The Takeover (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  How wrong could I be?

  Her children are nearly grown men—angry grown men . . . ones who hate me.

  I get a vision of the house and the pets and the psychotic kids, and I shake my head in disgust.

  She said we were at different stages of our lives, and I really didn’t understand what she meant.

  I get it now.

  We have nothing in common . . . apart from our sense of humor, of course—but as a whole . . . it’s not enough, and to be honest, it pisses me off.

  We could have had something. We could have had something fucking great. Claire Anderson is near perfect. However, the life she has . . . is not, and I don’t want to be around those feral kids for even ten minutes. I hate that she has to deal with them alone. She has so much weight on her shoulders, and I don’t know how she bears it. What must it be like to be her?

  It’s not your problem.

  I get a shiver as I picture the middle child, and I hate to admit it, but the violent oldest one seemed almost normal compared to that serial killer in the making.

  I get a vision of him hanging the teddy bear. What the hell was that about?

  Did I imagine it?

  My phone dances across the coffee table, and I pick it up to see the name Claire.

  Shit. “Hello,” I answer.

  “Hi, Tris.” My face falls into a sad smile at the sound of her voice.

  Fuck it . . . why does she have kids . . . animals—whatever the hell they are?

  “I called to see if you’re okay,” she says.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I sigh.

  “Oh my gosh, Tristan, I am so sorry.”

  I stay silent.

  “He’s just super protective over me and had just found underpants in my luggage. They must have gotten mixed up when I had my laundry done,” she lies, and I know he must be listening. “He had a momentary slipup with his temper.”

  “Yeah, I was there, Claire. I saw it, remember? Firsthand, actually. Have the ankle to prove it.”

  “Anyway, he wants to speak to you,” she says.

  “No, that’s . . .”

  “Hello,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Hello,” I reply.

  He exhales heavily, and I get a vision of Claire standing over him, making him do this. “I’m sorry. I was out of line this afternoon,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I could have you charged with assault,” I reply.

  He stays silent.

  “I’m just your mother’s friend from work. You jumped to the wrong conclusion. It was completely out of line.”

  No answer.

  “Anything else?” I snap in frustration.

  “Nope.”

  “So that’s your apology?” I frown.

  “Yep.”

  “Is your mother there making you call me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you really sorry?”

  “No.”

  I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.

  “Do you want to speak to Mom again?” he asks.

  I frown as I contemplate the question, and I close my eyes in regret. Eventually I reply, “No, that’s okay. Thanks for calling.” I hang up.

  I stare at the phone in my hands for a moment.

  I get a vision of Claire on the other end. Did she want to speak to me?

  My mind goes over how much she has on her plate: work, financial difficulties—and that’s aside from bringing up on her own three boys who have obvious troubles.

  I feel for her.

  I throw my phone onto the couch and drag myself up. I put my foot down to test it, and a shooting pain sears through me.

  Fuck’s sake, stupid kid.

  It’s eleven o’clock the next morning when I hobble in to work on crutches.

  Jameson is standing in reception. His face falls when he sees me, and he follows me into my office. “What happened to you?”

  “Don’t ask.” I fall into my seat, annoyed.

  “What have you done?”

  “Torn ligaments. Pulled a piece of bone off when it snapped.”

  He winces. “Ouch. How did you do that?”

  I drag my hand down my face. “A kid beat me up with underpants.”

  “He what?”

  I smile and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I went to the twilight zone yesterday, Jameson.”

  “How so?”

  “Let me set the tone of the kind of people I’m dealing with here.”

  He frowns in question.

  “They have a cat called Muff,” I say.

  He stares at me flatly.

  “What kind of deranged, sick, fucked-up, twisted person calls a family pussy . . . Muff?”

  “What are you talking about?” He frowns.

  “So I met this chick at the conference in France.” I exhale heavily. “She was perfect.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Here we go,” he mutters dryly.

  “Ticked boxes that I didn’t even know existed. Smart and funny. Hot as fuck.” I turn my computer on. “Small problem, though—she has three kids.”

  He winces.

  “So we get back here. She tells me she’s ending it because of her kids. Saying that we come from different worlds, blah, blah, blah.” I roll my eyes.

  Jameson smiles and takes a seat at my desk, his interest piqued.

  “I don’t believe her reasoning, so I followed her home from work yesterday.”

  “What? You followed her home?” He frowns.

  I shrug. “Little bit. Well, Sammia found her address, actually. Anyway, I get to her house. It’s like a junkyard; there’s shit everywhere.” I wave my hands around as I try to explain the enormity of the mess. “Shoes and bikes and fuck . . . everything under the sun.”

  He frowns as he listens intently.

  “So her kid comes rushing out, but he isn’t a kid.” My eyes widen. “He’s a fucking man-child.” I hold my hands up to show him how tall. “He starts whipping me with a pair of underpants that I left in her suitcase.”

