ASHFORD (Gray Wolf Security #5)

by Glenna Sinclair

  Because those were the decisions the lizard brain had to make: adapt, move, or die, and it wasn’t about to choose death. The lizard brain made me eat, made me sleep, made me wake up, made me breathe when I didn’t want to, hold my breath when I wanted to open my lungs underwater and let it all come pouring in.

  It was the lizard brain that propelled me across the country, pushing me from place to place when it felt like I wasn’t adapting, certain it could find a better situation for me down the road.

  And now that I had settled into Seattle, my lizard brain had gotten lazy. It didn’t mind the fact that there wasn’t much sun in the city to sit its scaly body in. It basked instead in having a place to sleep at night that wasn’t the car, at having all the food it wanted and then some, at sticking to a schedule that was shifting away from late nights and toward early mornings.

  When the part of me panicked at the thought of Roland discovering the truth about my past, about how I was responsible for our mutual heartache, the lizard brain yawned and turned its face away from me. We’d been doing so well here in Seattle up until this point, and the lizard brain had dug itself a burrow, content on adapting in the most comfortable place we’d been in since…well, since my parents were still alive and I didn’t have anything to run away from.

  The lizard brain tongued the air of my panic and told me to get used to it, to figure out some way to exist with it, because we weren’t moving around anymore. We were going to stay in Seattle. If we couldn’t thrive, then we’d, at the very least, survive.

  And so I adapted to the terror that Roland would someday discover the truth. It became easier to ignore with the distractions I found for myself. Dan had fit that role nicely, pushing me so far out of my comfort zone that it was easy to forget about everything else that worried me.

  And that was how I found myself able to move around the office without sweating through my blouses and blazers in anxiety. I was able to smile without it freezing on my face in a frightened grin. I was able to have small talk with Sam, eat lunch at the cafeteria, and do some real damage to the papers that needed to be digitized.

  When the phone at my desk rang, I was able to answer that, too.

  It had taken some time to get used to being around Roland in a professional setting after I realized just what I’d done to him, what I’d taken away from him with the single stupidest mistake in my life.

  If anything, Roland had loosened up, perhaps relieved at the fact that I wasn’t angry at him for his admission. How could I have been? Nothing was his fault.

  All of the biting commentary on my appearance and performance had vanished, and he actually sounded happy to see me sometimes. It was a shocking transformation from the beast he’d been when I first got hired.

  Once he became nicer, a funny thing happened. It became easier to forget about Roland’s wretched scar. I could hold an entire conversation with him, looking into those blue eyes, without feeling the macabre need to follow the twisting path of that scar across his face. When he wasn’t acting mean, he was downright pleasant to be around.

  Part of me suspected it was the guilt I felt at ruining his life. I could at least be nice to him, be his one friend in this office, the one person who wasn’t so horrified at his appearance that I refused to even give him a chance.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, cradling the phone against my neck between my ear and my shoulder so I could continue typing with both hands. “I almost have the meeting summary typed up.”

  “No rush on that,” Roland said, his gravelly voice warm. “I’m sure it’ll be riveting stuff.”

  “Riveting?” I snorted. “I don’t know about that. There was a five-minute discussion about office supplies…”

  “Office supplies? Five minutes?”

  “Ballpoint pens versus rollerball pens,” I said, smothering a laugh and looking around. I didn’t want anyone to hear me making fun of it. There had been some surprisingly hard feelings on the subject.

  “A five minute discussion about pens?” Roland asked. I could picture his dumbfounded face, and that made me want to laugh even more. “How can someone spend five minutes talking about fucking pens?”

  “You will just have to wait to read the report,” I said, arching my eyebrows and continuing to type. “I took very good notes during this very entertaining portion of the afternoon.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” he said, as if I were proposing some kind of serious artistic exhibition. “I have a huge favor to ask of you.”

