The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  But what did I say wrong?

  I rattle my keys in my hand while walking down the hallway, stopping right in front of my door and just standing there.

  If Maddie knows as much as she seems to know, then she knows that I have nothing to do with any of the shady shit that might be going on.

  She must know that.

  Right?

  Fuck. I unlock the door.

  My empty apartment greets me. The cleaning service stopped by yesterday, and everything is still so fucking clean. It’s like walking into a furniture catalog, yet even more sterile and heartless.

  Unthinkingly, I walk over to my bar, with its decanters of scotch and brandy.

  I need a drink.

  Back when I just learned her name, at that beach bar in Hawaii, I remember Madeline saying that.

  I need a drink.

  That’s when she was still Madeline to me, and I wouldn’t even think of calling her Maddie. That wouldn’t be for another few days.

  And what a few days those were.

  I knew at the time I needed to enjoy it, to treasure it, because it was a fling, and there was no way it could last much longer.

  And I was fucking right.

  I need a drink.

  What drink did she end up getting? It was a Captain’s Dilemma, or Captain’s Demise, or something like that.

  If I broke out the rum, the blender, some simple syrup, and some fresh fruit and pineapple juice, I might be able to make something like that.

  I could look up the recipe, get any missing ingredients delivered, and hire a bartender from a local cocktail place like the Living Room or Employees Only to stop by and make it correctly.

  But I won’t.

  Because that was then, and this is now.

  And now I’m going to stick to scotch on the rocks—because it’s time to start living in the present and thinking about the future.

  Ethan

  I check my wristwatch on the crowded Woolworth Building elevator.

  “It’s after nine already,” I mutter under my breath.

  Every square inch of this elevator car is occupied with moody office workers. They’re moody because it’s Monday, and every one of them heard my muttered complaint about how late in the morning it’s getting.

  No, I didn’t get my quiet Saturday in the office. No quiet Sunday either—not at the office, anyway. This weekend was spent enjoying my scotch collection, and, for the first time ever, dreading having to go back to work.

  Leave at five on Friday, return at nine on Monday, wearing an appropriately gloomy expression—this is what it’s supposed to be like to have an office job.

  The elevator stops at the twentieth floor, the twenty-first, the twenty-second, and the crowd keeps thinning until I’m all alone riding up to my floor.

  Yep, this is what the nine-to-five lifestyle is supposed to be like. It feels pretty fucking unnatural to me, though.

  “Monday, Monday.” Samantha, the HR manager, laments the day of the week as I pass her in the hallway. It almost sounds like she’s singing a funeral dirge.

  “Can’t trust that day.” I’m half responding to Samantha and half talking to myself as I walk down the corridor. I turn my head around to see her smiling at me weakly.

  Samantha is the only HR employee in the entire firm. Her life must be a fucking nightmare these days.

  She’s been here forever, though, and with her experience, I’m sure she’ll land a job somewhere else. Maybe somewhere better, probably somewhere friendlier.

  The door to the boardroom is open, and there’s a janitor vacuuming the floor. The sound of the vacuum grows louder as I pass the door, drowning out the other usual office noises.

  Walking past Barrister’s office, the sound of hearty laughter undercuts the roar of the vacuum. Barrister’s door is partway open. I don’t look in, but I can’t avoid the sound of Barrister and a few other executives laughing much too hard for a Monday morning.

  Even for a weekday, the office is fucking loud this morning. My closed office door never looked so appealing.

  Once I’m finally safe in my office—my second home—the old, thick walls of this building will filter out most of this obnoxious racket. Wherever I end up, I’ll miss this place.

  They’ll probably end up converting this entire floor into condos, like the other upper floors of the building.

  And my office will be fucking gone.

  I turn the doorknob, ready to enjoy my workspace while it lasts.

  When are they moving again?

  “Why, good morning, Ethan!”

  “What the fuck?”

  My greetings are usually more cordial than that, but it’s not every morning I arrive to find one of my coworkers in my office, sitting in my chair, with her fucking bare fucking feet resting on my fucking desk.

  “Not a fan of Mondays, are we?”

  My face must the color of a fucking eggplant by now, but I respond with slow, careful words.

  “May I help you, Kallie?”

  “No.”

  “Could you help me, then?”

  Kallie shrugs.

  “Mmmaybe.”

  “Could you please take your feet off my desk?”

  Kallie shrugs again and slides her feet back under my desk.

  “Kallie,” I continue, feeling too fucking flummoxed to even be angry, “I don’t mean to be condescending, but you know that’s my desk, right? And this is my office...”

  “For now.” Kallie stands up and walks toward me around my desk. At least she’s slipped her feet back into her platform sandals.

  “Kallie, I don’t want to play games. I’m here to work. What the fuck is going on?”

  Kallie ignores me and stays on her path, getting closer to me. She’s wearing a blue sundress, which is a little less unusual for the office than what she had on last time.

  “What I see today proves it,” Kallie says after stopping about a foot away from me. “You have the best wardrobe of anyone in the office.”

  “Uh, thanks. Why are you here?”

  “Oh, come on, Ethan.”

