“Yeah… ‘cause throwing your best employees on the chopping block is really managerial of you. Kat’s the only reason your sorry ass has stayed afloat at this company.” I lean in closer to his desk, hammering him with the force of my words.
“Spare me the guilt-ridden bullshit, ok, Foxx? I’m immune to that type of sentiment.”
“You mean ‘a conscience’? Yeah, I already figured that out. And it’s Mister Foxx to you, Sears. Better keep that in fucking mind.”
“So, the prodigal son returns and think he’s going to pull rank? Sure, that’s fine. But Kat is already gone: pulled a Houdini… or so I heard.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Kat if I were you. I’ll get her back.”
Greg sits up straighter in his seat. “Oh, you’ll get her back? Ohhhh… I see. I get it now. You’re hard up.” He rises from his seat, grabbing a folder from the shelf. He peruses through it while I stare at him.
“Well, save your breath while you’re at it,” he keeps yammering. “She’s not going to give it up. I tried for a while in grad school, but she’s as frigid as a donkey’s dick in December. Her sex drive is as dull as her stories. Plus… she’s a total cock-tease...” He says, pivoting back toward his desk.
WHAM! I hit him. Hard. I don’t remember getting over to him so quickly, but I do remember the crack of my knuckles against his face. Next thing I know I’m standing over Greg, watching him hold his bleeding nose with both hands.
I have a flashback of the time I punched that tyrant of a teacher in high school. Only this time, I’m the heavy: the one in control. And the physical odds are evened out. It’s not student-to-teacher or boy-to-adult but man-to-man.
“Get your pansy ass up, so I can knock you the fuck down again.” Greg groans in response. He’s probably more upset that his suit will get wrinkled than his nose getting broken.
“I get it now, Greg. You tossed Kat out as part of some personal vendetta. Get back at the beautiful girl who won’t cure what’s probably an interminable case of blue balls. It’s obvious that no woman in her right mind would condescend to sleep with a disgusting maggot like you.”
I take a step backwards, motioning to his ruffled form on the floor.
“C’mon! Get up!”
“What the hell is going on in here?!” a voice booms from behind. The thunderous tone is undeniable. It hits me with a brutal force that shocks me into immediate attention.
Victor Foxx is here.
I rotate on my heel towards the door. “Wha… what are you doing here?”
Victor is as physically imposing as his voice. His large, muscular frame takes up the entire doorway of Greg’s office. Even his business attire cannot hide the immense muscles beneath. It’s all part of the “power image” of Foxxhole publishing.
Powerful influence. Powerful minds. Powerful bodies.
“What am I doing here?” he asks. “This is my office building. What are you doing here?”
“I’m actually here to see you,” I tell him. I motion off-handedly toward Greg on the floor. “I got sidetracked.”
He looks behind me at the crumpled heap that is Gregory Sears.
“Huh. I see,” is all he says. He never was very sympathetic. He doesn’t give a shit about Greg’s current state.
“Never mind that,” he says – like the groaning Greg is of no consequence. “I came down to talk to you. Melinda called up and told me that you were here.”
That same nosy secretary. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was screwing her. He is a divorced man; he can do whatever the hell he wants. Plus, he never did care very much for presupposed boundaries.
“Well… ?” Dad continues.
“Well, what?” I respond.
“What do you have to say for yourself? You brought your wayward ass back here. It must’ve been for a reason…”
His grey eyebrows almost hit the ceiling. He wants an explanation? I’ll give him one.
“Ok, Dad. I’ll tell you why… This is about you… Foxxhole… that boardroom full of pricks…” I say the word “boardroom” as if it were a curse.
“Foxxhole was never a good fit for me. I’ve never been cut out for this shit. I mean, picture me… responsible for a bunch of publications catering to the rich and spoiled: those materialistic ingrates whose assholes are so tightly clenched that they can turn a pocketful of sand into diamonds.