  “Ask away—it’s not a favor if you’re paying me to be here,” I said. “I’m your assistant, remember. You don’t ask favors. You tell me what to do.”

  “This falls outside of regular business hours, and is why I’m asking rather than telling,” Roland clarified. “But you’d be compensated with overtime pay.”

  “Oh, overtime,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Just call me Miss Moneybags come Friday. What am I going to be doing?”

  “I need you to take notes during a pretty big phone conference meeting,” he said. “There are going to be a lot of important issues brought up, and I’m going to have to review them carefully. I’ll need you at your best.”

  Out of everything that had gone on during my time of employment at Shepard Shipments, I was really beginning to come into my own on observing and summarizing meetings—both important and practically inconsequential, such as the great pen debate of this afternoon. I was becoming used to the culture and vocabulary of the business, and I could keep up with even the fastest exchanges, my fingers flying over the keyboard. I’d even taken to offering a short paragraph at the end of each summary offering my own interpretation of the events that had transpired and advice on the next steps forward, if it was my decision to make.

  The first time I’d gone above and beyond on that last paragraph, Roland had emailed me back immediately, making my heart stop. I’d been sure that the message would lambast me about overstepping my authority and ridicule me for sharing my opinion when no one had asked for it. I was bracing myself for pages upon pages of vitriol when I opened the message.

  Instead, it was short and simple: Continue to include the last paragraph with all future summaries, Roland had written. Next time, more detail.

  I’d glowed with pride at that email. A billionaire thought my ideas were worth a damn. It was a huge ego boost…tempered quickly by the idea that he was only entertaining me because he felt guilty for something that wasn’t his fault.

  There was always that.

  “I’d be more than happy to bring my best to your after-hours meeting,” I said, my curiosity piqued, eager at being offered something different—a challenge. “Big secret closed-door stuff, right?”

  “That’s about right,” Roland agreed, his voice amused. “Top secret. It’s tonight, by the way.”

  “Tonight?” I groaned. “Dammit.” I’d agreed to go out with Dan, and he’d probably whine and complain if I canceled on him. For someone with as much money as he had, he could be such a baby if he didn’t get his way.

  “You have plans,” Roland said, and I could’ve sworn he sounded disappointed. “That’s fine. I can take my own notes.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No. I don’t have plans. Well, I do have plans, but I’ll change them. I’m honestly more interested in the meeting tonight. It sounds like it’s going to be juicy. I can go out with…I can go out anytime I want. I can’t sit in on top secret executive meetings for an exorbitant amount of money whenever I want.”

  I stuck my tongue out at my awkwardness and beat the heel of my hand against my forehead. Had I really been about to admit that the person I was going out with was Roland’s brother? Dan had assured me until he was blue in the face that there wasn’t a company policy for office dating, but I still couldn’t help feeling weird about it.

  It strangely felt like a betrayal to Roland, whatever that meant, that I was seeing Dan outside of the office.

  Then again, it wasn’t as if Roland would ever
step foot outside of this building. I’d seen to that, all those years ago.

  “Well, only if it’s convenient to you—plans you don’t mind breaking,” he said. “Meeting begins at eight sharp.”

  That was late—weirdly late for a bunch of guys with too much money on their hands. Were they really that busy that they couldn’t meet until the evening?

  “Sounds fine,” I said. “I’ll be on time.”

  “Excellent,” Roland said. “It’s a date, then. Well, a working date. Not a date at all. A meeting. It’s a meeting.”

  “It’s a meeting,” I agreed, my shoulders shaking with laughter. What was wrong with him? Had he never invited his assistant to take notes at an important late meeting before?

  “Stop laughing at me!” he demanded, his voice sounding like he was dangerously close to laughing himself.

  “I’m not laughing—wait! Are you watching me right now?” I swiveled around in my chair to stare daggers at the camera perched close to the ceiling.

  “Maybe,” he confessed, sounding guilty. “Wait, your face is super angry. No, then. No. I’m definitely not watching you.”

