by K. L. Kreig
2
“The famous Shaw Mercer. Pleasure to see you again.” Jack Hancock’s handshake is firm, confident, like the man himself.
“It’s been too long, Jack.” I grip his hand just as confidently.
“Yes, it has. Noah.” Jack takes turns acknowledging Noah, my managing partner and best friend since the day we were born, shaking his hand before leaning in close to us. “We should plan a little night out soon, if you know what I mean.” He tacks on the last part in a hushed voice.
I clasp him on the shoulder. A quick glance at Noah shows he’s effectively holding in a smirk. “Sure. I think we can manage that. Just let me know when you’re free.”
“I’ll have Peggy get with your assistant to work out calendars?”
“Sounds good. Now,” I wave to a group of suited, important men seated at the long conference room table only a few feet away. “Shall we?”
He starts forward but hesitates.
“Something wrong, Jack?”
“Today’s a big day,” he says. His eyes catch mine. Shadows eclipse his excitement. “CJ should be here.”
“He’d be proud,” I tell him, knowing exactly what’s running through his mind. The tragic death of a brilliant man nearly hamstrung Aurora Pharmaceuticals, but with our help, they pushed through.
He nods, taking a seat at the center of the table. I sit at the head, Noah to my right, Aamir Vaishnavi, the practice leader of our pharmaceutical and medical products consulting division to my left.
Noah Wilder and I are equal partners-owners in Wildemer & Company, one of the fastest revenue-growing global management consulting firms in the world. We’d been groomed for these roles since the day we were born, only three weeks apart. We were educated at the most exclusive private schools, attended Cambridge for our undergrads, and completed our MBAs at the prestigious Wharton School of Business. We’ve been joined at the hip since the date of conception.
Our great grandfathers, Walter Wilder and Artie Mercer, started this family business in 1926. Less than thirty years later, they had a dozen offices in the United States and serviced over twenty Asian and European countries.
Noah and I have taken what our forefathers built and elevated it to brand-new heights. When we took the reins only eight short years ago from our fathers, we’d already had a solid strategy for growing this successful business, focusing our expansion efforts on industries, rather than on global domination. We created four new specialty divisions, the fastest-growing one being our pharmaceutical and medical products group.
This is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Since I was four years old and the smell of leather and success in my father’s home office lingered in my nostrils, I knew I had to be part of the family legacy. Be part of something important. Life changing. I was always expected to, but at the age when boys were playing with Matchbox cars and video games and starting to grasp what the pleasures from touching their dicks actually meant, I knew I wanted to. Big difference. Expectation versus desire.
What we do, what we’re part of, could help so many people and their families, and the fact that my firm could be part of this is an incredible sense of accomplishment. This is why I live and breathe this company. I like money just as much as the next guy, but this…this is why I come to work every day.
Only today, the reason we’re sitting here is money.
It’s time for Aurora Pharmaceuticals to go from a privately held company to a publicly traded one. Another specialty of ours.
“Jack, I wanted to start by thanking you again for your partnership and the trust you’ve placed in Wildemer.” I look around at the twenty sets of eyes hanging on my every word. “You’ll see from the agenda in front of you, we’re here today to review the final prospectus for the IPO launch. As you’re all very well aware, our analysis demonstrates the first-to-market advantage gains you six percentage points greater market share over a period of at least ten years. Time to strike while the iron’s hot. You ready to take your company public, Jack?”
One of our first and biggest pharma clients, Aurora Pharmaceuticals is a mid-cap specialty pharmaceutical company that’s sitting on a breakthrough biotech drug. Using our sophisticated analytical tools, we managed to push it through all three phases of clinical trials about twelve months earlier than they would have on their own.
With their brainpower and our analytics, last year they were able to file a new drug application with the FDA for a revolutionary biologic that will change the face of a disease that cripples families and taxes the health care system.
Because of that, they also stand to make a fuckload of money when their initial public offering goes live.
He grins. “I won’t rest until it’s blue chip.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
He laughs, and smiling, I nod to Aamir. “As you know, you’re in very capable hands with Aamir here. He will lead us through the discussion today. Aamir?”
“Thank you, Mr. Mercer. On page one of the prospectus, we’ve indicated sixty-nine million shares will be available for sale with AP offering fifty-one million, and the remaining eighteen million split between two investment firms…” With both legal teams around the table, I settle in as Aamir starts reviewing the details of the hundred-plus-page document.
Six long but very fruitful hours later, Noah and I enter our chauffeured Lincoln MKC. “Back to the office, gentlemen?” Mark calls through the open partition.
“Yes,” we chime in unison.
“I bet that guy got all kinds of shit in high school with a name like that. Jack Hancock.”
Noah laughs while taking out his e-cig. He’s been smoke-free for the last six weeks, the longest he’s gone without breaking. He’s tried so many times before I’ve lost count, but since his father was diagnosed with throat cancer at the young age of fifty-nine, and he’s watched him slowly waste away, he’s bound and determined not to follow him to an early grave.
I’m proud of him. I can’t imagine needing anything that bad that it consumes your every waking and sleeping thought. I’ve never had that type of addiction in my life. To anything. To anyone. Don’t plan to either. God knows I’ve had to watch the ones I love suffer enough with shit like that.