“I can’t stand those people. You know why? Because I was one of those people: a spoiled ass teen with nothing but money and time to waste. I tried to follow in your footsteps. I tried… and I kept failing at it… because it’s not me. It never really was.
“But you did do something right with me, Dad. You instilled an appreciation for exploration: for striving to find bigger and better. Well, now I’ve found it. And that’s all I need.
“So, I’m done with the bullshit, Dad. I’m done with being your flunky. I’m starting my own business. I’m finished with Foxxhole Publishing.”
I stop talking and the room gets quiet: deadly quiet. Well… with the exception of the muffled sounds of Greg still rolling back and forth on his office carpet.
I brace myself for impact. Dad always was a scrappy son-of-a-bitch. I can’t imagine how mad this must make him. I’ve seen him level a grown man or two in my day. This might make him mad enough to hit me.
“Really…” he finally says. It’s not so much a question as it is an accusation. He puts his hands on his hips, hanging his head. He exhales loudly, lifting it seconds later. “Well, it’s about damn time.”
I blink rapidly: trying to focus on what he just said. “Wait… what?”
“Foxxhole was my business: my child. And you… you are my son, my flesh and blood. I knew that one day the sibling rivalry would be too much. There’d be no way for you and Foxxhole to coexist in the same space. Life just doesn’t work that way.
“You fought the Foxxhole integration more than you fought your own sister.
“But let me tell you something. That boardroom full of pricks… that’s my boardroom: my thing. I’m a no-good, arrogant, condescending bastard, and I know it… but I’m still the king: the king of the dicks. There really wasn’t enough space on the throne for a Prince Dick, anyway…” He nearly smirks.
“I’ve been waiting on you to realize your full potential. And it ain’t sniffing up my ass, I’ll tell ya that.
“Sure, I wanted you to take the reins of Foxxhole once I was done, but that was before. When you were floating around, resting on your laurels…
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, son. You’ve changed. You went to Tennessee and wound up coming back a man…”
The statement is borderline offensive, but to anyone who knows Victor Foxx, this is actually a huge accolade. And I won’t put a damper on the sentiment in his eyes: some strange emotion that looks suspiciously close to pride.
And then the unthinkable happens. “You’ve done well, Brendon. You’ve done well.” A compliment. An actual compliment.
The impact of the exchange is diminished, however: sullied… by the voice of Gregory Sears. He’s rising to his feet, doubled over at the waist.
“You’ve done it now, Foxx. You just signed your company over to me. I’m pressing charges… and I’ll have possession of whatever shit-kicker operation you’re building by the end of the week.”
Blood is smeared below his lip. He attempts a smile, but it cracks… probably because of the pain. He looks like some adaptation of Christopher Nolan’s version of The Joker. The red around his mouth gives the appearance of a grotesque smile.
I don’t even have a chance to speak on my behalf. My dad is already doing it for me.
“You try it, hear?” he hurls at Greg. “And a bloody nose will be the least of your worries.” He takes a step toward the bloodied man, and Greg cowers, retreating quickly to stay out of range.
I know my dad. He’s only bluffing. He’d never fight my battles, but still, it’s funny to watch. Victor Foxx should’ve been born Vince McMahon. He h
as the grey hair and build of the WWE owner… and the rough demeanor to go along with it.
“But sir…” Greg starts.
“But nothing. You’ve skated long enough at this company. I let you stick around because you always seemed to be a ruthless son-of-a-bitch… and I kinda liked that.”
My dad grins like the devilish fiend that he is.
“But the threat you just made? Weak, my boy.
“I’d have preferred it if you actually took a swing at Brendon. It would show you had some balls. But then again, I guess I always knew you didn’t… on top of your complete lack of talent when it comes to management.
“That being said… get your pansy ass outta here, Sears. Our business is through.”
I swallow a chuckle, raising an eyebrow at our mutual use of the same terms. We’re so alike in some ways. It can be a good or bad thing… depending on which trait you’re talking about.