  “Your cover is blown,” I said, smirking. “Do you just sit there and watch your camera feed all day? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “I just like to look at who I’m talking to, that’s all,” Roland said.

  “I like that, too,” I said, feeling sassy. “Where’s my camera feed of you? Why don’t I get to look at who I’m talking to?”

  “I’m sparing you that, believe me,” he said, that hoarse voice waxing bitter. “I wouldn’t inflict this face on anyone.”

  “Your face isn’t that bad,” I protested, but he cut me off.

  “Eight o’clock. Sharp.” Then the only sound in my ear was a dial tone.

  I frowned. Roland didn’t understand that his scar was something that people could get used to…something he should get used to if he wasn’t planning on doing anything about it surgically. Didn’t he understand that his personality shone so much that a person, as I so often did, could completely overlook his physical imperfection? If not for that scar, if not for that weakness, then Roland could probably take over the world.

  If not for me.

  My shoulders sagged with that responsibility, the responsibility of having ruined a person’s life. My decision had never been easy to bear, but at least it had always been only my reality to bear. The fact that I’d given such brutal heartache to a person who’d done nothing wrong was almost unbearable.

  But what could I do? What could I honestly think I could do? Telling Roland my truth would ruin everything. I was feeling so good about my job here at Shepard Shipments. Couldn’t I just go on like this?

  My cellphone buzzed and I jumped, wondering if Roland was still watching the feed from the camera trained on me. I could practically feel his eyes on me. I quickly resumed my typing before glancing at the display on my phone.

  There was a text from Dan. Slip out a few minutes early, it read. Traffic’s going to be terrible.

  I hesitated for a few long moments, typing as fast as I could, before swiveling my chair so its tall back blocked me from the camera’s view. I’d rather not Roland witness me backing out of a date with his brother via text message. I couldn’t bear the scrutiny.

  Rain check, I typed back. I have to work late tonight.

  The icon signaled Dan was typing right back. Bullshit, he replied pleasantly. You have to have an amazing dinner and night with me. I’ll call my brother and tell him to bugger off. You’re mine tonight.

  My eyes widened and my fingers flew across my phone, frantic. Please don’t, I sent immediately, then framed the rest of my reply. It’s an executive meeting. It sounds really important, and he asked me for my help. I actually want to go. It sounds exciting.

  I sat there for a full minute, waiting for a reply, but the icon didn’t even pop up. Was Dan hurt that I was choosing to spend an evening with Roland over him? It wasn’t like that. Roland and I didn’t have anything between us, not like what Dan and I were growing. Surely Dan wasn’t that much of an idiot to be jealous of his brother. There wasn’t anything to be jealous about.

  I was wiggling my fingers millimeters from the display, itching to start typing and sending my defenses, when the icon finally popped up.

  Work is work, he sent back, sounding resigned. I think it’s admirable that you’re taking such an interest in the company. You’ll have to bounce what you think about the whole thing off me later…when I cash in that rain check. XO

  How could someone make the phrase “cash in that rain check” sound so promising yet foreboding…and sexy?

  I’ll let you know, I sent back, feeling, as usual, woefully inadequate. Dan had already seen under my hood, so to speak. What had interested him so much that he was showing so much interest now? Did he still want to slum it with an employee? It was equally confounding and tantalizing.

  Eight o’clock arrived without me having to work to distract myself. There were summaries to type—now that I was completing my analysis paragraphs for each one, they took much longer. Trust me to figure out how to make my job even more difficult, but my analysis paragraphs were some of the best parts of my day. I looked forward to compiling them, and sometimes even started writing them when I should’ve been paying attention to what was actually going on in the meeting.

  It was those paragraphs that made me feel like I was actually doing something in my life, being a valuable asset to a company instead of just being an assistant who grabbed fresh coffee and a copy of the newspaper every day for her boss.

  Those paragraphs made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could have a brighter future, one that made me use my brain for money instead of my body.