  Kallie’s eyes are on me, but I can’t stop looking at the surface of my desk—the surface that Kallie’s feet just left. I need to go take care of that shit.

  “Come on, what?” I ask while making a beeline for my desk. “Be specific. I’ve got things to do today.”

  “You haven’t heard the news?”

  Digging though my bottom desk drawer, it takes me a few seconds to find the small aerosol can of disinfectant I keep there. I knew it would come in handy someday.

  “There’s been a lot of news, Kallie,” I comment while spraying.

  “Like what?”

  My deep well of patience is just about fucking exhausted.

  “Just tell me your news, Kallie.” I throw the disinfectant back in my desk, and I try not to slam the drawer.

  “I’m your competition!”

  Kallie grins merrily at me as I sit down at my desk.

  “What does that mean? And be specific, please.”

  “I’m up for the position in Basel!” Kallie’s chirpiness is downright disconcerting. “The two-year contract! And there can be only one of us, you know.”

  My first instinct is to call bullshit, but who the fuck even knows anymore.

  “Who told you that?”

  “John!”

  “Barrister?”

  “Just this morning. Leroy was there too!”

  “Rosen?” Who calls these people by their first name? I doubt their wives even do that.

  “Kallie...I think I might have been misinformed. Are you a hedge fund manager?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So, you have no experience with hedge fund management.”

  It’s time to call bullshit on this, which is what I’m trying to do. Kallie’s silence and her unceasing grin are telling me that she’s full of it.

  “This has been fun, Kallie, but I’ve got—”

  The office door swinging ope
n interrupts my dismissal.

  “John! Leroy!” Kallie greets Barrister and Rosen with her enthusiastic smile. “I was just telling Ethan that I’m his competition.”

  Holy shit, I think Kallie might live somewhere outside reality.

  “Yes,” responds Barrister. “Thanks for delivering the news.”

  I nod silently, because what the fuck? Is he humoring her?

  “Okay,” I say finally. “What in the world is happening?”

  “We’ve come to the conclusion that Ms. Fern...that Kallie is a worthy candidate for the hedge fund manager position in Basel.”

  I nod again at Rosen’s words. A worthy candidate.

  “We’re in competition?” I ask.

  “How many times to you need to be told, Barrett?” Barrister growls.

  This is really happening, I guess. What the fuck else is new?

  “Kallie, how much experience with hedge fund management did you say you had?” I’m not even trying to be antagonistic. I’m just making sure I understand this correctly.

  “Ms. Fern has a BA in economics from Hunter College,” Rosen responds.

  “With a solid grade point average,” adds Barrister.

  “I like to call it ‘Cunter Hollege,’” Kallie says proudly.

  Whoa.

  Barrister and Rosen sure enjoy that joke. Their robust, executive laughter fills my office. The sound is so intense, I can almost smell the cigar smoke and brandy.

  Just as the laughter starts to die down, Barrister chimes in with a quip of his own.

  “Didn’t your wife go there, Rosen?”

  Rosen, Barrister, and Fern break into unrestrained fits of laughter.

  “It is a prestigious school, Barrister,” Rosen gets out between laughs. “Being your mother’s alma mater!”

  As I sit, watching quietly from my desk, the three guests in my office dissolve into wild hysterics.

  “Hey, watch out for this guy!” Kallie shrieks, her face red from laughing.

  Watch out for this guy? Fucking really?

  It works. Kallie’s comment adds fresh fuel to the laughter. Tears, honest-to-fucking-goodness tears, are rolling down Barrister’s face.

  I’m almost envious for about a second. I’ve never laughed that hard in the office or had that much fun at work.

  But despite the tears and red faces and near-falling over, it just doesn’t seem real. I feel like I’m watching a play in my office, and the actors know their parts very well, but boy are they overdoing it.

  Rosen is almost ready to collapse, his hand gripping Barrister’s arm for support.

  Just like that, with Rosen still leaning on Barrister, the two executives leave my office, guffawing their way into thecorridor.

  Fern stays planted where she is. The smile doesn’t leave her face, but the laughter drains so quickly from her eyes that I almost fucking gasp.

  And I am not usually a gasping man.

  Kallie Fern doesn’t say another word. I watch her cross her arms, and smile.

  That was indeed a performance I just watched, or part of one.

  Kallie doesn’t have the experience I do, and she doesn’t have an exceptional track record going back years. But she’s picked up on the culture and the language of the firm’s upper management almost instantly.

  She knows just what to say, no matter how ridiculous it is, and when to say it.

  As for me, I’ve always been more of a lone wolf within the company. I shine when speaking with investors and with lenders, but I was never interested in ingratiating myself with the inner circle of upper management.

  Looking satisfied, Kallie leaves my office, closing the door behind her.

  Ethan

  Get over it, get used to it, stop fucking whining.

  Those are the words I type into a blank pdf in the biggest fucking font size that’ll fit on my laptop screen.

  It’s just stark black letters on a white background, followed by a simple period to drive the point home. After I take a screenshot, I set the message as my desktop background.