Greg balks when the words come out of Dad’s mouth, but he shrinks like a deflated balloon when he assesses his seriousness. He packs up a briefcase – one-handed, of course – and he hightails it out of the office with his crooked nose in one palm.
Dad and I are left alone and he reaches a hand out toward me. I grab it tightly, pumping it hard with all of the emotion and shock that’s now running through me. Dad looks almost sheepish for once, and I actually struggle not to reach out and hug the old man.
Not going to push my luck, though.
“You go ahead and start that business, son,” he says finally, “but don’t half-ass that shit. Some opportunities only come once in a lifetime. If you take it for granted, you’ll blink… and it’ll be gone…”
I nod. No truer words have been spoken. I had that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… and I let her go…
A step sounds across the threshold, breaking my concentration, and I stiffen. Greg’s back for more? One ass-whooping wasn’t enough?
I turn towards the sliding glass doors and discover Kat in the doorway.
Her hair is straightened and sleek: a silky sheet of glossy brown. Her lips are painted red – deep red – artificially red – not that natural blushy red that I’ve grown accustomed to.
She wears a dark black skirt suit: the jacket and skirt fitting her body perfectly, accentuating her petite but curvaceous shape. The shirt beneath the jacket is blue: pale blue – as pale as her icy eyes.
I stare at her with brazen longing. My icy girl. There’s no “girl” in those curves, nothing childish in that skin. I can attest from personal experience… that she’s all woman.
She freezes, shifting the black purse that’s in her hand. She looks at me… then my father, registering the handshake that’s happening between us. I can see her take a mental note.
I can imagine how it must look. My father and I shaking hands in Greg’s office. It probably appears that I am brokering a deal with the devil.
She scoffs, outraged, shaking her head. “I don’t believe this…” She licks her lips once, turning on her heel, and marches back out of the office and down the hallway.
I let go of my father’s hand, nodding once at him, and I take off, following closely on the heels of Kat’s click-clacking black pumps.
“Kat, hold up!”
“Not for you,” she slings at me.
“It’s not what you think.”
She glances at me as she continues to storm out.
“You unbelievable bastard. Was this part of your plan? Follow me to Tennessee, check to see how badly I may be doing, maybe get the scoop on the Oasis story like Greg?”
I’m taken aback. “I would never do that. I would never follow you… “
She throws me a look quickly over her shoulder, shooting daggers from her eyes.
“Ok,” I backtrack a bit. “So, I’m following you now, but I wasn’t, then…”
“You liar. I can’t believe I trusted you,” she reaches the elevator, jumping in the crowded space, leaving no room for me to join her.
I watch the elevator close, catching a glimpse of her gorgeous eyes. They’re shimmering, glistening back at me with unshed tears that refuse to fall. I know she won’t let them. Not in front of me.
I blink, and then they’re gone, disappeared with the rest of her. I let her leave me once before. I’m not going to let her leave me again.
I run towards the stairs, opening the wooden door to the stairwell. There’s no one in here. No one would be. It’s practically suicide taking these stairs up or down. I’m clearly the only fool willing to “risk my life.”
I start running, skipping steps, dropped down floor by floor.
Every fifth level, I consider stopping: consider running to the elevator to catch it on its way down. But if I miss it, then I’ll be waiting. And Kat will be out of the front door and possibly out of my life. For good. So, I can’t.
Floor 39.
Floor 22.
Floor 17.
At Floor 11, I start to panic, thinking maybe her elevator doesn’t have as many stops as I’d hoped.
I nearly collapse onto the lobby level, soaked with sweat, my heart pumping. My t-shirt is stuck to my chest; my hair is plastered to my brow. I circle the expanse outside of the elevator chutes, catching my breath, searching for her.
Several doors open. Even more actually close. Suits go in; suits come out. But none of them are Kat.
I clutch my knees from the exhaustion, bending at the waist. I’ve missed her. Kat’s disappeared again… and I doubt she’ll come back this time.
The ding of the doors brings me back to life again, and this time, when I look, I find the vision I’ve been searching for.