  There was the digitizing to do, of course—a task I always felt behind in. When the alarm I’d set on my phone for ten till eight buzzed, I was surprised. I’d gotten most, but not all of the box of the day completed. Was I going to have to work twelve-hour days just to keep up with Shepard Shipment’s dive into the twenty-first century?

  I grabbed my laptop, a notebook, a pen, and my phone, and walked over to Roland’s office, pausing just a fraction of a second before knocking on the door. I listened for a call to enter, but receiving none, went ahead and walked inside.

  “I don’t know why you insist on knocking,” Roland said, seated in the same leather chair he’d occupied when he told me he killed my parents. I wouldn’t have any other choice but to sit in the same seat I’d had when I drank all of his bourbon, barfed, and passed out. I heaved a sigh and closed the door behind me.

  “I just want to give you some kind of warning before I pop in,” I explained, taking my seat reluctantly and setting up my army of dictating materials. I was fastest on the laptop, of course, but if there was a lull in important conversation, I liked to take notes longhand on what I thought the topic was about, as well as where I thought the meeting was heading. That was usually where I drew my analysis paragraphs from—those little asides. The phone, of course, was to catch any stray texts from Dan instead of letting his messages vibrate my desk outside uselessly.

  “A warning?” Roland scoffed. “What, exactly, do you think I get up to in here?”

  “I guess a warning to minimize your porn windows—or the video feed of my desk,” I said saucily.

  Roland’s eyes bulged, and I was sure that I’d overstepped. It was hard to ignore the burning in my own cheeks, but we were saved from a big blowup by the phone ringing, resting on a table that separated us.

  Roland swallowed hard, composing himself, held up a finger of warning to me, and pressed the button for speakerphone.

  “Roland Shepard,” he said, that rough voice pure business now. I had a sudden thought—had he always spoken like that? Was that husky voice yet another vestige of the havoc I’d wreaked? There wasn’t time to dwell on the errant guilt. My hands poised over the keyboard, I began to type.

  “Roland, it’s Farris Kim here, and I’ve
got Cynthia Nguyen beside me,” a man’s voice said.

  “Hello, Roland,” a woman added. “We’ve also got Mason Nchia on the line. Mason?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” a deep male voice said. “Roland, hello.”

  I was thankful, at least, that no one in this conference call had similar voices. I scribbled down some quick abbreviations in my notebook to help facilitate my typing, then paused, looking at Roland, waiting for him to proceed.

  “Let’s get straight to the point, as I’m keeping my assistant from socializing this evening,” Roland said, eyeing me as I slumped down in my seat, so embarrassed I could die right there on the spot. The voices joined together in laughter at my expense did nothing to alleviate my shame. Roland’s eyes twinkled suspiciously, and I realized that this was payment for my little comment right before the call began.

  “Shepard Shipments is on track to outpace its North American-based competitors,” he said, folding his hands and returning his attention to the phone. “We continue to grow each quarter, and we’re trading at—”

  “I thought you said you were getting straight to the point,” Mason interrupted, cheeky but friendly. “If you keep on jerking yourself off over all your achievements, your poor assistant is never going to see her friends again.”

  I slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my shocked giggle. Did you have to be above a certain pay grade in order to call Roland out on his bullshit in front of his peers? He glowered at me for a brief moment before continued, raising his voice to be heard above the cackles of the other executives.

  “What I mean is, we’re the best,” he said.

  “What you mean is, you’re going to be the best,” Farris said. “At some point in the future.”

  “Sooner, rather than later, if you like what I have to say,” Roland said. “Shepard Shipments has, up until this point, been fairly limited in scope. Entering the streaming and digital age changed all that. We’re growing in leaps and bounds, and I feel like now is a good point in time to diversify. I know it’s lost on nobody…except for my poor assistant…the diversity of the companies each of you represents. Would you sound off for her, for the record? She’s taking notes, for your information.”