the idea fucking seriously.
Especially with only five days to decide.
And especially now that I’m in competition with someone who knows how to work the system so effortlessly.
There’s no time for self-pity or denial.
It’s time to go the fuck home and get the fuck to work.
Ethan
“You have got to be kidding me,” I remark to the bouncer. I’m smiling to convey that it’s a joke.
“I didn’t invite all these people here tonight.” The bouncer’s eyes are wide, and his voice is high with incredulousness, but I think he gets my joke.
He just doesn’t find it very funny.
“It’s not much of a joke, anyway,” I say as I pocket my ID.
“No. No, it wasn’t.”
There might be the tiniest hint of a smile on the bouncer’s face. I suddenly feel fucking awful when I realize I don’t even know his name.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever caught your name. You’re one of the newer bouncers, right? I know pretty much everyone here…”
“Carl.”
Carl exhales with conclusive impatience. He’s got no more time for this shit.
I can see where he’s coming from. When you see a guy like me, walking around in expensive-ass clothes, hanging out all the time in one of the least pretentious, cheapest bars in the neighborhood, and spending all his time chatting up the staff, well…
Let’s just say I wouldn’t blame anyone for their bullshit detector going off.
This is my area. I’ve known it my entire fucking life. I knew it back when nobody would even dare to wear expensive shit around here—not that my family could afford it when I was growing up.
“Yo, Barrett!”
It fucking looks like Ryan’s in a mood tonight. He catches sight of me much earlier than usual as I walk through the crowd.
At my office, we’re getting down to a real skeleton crew by now. Although I’m still keeping things anchored at the end of the hall for the time being.
Here at Lush Republic—the other institution in my life that’s about to be upheaved for fucking good—things are not even close to skeleton crew status.
Not unless you’re talking about the minimal staff, but it’s always been that way.
Here at Lush Republic, early on a cold Tuesday evening in March, this is about as far from a fucking skeleton crew as you can get.
“You’re looking rather chipper tonight.” I’m doing my best to temper the sarcastic edge to my words. It’s kind of working.
“This place has been fucking crazy lately,” comments Ryan. “They should look into expanding or something.”
Looking at my wristwatch, I see that it’s just past 8:00 p.m. Yep, I guess I was overdue to hear something that makes me feel like someone just tore my fucking heart out of my chest and stomped on it.
Par for the fucking course these days.
But I know I said I’d stop complaining, so...
“Have you called Josie yet?”
“Dude, she’s right over there.” Ryan points his thumb over his shoulder to where Josie’s standing by an old, defunct dartboard on the wall.
She’s wearing a different pair of leather-patched jeans than she had on last time. The patches on these are more of a chocolate brown.
She’s also talking to a guy in Brooks Brothers suit who looks like a day trader—we get them around here sometimes.
Hey, I fucking am one of them, pretty much. But you know that.
And Josie...
Did she just throw a dart?
“Holy shit, I’ve never seen anyone use that fucking dartboard before. I thought it was just decoration—or, something like that.”
“It was,” Ryan comments dryly before taking a sip of his beer. That’s about as caustic as Ryan gets.
The Brooks Brothers day trader guy takes a big step back from the board. Josie hands him a dart, and he chucks it at the wall. It hits the very outer edge of the board, and he just walks away.
“I bet he would’ve kept playing if he got a bullseye.” Ryan’s full of commentary tonight.
“Wait, are you telling me she brought her own darts?”
“It looks that way,” Ryan says. “Maybe she got them at the new Target or something.”
I watch for a moment as Josie continues her darts game on her own. Her next throw is a little better than the day trader’s, but not by much.
“For some reason, I don’t think she shops at Target.”
“Come on, Ethan.” Ryan’s smiling at his own joke—and at the fact that he finally got one over on me.
“What can I say, Ry. I’m not exactly the quickest motherfucker on the planet these days.”
We watch as Josie seems to consider the now dart-laden board. Her arms are crossed like she’s studying a Matisse at the Met.
“You didn’t come here with her, did you?” I ask.
“Dude, we talked on the phone for a while, but that’s it. She likes to talk, but I don’t really know what her deal is.”
We turn back to the bar to leave Josie to do whatever Josie does.
“Have you met anyone else? Gotten any other numbers?”
Ryan shrugs. “It’s only been a couple days.”
That’s true—it’s only been a couple day since that epic Saturday night here. I haven’t been keeping the best track of time.
Barely sleeping doesn’t help much with that.
And even if I’d been sleeping ten fucking hours a night, the fact of the matter is my mind is elsewhere.
And it’s also fucking everywhere.
It’s on this bar, it’s on Basel...
It’s on a whole fucking lot of different things.
I’m trying to keep it on a lot of different things, anyway.
But you know how minds can be sometimes. Sometimes, they like to keep straying to the same few things.
But, as I’ve said, I’m making it a point not to dwell on any of that shit.
“When you’re right, Ryan, you’re right. I’m not even sure what I’m fucking asking anymore. Sorry.”
Ryan throws his head back and laughs loudly enough for the entire bar—or maybe the entire neighborhood—to hear.
“The Great Ethan Barrett apologizes! I’m getting scared. This might be one of the signs of the fucking apocalypse or something.”
“I apologize all the time.” I’m trying to sound emphatic, but Ryan’s still laughing too fucking loudly. And I really have no clue how fucking much I apologize or don’t apologize.
“Not to me!” Ryan’s still grinning with great amusement.
“Well, sorry, Ryan, re
ally. I didn’t realize I was at the point where an apology would be enough to cause you to die with fucking laughter.” I take a sip of the stout that Stacia or Charles must’ve left me while I wasn’t looking. “Hey, you know what? I just apologized to the bouncer, so...”
Ryan cracks the fuck up again, and I join him.
I probably haven’t laughed at all in the last three days, at least. When I start this time, it takes the fuck over, and I crack the fuck up. I laugh so hard it’s almost fucking scary—but it helps that Ryan’s laughing just as fucking hard.
I’m laughing with exhaustion.
I’m laughing at the pure fucking absurdity of everything.
I’m laughing...did I say with exhaustion yet?
I really need to get some sleep.
“Carina!”
Hearing Ryan shout my sisters name cracks me the fuck up again—although, this time, Ryan just stares at me.
Fucking seriously, since when is Ryan so excited to see my sister?
Usually, he seems irritated if I invite my sister somewhere without fucking running it by him or something.
But fuck it, I don’t really care. Ryan has yet to ask about the investigation...or anything related to it. I’m just going to stay grateful for that.
If we’re able to stay away from that subject, I might just be able to get a couple hours of sleep tonight.
You’ve gotta dream big, right? At this point, even dreaming small would be pretty fucking nice.
The next sip of my stout seems tasteless, which scares me a little, because I’m having trouble parsing the side effects of sleep deprivation from the effects of just plain being fucking distracted from whatever else my stressed out fucking brain wants to throw at me.
But, hey, I can’t complain.
I fucking shouldn’t, anyway.
The first evidence I get of Carina’s presence—apart from Ryan’s yelling, that is—is her oversized white leather purse plunked on the bar next to my pint glass.
“This place is fucking growing on me, Ethan. What have you done?”
What have I done? That’s a question for another fucking time, I think.
But hearing it is probably enough to inspire another fucking sleepless night. I’m becoming an old pro at those by now.
“I need to stop fucking complaining,” I mutter aloud.