Kat bypasses me, as I’m crouched over, picking up the pace as she heads toward the front doors. I limp after her, trying to keep up.
My gait is slow next to her power-walk; she struts in sky-high heels like they don’t exist. There’s nothing Kat can’t master, nothing she can’t rightfully conquer.
She’s built for business, pleasure, and everything in between. She’s everything I didn’t know I needed… wrapped in one smoldering ass package.
She hits the front doors to the Foxxhole lobby with a jolting force, exiting with me in hot pursuit. The gust of air that greets us from outside is muggy: breezy and wet from the rain that now drizzles.
Where there was once sun just an hour ago, there are now clouds, dark and ominous, moving swiftly across the sky.
Through the light rain shower, I speak to Kat’s retreating back.
“You can trust me.” There’s silence in return.
“You have to know that I didn’t set this up: that I didn’t intend for us to meet that way.” Still nothing.
“Hurting you was never part of the deal. I didn’t plan this.”
She scoffs harshly. “Yeah… right.”
That’s it. I’ve finally caught my breath, but my patience has run out. I grab Kat’s elbow, spinning her towards me. She stops walking immediately, and now we are face-to-face. The rain begins to fall faster.
“Ok, Kat. You wanna talk about trust? Let’s talk about trust. You can’t trust me? Oh, because you were so honest, right?” I hear her intake of breath, but I don’t stop.
“Look, Kat, we both held things back from each other… but what about the things that we didn’t? What about the things that we shared? Weren’t those real? They were for me.”
She pauses momentarily, glancing down towards the ground. The quiet is deafening, making the rain sound like a roar. Though we are in the cemented parking lot of the building, we are completely alone, and it almost feels as if we are back in the woods again.
Our faces are dripping wet; our clothes are soaked through. Rivulets of rain fall down Kat’s face like tears, and I’m not quite sure that they aren’t.
She lifts her eyes to meet mine.
“No, Brendon,” she states determinedly. “You don’t get to make the calls, anymore. I’m done being your minion.”
She turns suddenly, making a beeline towards a nearby
car. She rummages through her purse, retrieving keys and opening the door to a ’98 Corolla.
It’s all happening so fast. One minute, I’m staring into her face. The next minute, she’s hopping behind the wheel, ready to leave me drifting in the wind.
I’ve never been the kind of man that couldn’t talk to women: never understood that tongue-tied type. But when I’m around Kat, I’m sometimes lost for words. With her, there are some things I just can’t say…
I rush to my own car, which thankfully isn’t far away, wishing that I had picked another vehicle to drive today. My Jag is sleek and silver: a stark contrast to her dull green sedan.
I open the car, jumping into its leather interior. Several fumbling seconds later, I am backing out of my parking space and heading directly towards Kat.
I’m outside of the parking garage (for company VIPs, of course) and idling in the lot now. I wait for Kat to leave her space, but she never does.
When I pull up close enough, I can hear the muffled thumps. She’s beating the steering wheel with a closed fist, using the other to turn an ignition that won’t start.
She doesn’t see me, and for the first time since we’ve met, I’m happy that she can’t. A final thud sounds in the car, and then she’s out, hustling through the pouring rain like her life is depending on it.
I’m right beside her when she does.
I pull up next to her as she walks from the parking lot to the adjacent street.
“Get in, Kat.”
The downpour drenches us both but she ignores it, stomping through huge puddles with the gait of a gladiator. “You can go now, Brendon.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Get in.” She flings her wet hair over her shoulder in response: sort of a “fuck you” without the middle finger. Nonetheless, I keep cruising beside her.
Rainwater is tunneling into my open window. I’ll be swimming in this car if I don’t make a change. I can live with the wet leather; I’d prefer not to without Kat.
She keeps trotting down the street, black bag in hand, getting more and more drenched with each passing minute. Her black jacket’s been left behind, and her pale blue shirt is barely passing as clothing.
Paradise Forbidden Page 17