  Jameson’s eyes widen, and he smiles.

  “So I step back in shock, tread on a skateboard, and go flying down the stairs.”

  Jameson chuckles.

  “Only to have that crazy motherfucking kid jump on me and try to shove my own underpants in my mouth.”

  Jameson tips his head back and laughs out loud.

  “There’s more,” I stammer. “That’s not even the worst part.”

  Jameson is laughing hard now.

  “They take me inside. She sends that child to his room, and then she goes to get ice, and then another kid comes out.” I picture his face, and my eyes widen. “This kid . . . is fucking evil, man, I’m telling you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  I try to remember it. “Same as that nerdy wizard kid . . . the one with glasses.” I click my fingers as I try to think.

  “Who? Harry Potter?”

  “Yes, that’s it. His name is Harry.”

  Jameson smiles broadly.

  “He starts slicing his neck with his finger.”

  Jameson stops laughing, shocked.

  “Then he puts his hands around his throat and begins to choke himself until he fakes his death,” I whisper.

  “What?” Jameson screws up his face. “That is weird.”

  “Oh, you think?” I stammer. “Then he runs away and comes back with a tie thing and a teddy bear, and I watch as he ties a noose around its neck and then hangs it.”

  Jameson’s eyes hold mine for an extended time. He’s as confused as I am. “He did what?”

  I cross my fingers over my chest. “As God is my witness. This shit really happened.”

  Jameson laughs out loud in shock.

  “And the dog,” I cry. “The poor fucking dog.”

  “What’s wrong with the dog?”

  “
They have a fucking bucket thing tied to its head.”

  “What for?”

  “To torture it . . . why else?”

  His face falls, and he stares at me. “What?”

  “I’m not even joking . . . I got out to the car and considered going back in on a mercy mission and stealing the poor bastard to save it. He was eating peas, Jameson. Fucking peas, I tell you.”

  Jameson tips his head back and laughs hard.

  I put my head into my hands. “I’m sorry, Woofy.”

  “His name is Woofy?”

  I nod sadly.

  He howls with laughter as he really loses control. “What did you do?”

  I exhale heavily. “I did what any self-respecting man does when his life is in danger.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I got the fuck out of there.”

  “You drove home with that ankle?” he asks in surprise.

  “Sped the entire way.”

  Jameson laughs hard.

  “No more MILFs for me.” I hold my hands in the air. “I’m done.” I turn to my computer. “In fact, I don’t even think I want kids now. I’m scarred for life.”

  A melancholy comes over me. “You know, I knew she was a widow and had it tough, but I never imagined it was this bad.”

  Jameson watches me. “She was probably thinking of you when she ended it.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I sigh. “Anyway, in another life she’s the perfect woman. It’s her circumstances that have fucked it.”

  It’s ten o’clock on Thursday morning, and someone knocks on my office door.

  “Come in.”

  Sammia walks in, and I smile. Sammia is my brother’s PA and the sunshine of our office. She works out at reception and keeps us all in order. “Tris, your intern interviews are here.”

  I keep typing. “Okay, what number did we narrow it down to?”

  “With all the testing and the two interviews they have already done down on level forty, there are three final candidates.”

  “Yes, okay, which one do you like?” I ask.

  “I like Rebecca,” she says. “I think she has what it takes.”

  “Well, to get this far, they all have what it takes, but let’s see who interviews the best.” I take out the intern-interview file. Every year we take just one on in the management level. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Kids travel across the States to be taken under our wing. All our past kids have gone on to great success, and most of them are in managerial positions. “To be honest I haven’t even had time to go through any of the interview notes,” I admit.

  “That’s okay.” Sammia smiles. “It’s not like it’s your first rodeo.”

  I chuckle. “Send the first one in.”

  “Okay.”

  I open the file and take out the relevant questions that I need to ask. I ready my notepad and pen.

  A light knock sounds at the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opens, and I glance up. My face falls.

  It’s him.

  The underpants attacker. Our mouths fall open in shock at the same time.

  “You’re . . . Tristan Miles?” he gasps, horrified.

  “Are you kidding me?” I snap. “I can’t even fucking walk because of you, and now you turn up here looking for a damn job?”

  “Trust me. I didn’t know it was you,” he snaps back.

  “Or you wouldn’t have attacked me?” I gasp.

  “No, I would have still attacked you; I wouldn’t have come today.”

  I throw my head back in disgust. “Are you kidding me?”

  He folds his arms and narrows his eyes. “So . . . you were lying.”

  “About what?”

  “You don’t know my mother from work at all.”

  “Yes, I do, and why the hell are we talking about your mother now?”

  “Why did you come to my house to see her? Why didn’t you just see her at her office?”

  “First of all . . .” I point to the chair. “Sit down,” I snap as I grab my crutches and move them out of his way. He falls into his seat. “Second of all, last time I looked, it’s your mother’s house. And thirdly, it’s none of your business why I wanted to talk to her. My ankle is completely fucked, by the way; thank you for asking.”