“Maybe, but who’s laughing now? Pretty soon he’ll be running the most lucrative pharma company in the world and richer than a Saudi oil sheik.”
“Touché.” He takes another drag and moans in nicotine-induced bliss.
I pull my cell from my pocket, quickly scanning my missed calls.
Two from my mother, one from my sister, Gemma, and one from Lianna. I sigh at that one, and when I open my text messages to see three from Lianna, I scowl. Jesus Christ. She’s harder to get rid of than a tick, sucking the life force right out of me.
Call me.
I need to talk to you.
Please, Shaw. Please.
“You owe me for the fundraiser tonight,” Noah reminds me. The one I called in a favor to get him to attend.
“You’re full of shit. Working a roomful of hot women? You should actually owe me the favor, not the other way around.”
He laughs while I scroll through the rest of my messages. When I see one from Annabelle, my baby sister—Still on for a little family bonding?—I quickly respond.
Me: Promise to show?
She replies immediately.
AB: Promises only break.
Me: I thought I was special.
AB: You’re full of yourself.
Me: See you later?
Silence. Damn her.
“She bailing?”
“Who?”
“Bluebelle. Who else?”
Taking a deep breath, I throw my phone on the leather seat beside me and look out the window, watching the city pass as we head back to our offices.
“I have no fucking idea. That girl is as elusive as Nessie.”
He chuckles. “You’re comparing your baby sister to the Loch Ness Monster?”
“Sometimes she is a monster.�
��
“Isn’t this little par-tay for her anyway? Her big 2-1?”
At thirty-six, I am the eldest of four. Gemma is two years younger than me, and Lincoln is two years younger than her, but almost sixteen years separate my youngest sibling, Annabelle, and myself. She was an “oops,” and she not only has classic “baby” syndrome, for some reason she also never fails to throw the fact that she wasn’t wanted into my parents’ faces every opportunity she gets. It’s a conundrum I just can’t work out because my parents have never treated her any differently than the rest of us. In fact, they try to overcompensate for her bad attitude, and she practically gets away with murder.
All of that notwithstanding, or maybe because of it, Annabelle and I are the closest of all my siblings, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t piss me off something fierce. She does. Constantly.
“Yep. Doesn’t mean she’ll show. You know she’s notorious for hanging my parents out to dry. I’m sure my mom spent all day cooking up her favorite meal, and she’ll either be three hours late or won’t come at all. I don’t know what to do about her.”
“You can’t control people, Merc. I know that’s hard for you to accept sometimes.”
He’s not being condescending; he’s trying to be a friend—not telling me anything I don’t already know. I can control a lot of things in my life, most things in fact, but trying to control Annabelle is akin to controlling a raging river overflowing its banks. I can line the entire fucking thing with sandbags and she’ll still find a damn hole somewhere to slink through.
“How is she doing?” he asks tentatively, voicing the one question that’s been plaguing my own mind for weeks now. What he really means is: Is she using again?
Noah is intimately familiar with the problems my baby sister gets herself into. In fact, he’s had to help me bail her out of one too many of them over the years. Annabelle’s been through inpatient rehab for drug addiction twice already in her short lifetime. The first time was four years ago, and this last time she’s managed to make it more than nine months sober. Just when we think she’s on the straight and narrow, though, she drifts again. She fights a lot of demons she refuses to discuss. That’s a big part of the problem. We’re battling an unknown. I wish I knew what the hell was going on inside her head so I could help her fix it. I love her, but sometimes I want to lock her in her bedroom for the next twenty years.
“I wish I knew. She doesn’t seem to be as erratic as she usually is, but she’s also not been around much, which is a classic red flag.”
“Could be school’s just kicking her ass.”
I grunt, suspicious.
“Well, if she doesn’t show tonight then maybe you should pay her a little visit. I can go with you if you want.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mumble. I don’t want to know what I’ll walk into when I knock unannounced on her apartment door, but burying my head like my parents do isn’t an option either.
The sound of my phone buzzing draws our attention. Lianna’s face pops up. Noah starts laughing.
“Man, she still stalking you?”
“Stalking. Good adjective,” I reply as I push the reject button, sending her to voice mail. I’ll later delete it without listening.
“We could give her another go. I’m game.”
“Nah. You can have her, Wildman. I’m done. I’m pretty sure she and her mother were about a week shy of sending out wedding invitations to five hundred of their closest friends.” I think it’s true. I stumbled across a prototype on Lianna’s kitchen counter when I went to get a glass of water in the middle of the night a few months back.
His mouth curls. “Too bad. That was one hell of a good time. I’ve never heard a woman howl like a banshee before. Didn’t really think it was humanly possible.”
“She was loud, wasn’t she?” I laugh, remembering that night. It was undoubtedly hot, but there won’t be a repeat. At least not with her.
