The Boss's Daughter

by Aubrey Parker

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “That’s Maya. Got herself knocked up in high school, and the guy ran off or something.”

  I think I remember that. It might even have happened in my high school, certainly before I left. As business-expanding networking goes, Phoebe’s intel is worse than useless.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say.

  “I didn’t get knocked up,” she says, her posture as defensive as her tone.

  “All you’ve learned while I was gone centers around the Nosh Pit. You’ve achieved the networking equivalent of watching a teen soap opera.”

  Phoebe grabs a sugar packet and throws it at me. It hits me in the face before I can block it then falls into my coffee, paper and all. Phoebe raises her hands, making her stylish black pullover drape from her arms like a bat, and says, “Score!”

  “Seriously? Are you still at Très Chic?”

  “Just until I get my coaching credentials.”

  I want to fast-forward past this part. It’s embarrassing. Phoebe has had so many great ideas that haven’t panned out, it’s amazing that she still believes every new thing will be the one that finally works. But I don’t pity her. Phoebe is a happy mess. I’m more or less organized, now with a college degree in business, but I feel like more of a mess. Phoebe’s delusion means she has it made. My clarity, by comparison, kind of sucks.

  “You’re not impressed? I talk to everyone. Either I talk to them while they’re buying clothes — ”

  “ — at a fancy boutique store that most people can’t afford.”

  “ — or they’re eating in here or at other places where the staff is my ear to the ground. So yeah. I’m Grand Central, Honey.”

  I glance at the waitresses. I wonder if they know they’re part of Phoebe’s delusional master plan. I wonder if they realize they’re apparently Phoebe’s good friends, or even that they know her at all.

  “Who do you want to know about? Try me, Bitch.”

  “Nobody.”

  “Your dad. Want to know what he’s been up to?”

  I wonder if that’s a threat. She could say anything.

  “No thanks.”

  “Because, you know, maybe he’s been dating.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Not from you, anyway.”

  “How about Police Chief Wood?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Stygian Hart?”

  “Who the hell is Stygian Hart? Is he the big crazy guy?”

  “Frightening. Not crazy.” She points at me as if this is an important distinction, or as if I’ve accidentally insulted an institution. Then she crosses her arms. I’ve seen this before. It means I’m not playing along and need to hop on board. I love Phoebe. She’s always been one of my best friends, but she’s also always been nuts. I remember the time she insisted we engineer her Big Wheel to fly.

  I sigh. Then something occurs to me. Something I’d been wondering about anyway, so I might as knock two birds from my sky.

  “Okay, I say. Brandon Grant.”

  “What?”

  “You want me to test you? Fine. Do you know Brandon Grant?”

  Of course she won’t. But this will shut her up, and we can get back to talking about sensible things. This is the problem with Phoebe: She walks into everything with assumptions, and it’s her conversational opponent’s job to defeat her or lose gracefully. Ironically, this same trait is an asset at Très Chic, where beating her customers into acknowledging her superior sense of fashion increases both her reputation and commissions.

  A small smile cracks across her dark-painted lips. Her brown eyes light up. “Of course I know Brandon.”

  And she does, too. I can tell the difference after so much time knowing Phoebe. The devilish way she’s looking at me now makes me uneasy, though — as if she knows something about my inquiry that I’m not eager to admit. Or, worse, as if she knows him from firsthand experience.

  I started this. I try to make my voice casual. “How?”

  There’s a long, drawn-out moment wherein I can tell Phoebe is trying to torture me. In that second, I’m sure she’s slept with him. She’s kissed those lips. She’s felt those strong hands on her skin. She’s gripped those arms — arms that even through his suit, I knew would be hard and tan from his time building houses.

  But then Phoebe’s head tips, and she kind of lets go. Abigail has returned with Phoebe’s coffee and flinches, as if she thinks Phoebe is about to faint.

  After Abigail is gone, Phoebe sips her black coffee and says, “I know him through his sister, Bridget.”

  “Oh.”

  “Foster sister, actually.”

  “He was a foster kid?” For some reason, this doesn’t make me feel bad for Brandon; it immediately elevates him in my mind. Now he didn’t just climb up from construction to potential veep. Now he’s almost a rags-to-riches story. You couldn’t get more all American than that. You couldn’t be more respectable, having mined all you had from nothing.

  Phoebe nods. She takes another sip. “Bridget is going to be one of my customers.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She was window shopping all the time, so I started talking to her. I decided I liked her style. She’s tough. So I stole some stuff for her. But she told me to piss off. Those are the words she used: ‘Piss off, Phoebe. I’m not some sort of charity case.’ She was superinsulted. But she’s doing some big audiobook right now?”

  Phoebe says it like a question. I don’t respond, so she waves it away. I recognize the formation of another trademark Phoebe Reese open loop. I’ll probably never learn about the big audiobook, how she does them, how someone makes big money “doing” an audiobook, or why she’ll one day be a great customer.

