The Takeover (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  “Pretty shit.” He sighs.

  “Why?”

  “Well, apparently now I’m stupid.”

  My hackles rise. “He called you stupid?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s it.” My anger explodes. “Don’t go back after lunch.”

  “Mom.”

  “I mean it,” I snap. “He can’t call you fucking stupid, Fletcher; that is unacceptable.”

  Marley’s eyes widen in horror as she listens. “What?” she mouths. “He called him stupid?”

  “No job is worth your self-respect, Fletcher. Do not go back.”

  “Mom, shut up. You’re making it worse. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

  “Fletcher.”

  He hangs up.

  “That’s it,” I snap. “He’s gone too far this time.” I down my drink and slam my empty glass on the table and stand. “Meet you back at work. I have an appointment with Tristan fucking Miles.”

  “Oh shit. Good luck.” She winces.

  I punch my fist. “Bail me out of jail, will you?”

  She giggles and raises her glass at me. “Yes, okay, what account do I take the bail money out of?”

  “You’ll have to rob a bank.”

  “Roger that.”

  I storm out of the restaurant on a mission. Tristan Miles is looking for a fight, and he just found one.

  Nobody calls my son stupid and gets away with it.

  I march up to the reception desk in the Miles Media building.

  “Hello, may I help you?” The young girl smiles.

  “I’d like to see Tristan Miles, please.”

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry; that will be impossible.”

  “You tell him Claire Anderson is here to see him.”

  “I’m sorry—” she continues.

  “Tell him,” I interrupt her. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”

  She and the other receptionist exchange glances, and she dials a number. “Hi, Sammia. I have a Claire Anderson to see Tristan Miles in reception.”

  She listens and then holds the phone down. “She’s just checking.”

  I can hear my pulse as it pumps boiling blood around my body.

  Boom . . . boom . . . boom.

  “Okay, thank you.” She types something and hands over a security card on a lanyard. “You can go up. Hector will accompany you.”

  “I can find it myself,” I snap.

  “Nobody goes to the top floor without a security guard.”

  He’s going to need one. “Fine.”

  She waves over a security guard, and he comes over. “Can you please escort Mrs. Anderson to see Tristan Miles, please?”

  “Sure thing.” He smiles at me. “This way, please.” He gestures to the elevator, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from speaking. I’m so mad that I can’t put two words together.

  I glare straight ahead at the doors as I go over in my head what I’m going to say.

  The doors open, and I storm out. My step falters as I see the floor.

  What the fuck?

  Expansive views all over New York. White marble. Contemporary luxury at its finest. Of course his office looks like this . . . it only boils my blood more.

  The pretty receptionist smiles. “Hello, I’m Sammia. You’re here to see Tristan?”

  “Yes, please.” I remember my manners and force a smile. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson.”

  “Are you . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Yes, I’m Fletcher’s mother.”

  I see the exact moment that she realizes why I’m here—her eyes widen. “Oh, I see.” She stands and puts her hand out. “This way, please.”

  We turn left and go down a wide corridor. I can see the sprawling New York skyline at the end, and offices are all to the left. “His office is at the end,” she says.

  I keep following her, and we get to a large room, another reception area, and I see Fletcher sitting at a desk. Two girls are at desks beside him: one looks younger.

  Fletcher’s face falls when he sees me. “Mom, what are you doing here?” he stammers in a panic.

  “Just visiting Tristan.” I fake a smile. “Thanks, Sammia.” I barge open Tristan’s door and close it behind me.

  I find him sitting at his desk. He looks up and runs his tongue over his bottom lip and sits back in his chair, as if amused.

  Arrogance personified.

  “Claire Anderson.” He smiles.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he says, pen in hand.

  “Oh, I think you know,” I sneer.

  He raises an eyebrow. “No. Actually, I don’t.”

  “What the hell are you doing to Fletcher?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” I bark, “how dare you call him stupid? How dare you scream at him in front of other staff? Or at all, for that matter.”

  He tilts his chin to the sky defiantly. “Did he run to Mommy, did he?”

  “Tristan,” I whisper angrily. “I understand that you met in terrible circumstances, but it’s clearly obvious that you only hired him to make a fool of him. And I won’t have it.”

  He narrows his eyes and sits back in his chair. “Is that what you think?”

  “That’s what I know.”

  He stands and comes around in front of me. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing with Fletcher Anderson. I’m teaching him work ethic. He’s lazy and needs discipline.”

  “You are not training him; you are belittling him,” I fire back.

  “I’m teaching him to have some respect,” he replies calmly. “Something that he quite obviously hasn’t learned at home.”

  “Why on earth would he respect a jerk like you?” I whisper angrily.

  “Because I’m his boss, Claire, and I am not putting up with his excuses,” he replies.

  “By calling him stupid,” I snap.

  “I did not call him stupid. I told him to stop acting stupid. There’s a big difference. He’s intelligent, Claire, a lot more than you give him credit for. He doesn’t have anger issues; he has a fucking attitude issue, and I’m getting rid of it.”

  “By making a fool of him?” I gasp.