I casually dated Lianna for almost six months. Apparently, it was about five months and three weeks too long, because unbeknownst to me, both of our mothers were already designing our nursery. Seriously. I had no choice but to break it off, which was too bad. I liked Lianna. She was intelligent and a good lay. I liked spending the little free time I had with her, but that’s all it was. I was never going to marry her. Never intended to carry on the family name. Never thought of a future with her. I thought we were just having a good time. When everyone started planning more, including Lianna, it had to end.
I’m not being heartless, just honest when I say a woman will never be a priority for me. My company, my family, those are where my focus lies.
Mark stops in front of our building. My watch tells me I have about three hours before my ass needs to be sitting in my mother’s dining room chair, cloth napkin in my lap. If it’s one thing my mother loathes, it’s tardiness. Even at my age, I am not immune to her wrath if I’m not sitting in my spot at seven on the dot.
The moment I reach for the door handle, Noah asks, “Say, you don’t think your mother would…you know.”
My forehead scrunches. “Would what?”
“Sabotage you by asking Lianna over tonight? She knows you’d just sit there and take it like the little obedient son you are. She was crushed when you broke it off.”
I exit the car, yelling behind me, “Fuck off. I’m the furthest fucking thing from a lap dog.” Except he’s right. When it comes to my parents, even as a grown-ass man, I have a hard time saying no to either of them, especially my father. I’ve had to politely suffer through more “blind dates” over the last five years than I care to count, and since I broke up with Lianna, they’ve only escalated.
Fucking great. I’m sure I’ll have a nice surprise waiting for me later.
“Maybe I’ll join you at that fundraiser after all. Bluebelle probably won’t even come to her own damn party,” I tell Noah when he catches up.
“Except you won’t. You won’t disappoint Adelle or Preston Mercer like that. Besides, I’m quite sure the son of the mayor wouldn’t be welcome at his competitor’s fundraiser. Don’t worry, though. I’ll scope out all the pretty girls for you tonight. Find you the perfect Stepford wife while you suffer through your little family drama.”
We walk through the glass front doors of Wildemer’s headquarters in downtown Seattle’s central business district, nodding at the security guards before making our way toward the elevators. When we enter, I punch the button for the thirty-ninth floor.
“I have a better idea,” I say, turning to him. “Why don’t you find me a good fuck instead. I could really use one of those.”
“Don’t you mean we?”
One shoulder rises. “Semantics.”
“You’re on. I’m pretty sure there will be plenty of loose legs at tonight’s event. I’ll let you know if I hit pay dirt, but you’ll owe me if I save your ass from whoever’s sitting to your right for sea scallops tonight.”
“That’s one debt I’ll gladly pay.”
We exit, heading our separate ways. I feel a little lighter. Maybe tonight won’t end so badly after all.
“Good luck,” Noah hollers.
“You too,” I retort, hoping like hell I get a text later.
3
Still a sweaty mess from kickboxing, I drop two bags of groceries onto the back seat of my Fiat when my cell rings. My initial tendency is not to answer, but on the off chance it might be Randi or Millie, I dig it out of my purse.
Millie. My heart races.
“What’s wrong, Millie?” I ask anxiously as I slide into the driver’s side and shut the door, closing out the noise of a screaming baby in the car next to me. It’s a typical July day in Seattle. Cloudy with some slight drizzle. I start my car. The wipers kick in as I hear a familiar voice through the speaker.
“Willow, I’m sorry to bother you, dear, but your mother is insistent she talk to you right now.” She sounds frustrated, probably having tried to talk my mom down for the last half hour.
“It’
s fine, Millie. No problem at all. How is she doing today?”
“Agitated. Very confused. Not good.”
“I’m so sorry.” My mother is impossible to deal with when she gets like this. “Put her on. I’ll talk to her.”
I hear rustling in the background as the phone changes hands. Then my momma’s shaky voice comes on the line.
“Young lady, I need you to call your father right now. Tell him he needs to come get me out of this prison this very instant.”
A pang of debilitating sadness knocks my breath away. I wish I could. It takes a few seconds to get it back so I can talk. “Momma, you’re not in prison. You’re home.”
“This is not my home, Willow August. We live at 8250 Lane Drive in a two-story Victorian. This…this is a shoddy colonial.” I almost laugh at the way she spits out colonial as if it were a cuss word, but I don’t. None of this is funny. Especially since the address she’s remembering is the first house she and my father shared together after they were married. They’ve lived in my childhood home now for twenty-six years, since the day I was born. “How do you expect me to stay here? And since when did Charles hire a maid? I don’t think she’s a maid at all. I think she’s his whore.” She says the last part in a loud whisper.
I breathe out long and slow, bringing my fist up to rub the soft ache behind my breastbone that never seems to ebb. I’m sorry, I want to scream. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. Please forgive me.
“Momma, that’s not true. You are home, and Millie takes care of you now. Daddy’s gone. Remember?” We have this conversation all the time. She doesn’t remember. I’m lucky when she remembers me. Sometimes, it’s not just death that thieves our loved ones from us but something far crueler.
“Of…of course I remember,” she says with attitude, but marginally calmer than seconds ago.
A glance at the digital clock tells me I don’t have time for this, but if it means making my mother happy and easier for Millie to handle, I’ll be late tonight. Paul Graber will simply have to deal. “Why don’t you tell me about your day?”