  It replaces my previous background—a photo of the night sky from the middle of the ocean somewhere. The view through my office window is outstanding, and the scenery through my living room window’s even better, but a starry sky is something I never get to see with all the light pollution in the city.

  The night sky photo has been my background for ages, and it’s the only bit of personality I’ve given my laptop. Otherwise, my work computer is nothing more than a humorless business machine.

  But for the time being, the night sky will have to wait.

  Get over it, get used to it, stop fucking whining.

  For the time being, that message is more important.

  For the time being.

  When I stop feeling sorry for myself, and I no longer need to be reminded to stop whining, then I can put the night sky photo in its rightful spot as my background.

  The giant, unadorned words are fucking jarring in my desktop, but that’s the idea.

  It’s time to get to work.

  After clicking on my web browser icon, the International Business Daily, Wall Street Journal, CNBC, Bloomberg, and MarketWatch websites all open in different tabs. That’s the way I have it set up, so I can ingest and digest financial news efficiently, multiple times throughout the day.

  I click on a random tab and stare at the headline at the top of the page.

  It looks like fucking nonsense.

  VPX Dip Indicates FRT Volatility, Pooled Systemic Risks in Medium-Yield Investments

  After a minute goes by, I’m still staring.

  After two minutes, I feel my eyes glazing over.

  After five minutes of trying, it’s clear that I cannot get into that world today.

  Usually, I have no trouble spending time in that world. It’s a world I understand, and it’s a world where I feel comfortable spending hours or days at a time.

  Okay, one more try with this shit.

  VPX Dip Indicates FRT Volatility, Pooled Systemic Risks in Medium-Yield Investments

  Nope.

  How do I read this shit every day?

  Most days, reading a headline like that is when I start to lose myself in work and leave all the other garbage behind. The problem right now is that there’s just too much garbage.

  For years, I accumulated as little garbage as possible. It was all short flings and one-night stands.

  I always made it clear right away that I wasn’t interested in anything remotely serious.

  For five years, I did everything I could to avoid drama.

  And to avoid having to feel much of fucking anything.

  VPX Dip Indicates FRT Volatility, Pooled Systemic Risks in Medium-Yield Investments

  That headline’s just fucking mocking me at this point. I push down on the laptop’s power button until the screen goes blank and the machine shuts down. Next to the laptop is my tablet, showing real-time market data—I turn that off as well before throwing the device in my bottom desk drawer next to the disinfectant spray.

  The chemical smell of the disinfectant still haunts my desk. According to my wristwatch, it hasn’t even been an hour since Kallie plopped her bare feet down on the oak surface.

  Time’s going by fucking slow these days.

  “Get over it, get used to it, stop fucking whining.” With my laptop off, I need to remind myself of...something.

  What do I need to get over, or get used to, again?

  Maddie told me she was going to Boston for the weekend. Whether that’s true or not, the weekend is over.

  It isn’t like she told me never to call her again—and my personal phone is sitting on the desk, waiting.

  Fuck.

  Okay, I’ll call her—just to see where things stand and to see if I can do anything for her.

  If she still needs my help with the investigation, I’ll do everything I can.

  Maybe she’s still interested in going out again soon, or maybe she just wants to tell me to fuck o
ff.

  Picking up my personal phone, I mutter some more advice to myself:

  “Just don’t mention Switzerland again. Seriously. Don’t.”

  Maddie might ask about it anyway, and I’ll discuss it honestly if she does, but...

  Okay, it’s ringing.

  “Don’t mess this up,” I tell myself as Maddie’s phone continues to ring.

  Leaning back in my chair, I try to convince myself I’m relaxed, but all I can think about is saying the wrong thing again.

  The ringing stops, and I hear Maddie’s voice. Apparently, I’ve reached Madeline Quinn, but she’s unable to answer the phone right now...

  It’s her voicemail. I hang up before I can convince myself to leave a message.

  That’s probably the right decision. Not calling again is another good decision—at least not right away, and probably for another couple of days.

  It is the middle of a weekday, though. Maybe she’s busy.

  That doesn’t mean I should call again.

  Okay, just one more time while I’ve got my phone out.

  One tap on the screen and my phone redials Madeline’s number, and I wait for her to pick up.

  She might still pick up; it’s only been two rings this time.

  Three rings.

  Four rings...and Madeline Quinn’s outgoing voicemail message abruptly starts again.

  Okay, time for me to hang up, and time for me to give up.

  She actively sent me to voicemail. It’s over.

  Still leaning back in my chair, I stare at my phone for a moment. The Call Ended screen fades to black.

  It’s over—in case there was any doubt left.

  I toss my personal phone in my desk drawer and lean back in my chair again. I even put my feet up on the desk like Kallie—although I’m wearing fucking shoes, at least.

  There’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this unscathed. If it is over, which it really seems to be, the numb calm I feel now is not going to last.

  The reality will hit me sooner or later. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, so I might as well get to work now and deal with things as they come.

  I switch my laptop back on, I get my tablet ready, I turn on my business phone, and I immediately start going through my emails. There are dozens of emails from people representing insurance companies and large banks—the type of institutional investors the partners and other execs drool over.