  “By making him learn from his mistakes. If he is not punished as he does them, he will keep doing it. You don’t learn a lesson unless it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “You yelled at him for forgetting a pen, for Christ’s sake,” I stammer.

  His face contorts in anger. “How many CEOs do you know that don’t take a pen to a meeting, Claire?” he sneers. “Rule number one.” He holds his finger up to accentuate his point. “Be prepared. Do not turn up to a meeting unprepared.”

  The door opens, and Fletcher comes into view. He closes it behind him.

  Tristan glares at him. “You run to Mommy when you get into trouble?” he asks.

  Fletcher stares at him.

  “You going to run to Mommy when someone steals your business or your girlfriend?” he asks. “Is that what a man does? Run to Mommy?”

  “How dare you?” I whisper angrily. “Get your things, Fletcher; we’re leaving. You don’t have to put up with this.”

  “Get back to your desk, Fletcher, and finish that report,” Tristan snaps.

  Fletcher looks between us, unsure what to do.

  “Fletcher Anderson,” Tristan asserts. His voice rises along with his anger. “That report is to be on my desk before you leave today. I don’t care if we don’t get out of here until midnight.”

  “He’s coming with me,” I snap. “Stick your report up your ass.”

  “Mom,” Fletcher interrupts. “Don’t.”

  “Fletcher, let’s go,” I urge.

  “Do you want to know why I’m riding this kid so hard, Claire?” Tristan asks.

  I stare at him.

  “Because Fletcher Anderson has more potential than I’ve seen in a very long time. He’s su
per intelligent.”

  Fletcher’s chest rises as he fights a crooked smile.

  “But he’s also a little shit, and he’s lazy and lacks discipline,” he adds.

  I continue to stare at Tristan.

  “I can give him the tools that he needs, but they don’t come easy. There are no shortcuts to this, Claire. I’m the only person who can give him the tool kit. So don’t you barge in here and ruin everything for him. You are killing this kid with kindness, Claire. He’s not a child. He’s a man. He needs to grow the fuck up and take responsibility for his own shortcomings.”

  Fletcher drops his head.

  “Why the hell are you still standing here, Fletcher?” he bellows. “Go and finish the report.”

  “See you at home, Mom,” Fletcher says. He turns and scurries from the office, and Tristan goes back to sit behind his desk.

  We glare at each other for an extended time.

  The air between us is electric—only this time it’s fueled by anger.

  “I’m watching you,” I whisper.

  “I’ll tell you who to watch: that middle child of yours. The wizard.”

  “The middle child of mine is none of your concern,” I sneer.

  The nerve of this man. This is exactly why I don’t want him anywhere near my kids; he’s cold and judgmental and lacks any type of empathy.

  A fucking asshole.

  “Goodbye, Tristan.”

  He raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Is that it?” He holds the pen in his hand. “Is that all you want to say to me?”

  I narrow my eyes. Any minute I’m about to explode.

  “I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”

  He gives me a sarcastic smile. “Liar.”

  Fucking hell. This man makes me thermonuclear. I want to dive over the desk and punch that sarcastic smile off his face.

  Before I lose my temper, I turn and storm from the office with my blood boiling in my veins.

  I can’t believe I was actually attracted to that jerk.

  What a fucking joke.

  The television drones on in the background. The children are squabbling among themselves as they sit on the floor doing a jigsaw puzzle. Woofy is chasing Muff around the house, and I’m curled up on the couch, pretending to read.

  My mind isn’t here, though.

  It’s in Paris . . . with him.

  I hate that I’m thinking about such an asshole.

  What’s worse is I can pretend that I don’t like him. I can lie to his face about my wants. I can act like being in his arms for six days didn’t mean a thing.

  Because if nobody knows my inner fears, then they can’t come true.

  I turn the page of my book on autopilot. I haven’t read a word, but the habit of pretending is strong and down to my bones.

  I picture the roses that he left me in Épernay and the card that I have safely tucked in my purse.

  WE HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS.

  COME TO PARIS FOR THE WEEKEND.

  I exhale heavily. We did the business, fair and square.

  Fucked it to hell and back, actually.

  So why does it still feel unfinished? I have this haunting feeling that it isn’t over. But then I know it is.

  Tristan Miles is lingering in my soul . . . and the bastard won’t leave.

  He was supposed to be my get-out-of-grief card, my comeback into society.

  What he was, was an intoxicating drug and an addiction that I don’t need.

  So now, instead of one man lingering, I have two.

  My beautiful husband, Wade, the one I planned a life with . . . the one whose wishes I’m honoring.

  And then there’s Tristan, the gorgeous soul-sucking bastard from New York . . . who has a fun, tender side underneath.

  But does he really?

  Does he have a tender side, or is that just who he pretends to be when he’s alone with a woman? Was that all a plot to get under my guard?

  It worked, if it was.

  The man I spent time with was beautiful.

  I drag my hand down my face. I’m sick of this. Why the hell am I always the one who suffers?

  If the truth be known, Tristan is probably in bed with another woman right now.

  She’d be blonde and beautiful and would be able to be spontaneous and fun.