  “Anyway,” Phoebe says. This is how Phoebe ends a conversation.

  “My dad’s considering Brandon as his new vice president.”

  “He’s hot, isn’t he?” Phoebe says out of the blue.

  “He’s cute.”

  Phoebe points at me with the finger of inspiration and says, “You should hit that.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I laugh.

  “Seriously. I’d hit that.” She puts her fingers on her chin then shifts her jaw to the side, thinking. “A few years ago? — yeah, maybe it was a few years ago — your dad was building Forking … Forking Paths?” She raises her eyebrows to see if that’s right, but I have no idea what projects Life of Riley has built while I’ve been away. “Anyway. It’s right on my walk to work. They started up front, building the model home they use to show people around, I guess? And all the guys were out working with their shirts off. And then I spot this lumberjack guy. Your boy.”

  I want to say he’s not my boy, but the words give me a thrill. As does the description I know is coming.

  “They’re all sweaty, you know? Oiled up like … like strippers or something.”

  We both giggle, and the next table looks over.

  “I got that view for a little while then the crew moved into the interior homes. So I changed my walking route. I just walked until I found him.”

  I want to ask what his chest looks like. What his arms look like. But really, this isn’t something I should be indulging. He might be my father’s vice president. Do I want to be that girl, ogling the man in charge? So much for making it on my own; everyone would assume I was angling for something if they caught me drooling.

  “Anyway, yeah, I know him. Ha.” And that’s when I remember that this started as a challenge, with me positing that Phoebe didn’t know everyone after all.

  The moment pops like a balloon. She’s moved on, now stirring three packets of sugar into her coffee. She drank half of it black, and now wants it sweet. But not just sweet — diabetes sweet.

  I laugh. I look around a little, spotting the servers one by one. I let a minute pass, ready to talk if Phoebe tries to start a new topic. But she doesn’t, so I choose my time then casually speak.

  “So I should hit that,” I say, quoting Phoebe, trying to ma
ke it sound like I think the idea is ridiculous. But it’s the very idea of my finding it ridiculous that’s crazy, seeing as I was eighteen the last time Phoebe and I hung out. I did tend to drool over guys a lot back then. I still kind of want to, honestly. But that’s exactly what Dad expects me to do, and drooling over his up-and-comer isn’t the best way to prove myself as a pro.

  “You said he’s moving up in the company, right? So, yeah. Hit it. You’ve got access.”

  “I don’t hook up with guys because I have ‘access.’”

  Phoebe makes a little pfft sound.

  “Besides, I just got out of a relationship. It’s time to just be me.”

  “You don’t have to be him,” Phoebe says. “Just hit it.”

  But that’s not me, and Phoebe knows it. I want to ask more, but that’ll make this more obvious. I’ve said enough. I’ve shown my interest. I’m not here to be boy crazy. I’m not here to be a flighty little girl. I’m here to be a professional.

  If my father thinks he knows who I am, it’s my job, right now, to convince him I’ve become someone else. Someone capable of being responsible and level-headed. The kind of person who doesn’t change her walking path every morning in search of bare-chested men to ogle.

  But before saying anything else, I look down into my cream-colored coffee, stirring slowly, and seem to see Brandon Grant in its depths. Stripping off his vice-presidential, powerful, ambitious shirt and picking up a hammer, a saw, anything that makes his muscles flex and his skin gleam with perspiration.

  CHAPTER 7

  Brandon

  Giving Bridget the money she needed hurts more than I’d have thought. Not only does it empty my bank account and dip into the cash I have on hand, it also reminds me just how thin I’ve stretched myself.

  If I’d had real parents, I suppose they’d have taught me the value of money from both ends. I hear this is how it works from guys like Grady and Shaun, both of whom grew up with allowances and curfews. I’d have learned that money shouldn’t be spent frivolously because it comes from hard work, not privilege. No worries on that lesson; I got that one in spades. But I’d also have learned to spend within my means and not buy anything I can’t afford. I did less well with this one. One company offered me a credit card at age twenty, and I used it to buy stuff that I couldn’t always afford but needed — like food, toothpaste, and clothes. Then someone else offered me a card, and I bought more, drifting further from necessary. Credit lines were always small, and I never lived far above the poverty line, but I still managed to rack up some hefty balances.

  After depleting my account and wallet, I stopped by a convenience store for a gallon of milk and accidentally tried to pay with my maxed-out card.

  When I realized my mistake, I pulled out my second maxed-out card.

  I got it right on the third try, but the two incorrect attempts made me think to check my balance when I got home. What I found made me pull out a calculator. Yes, I think I can make it to payday, but only just. And then I’ll still have to watch my ass for a while if I expect to fill my account in time to empty it again for rent. So much for at least having the safety of credit cards.

  Giving Bridget that money didn’t just cost me $800. It cost a lot of dignity.