  He smirks.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “No, I think you’re a lying jerk. They were totally your underpants, and you can stick your job up your entitled ass. I don’t want it anyway.”

  I shake my head. Why am I not surprised by his attitude? “I will.”

  We glare at each other.

  “Don’t tell my mom that I came here today.”

  I frown. “She doesn’t know?”

  “No, and I would appreciate it if she didn’t find out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “I was going to surprise her if I got the job.”

  I stare at him as I process his words. “Why wouldn’t you tell her you were going for this? Applications have been going on for months.”

  His eyes drop to the carpet. “I didn’t want her to be disappointed when I didn’t get it.”

  “She wouldn’t be disappointed if you didn’t get the job. I know that for a fact.”

  His jaw clenches as he stares at the carpet in front of us.

  “Why would you want this job?” I ask.

  “I want to learn what to do and take over Anderson Media.” He pauses. “So she doesn’t have to work so hard.”

  I stare at him.

  “She does enough.” He scuffs his shoe on the carpet. “I don’t want her to have to worry anymore.”

  My heart drops. “You think you have to protect your mother?”

  “I don’t think it; I know it.” He stands. “It’s okay.” He exhales deeply. “I won’t waste your time.”

  He’s right; he does have to protect her. She’s worth protecting.

  I watch him for a moment, and I hate to admit it, but I’m strangely impressed by his loyalty to Claire.

  “Sorry about your ankle,” he says.

  “Are you really?”

  “Nope.” He stares at me. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same if you found someone’s underwear in your mother’s bag.”

  “No, actually, I wouldn’t,” I mutter dryly. “Because . . . I’m not psychotic.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He walks toward the door.

  “Intern interviewees usually shake my hand,” I call after him.

  “Not this one.” He turns and leaves. The door clicks quietly behind him.

  I stare at the door he just left through for a moment, and then finally I push the intercom. “Sammia, send in the second interview, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  My eyes drop to look at the interview-rating-system sheet in front of me, and I exhale heavily. How the fuck do I even rate that?

  I stare at my computer screen. It’s been five days since I interviewed the three finalists. Five days of me fighting myself over who I want to hire.

  Rebecca is fantastic. She would be an asset to any business, and I will be offering her a position regardless of whether she gets this role.

  Joel, the other candidate, was perfect on paper. His psychometric testing was spot on, and he blitzed every question with a practiced perfection.

  Then there was Fletcher Anderson. He didn’t even want to do the interview. He wouldn’t shake my hand and near fucking killed me with barely an apology. He’s crazy and wild and everything I don’t have the time or energy to train.

  He also had more passion in his little finger than the other two had combined.

  No matter how hard I try to talk myself out of it, he’s the one I keep going back to. He’s the one with loyalty to family, albeit. . . mishandled. Media is in his blood, and he has a real opportunity to take over Anderson Media one day as the CEO . . . that’s if the company holds out that long. I know it will. Claire’s got this. With his passion and tempe
r and the right training, we could make him the best damn CEO in New York.

  I exhale heavily as I go over the pros and cons of each candidate again, hoping by some miracle to find something good about the other two—and there is, but there’s just an untapped quality that Fletcher has. But then he has major anger issues, and I will perhaps be forced to fire him down the track anyway.

  Two steps forward, one step back.

  I even tried to call Rebecca to offer her the position yesterday, but when it came to making the call, I couldn’t do it.

  My head says he’s too hard and to let it go; my gut is telling me he’s the one.

  Decisions, decisions.

  Claire

  Patrick lies on my bed as I fold the washing and stack it all around him in piles. “Read that line again, Paddy,” I say.

  “The house was in the ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” He frowns as he concentrates.

  “Sound it out,” I remind him.

  “Ham-p-tons.” He accentuates the s at the end.

  “Yes, you got it.”

  He smiles proudly and keeps going. Patrick has just this year been diagnosed with dyslexia. And to be honest, once we got that diagnosis, it was a huge relief for me. His teachers and I couldn’t work out why he couldn’t read and why some tasks at school were so hard for him when he’s obviously so bright. In the end, I took him to a therapist, and she discovered it.

  “All al . . .” He frowns. “Long,” he continues.

  Fletcher walks into the room. He’s fighting a smile.

  “What?” I ask as I keep folding.

  “I’ve decided that I’m deferring university.”

  I throw a newly folded towel onto the pile. “Well, that’s not happening.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m eighteen next month, Mom. I can do what I like.”

  “Fletcher Anderson, you are way too smart to have a year off doing nothing. I’m not even discussing this with you.”

  “I got an internship.”

  My face falls. “What do you mean?”

  “I applied six months ago and made it to the final three.”

  “What?” I stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  I smile and take his face in my hands. “Fletch, when are you going to stop worrying about me?” I fold another towel. “So when is the final interview?”