  “Give it back,” Harry snaps, interrupting my thoughts as he snatches a puzzle piece from Fletcher.

  I look around at my chaotic surroundings, and I know that Tristan doesn’t belong here in my world. He will never belong here. This is as far from his reality as he could possibly be.

  My stomach twists at the thought.

  I get a vision of the two of us rolling around in the sheets, laughing and making love.

  The tenderness between us felt so real and intimate.

  Did it mean anything to him at all?

  I turn the page of my book . . . obviously not.

  “I think that just about wraps it up,” Michael, our lead accountant, says as he looks up from his spreadsheets.

  I smile, optimistic for the first time in a while. “That’s great; thank you.”

  “As long as we keep gaining traction on the advertising, we should be able to pull out of this.”

  “I agree.” I look around at the board members. “Thank you all so much for pulling together and working through the issues. Your advice is so appreciated.”

  “We’ll get through this.” Michael smiles. “It’s just a rough patch.”

  “I know.” I nod. “Thanks again.”

  The group of ten stands, and we chatter as we leave. They wait for me to lock up our office, and we make our way downstairs in the elevator together.

  It’s late—nine o’clock on Thursday—and we’ve had our monthly board meeting. The figures are finally turning around. I don’t have to let anyone go this month, and I think we’re actually going to be okay.

  “I’ll see you next month?” I ask.

  “For sure. Bye.”

  “See you. Do you need a lift?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”

  I always stay in a hotel here in New York on the nights we have a meeting. By the time I got home, I’d have to turn around and come straight back. It’s not worth the two-hour drive.

  My phone rings, and the name Gabriel lights up the screen.

  “Hi, just finished,” I answer.

  “I’m across the street in Luciano’s.”

  “Fancy finding Gabriel Ferrara in an Italian restaurant,” I tease.

  “Shocking, isn’t it,” he mutters dryly. “I’m coming out now.”

  “On my way.” I cross the street and begin making my way down to my trusty friend. Gabriel always meets me for drinks on the nights I stay in New York.

  We don’t paint the town red or anything like that, but we have a good time just the same.

  I see him walking down toward me, and I smile and kiss his cheek. “Hello, Bella.” He smiles.

  “Hello.”

  He holds his arm out, and I link it with mine. “The usual?”

  “Uh-huh, sounds good.”

  We walk the two blocks to our favorite bar. “Oh, did I tell you that Fletcher started an internship?”

  “No, you called and told me he wanted to, but I haven’t seen you since.”

  “Oh.” I roll my eyes. “In the end, I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

  “You know, I think it will be good for him,” he says as we walk arm in arm down the street.

  “Hmm, yes, I think so too. Time will tell. I still think he’s too young to be in an office environment.”

  “He’s eighteen, Claire.”

  “I know he is. I guess he will always be a baby to me.”

  He rolls his eyes as we continue walking. He doesn’t know my children personally—only through what I tell him. I purposely haven’t told Gabriel where Fletch is working. It’s no secret how much he hates Miles Media. Ferrara Media an
d Miles Media are archenemies, and their power struggle is played out in the media.

  If he knew that I spent that week with Tristan, he would lose his living shit.

  Oh well . . . it doesn’t matter anyway, I guess.

  We walk into the bar. It’s busy and bustling with people in suits who have come straight from work. “You grab a table, and I’ll get some drinks,” Gabriel says. “The usual?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He walks off, and I find a bench seat near the window. I perch up onto the stool and quickly text my mom.

  Hi,

  Everything okay with you guys?

  A reply bounces straight back.

  Yes love,

  Kids are all in bed.

  Goodnight,

  xoxox

  I text back.

  Thanks Mom,

  What would I do without you?

  Love you

  xox

  My mom is a godsend. I don’t know what I would do without parents.

  I hear a loud burst of laughter from the other side of the bar, and I glance over to see a group of men, and my eyes widen. A man has his back to me and is being animated as he tells a story. Everyone is listening and laughing as he speaks.

  Fuck . . . I’d know the back of that man anywhere.

  Expensive designer suit, wavy dark hair, broad shoulders, and perfect posture. Tristan Miles.

  And I’m here with Gabriel.

  Double fuck.

  I glance over to the bar to see that Gabriel has just ordered, and the bartender is making our drinks. Oh no . . . too late to leave.

  I shuffle my stool around so that my back is to Tristan. Hopefully he won’t see me.

  We’ll have one quick drink, and then I’ll sneak out of here.

  Eight million people live in New York City; what are the damn chances of being in the same bar as him?

  I hear the loud burst of laughter again, and I peer over to see Tristan laughing out loud with the other men.

  I do not need this shit tonight; can’t I just have a relaxing night with my friend without him turning up?

  Gabriel returns to the table and passes my glass of wine over. “Thanks.” I take it from him a little too eagerly. I’m suddenly thirsty like a camel.

  “How was your meeting?” Gabriel asks.

  “Good.” I smile, grateful to take my mind off the gorgeous elephant in the room. “The advertising has picked up, and the figures this month were good. Hopefully it will continue.”

  Gabriel’s eyes hold mine. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”