  I slouch down on the couch anyway, trying to make my body casual. If someone were to barge in here, what position of arms and legs and torso would make the newcomer decide in an instant, “Now here’s a man who doesn’t give a shit”? What would make them know, just by looking, that I’m above it all, without a care in the world? I try to form that shape, hoping to convince myself.

  It’s cool. Even if I have to be late on rent, I can be late, right? They won’t kick me out if there’s a two-week delay — just long enough to get my next paycheck?

  And if that fails, I have friends. I don’t want to ask anyone for money, but if I had to, I could. And if they didn’t have money to give me — because, really, it’s not like I know Caspian White — I could always, if I got kicked out somehow, crash on Shaun’s couch, couldn’t I?

  Of course I could.

  I try to pretend that these thoughts are comforting. I try to pretend I’ve analyzed my situation to its logical worst-case scenario and found it not terrible, or irredeemable. I don’t owe thousands to loan sharks coming to break my legs. I’m in debt to the credit card companies, but that’s normal in the Western world. I’m fine. Yes, it had occurred to me more than once lately that I was living redline, and that was before Bridget’s loan. But I’ll be okay. I make a decent wage, and now that I’ve paid some shit off, I can start letting it pile up. Small piles, but piles nonetheless.

  I look around, sighing.

  I don’t want to keep living in a place like this. Yes, I could save a few bucks here and there if there weren’t any more emergencies and if I stayed at the Regency. But do I really want to live on the edge of Little Amsterdam? Do I really want to feel one step above a flophouse? Do I really not want more?

  I build nice houses in Cherry Hill all day long — originally as a carpenter, and now as a team leader. I watch the walls of large floor plans go up board by board. I watch my crew set trusses that span wide rooms, create vaulted ceilings and two-story great rooms with skylights. I survey the work of electricians who’ve wired five bedrooms. When a home is nearly finished, I inspect the tile work in spacious kitchens and multiple-head showers floored in slate.

  I spend all day with my mind inside houses of my dreams then come home to this.

  I don’t want to, but I find my thoughts moving to our model homes. To our options packages. To our price sheets.

  I ignore the truth that I’d have trouble qualifying for a mortgage and ballpark the down payment it would take to move into one of my many work homes, plus the monthly mortgage. That’s enough to depress me. It makes me want to go to a bar. To see if I can find some company. It’s not hard to find women. It’s hard that none stick, and I don’t want them to. The way I feel now, I won’t drink lightly or make smart decisions. I’ll find a girl who’s like junk food — good for a moment, but nothing more. We’d both leave satisfied … but we’d leave, for sure.

  I want to do it anyway. I want to forget for a while then deal with feeling bad in the morning.

  The only thing that stops me is that spending even a few bucks on a single beer seems horribly irresponsible.

  I wonder if Mason’s daughter hits the bars. Not the ones I usually visit, of course, but the upscale ones in Cherry Hill or Old Town.

  I wonder if I could justify going out, if I could go to one of those bars. I don’t have my suit anymore, but I remember the swagger. I could pass for one of them. I play below my station anyway. I’m not a hammer monkey anymore. If I didn’t end up digging into jobs as much as I shouldn’t, I suppose I’d qualify as a white-collar guy. I don’t wear fancy shirts to work, but most have a collar since my last promotion.

  How expensive could drinks at the Old Town bars be, really?

  I wonder if Riley is much of a drinker.

  I wonder if I found her, if she’d be friendly enough to talk for a while.

  Then I wonder why I think she’d need to be drunk to have a conversation me. But maybe that’s not what I’m wondering. Maybe I’m wondering if she’d go home with me, since that’s where this whole going out chain of thought initially started.

  I sigh. I can’t afford it. There’s a roof over my head and beers (but not company) in the refrigerator. My friends aren’t people who like to chat on the phone, so I’ll have to be alone with my thoughts. I can do it if I try. I can be an optimist. Hell, I am an optimist. I did a good thing today. I helped my sister, unlike the time I didn’t interfere and left her with Keith. Now she’ll be able to get her surgery in the time frame she needs. It won’t interfere with her work. She should do well with this new audiobook trilogy and the work that will inevitably follow. I’ll endure two weeks at critical then recover slowly but surely.

  Or, if I get the job I went in for today, I’ll re
cover quickly.

  Mason didn’t tell me the salary he had in mind for his VP of Land Acquisition, but it has to be nice. Companies don’t pay their vice presidents thirty grand a year. They pay them six figures at least. Maybe moderate to high six figures. And what would I be able to do if my salary suddenly tripled or quintupled? How quickly would I leave this shithole? How instantly would my problems be over, debt paid, credit cards clean, and worries erased?

  With a salary and a cushion, I might be able to consider buying a Cherry Hill home in six months. A half year from the bottom to my ideal version of the top, setting my own toaster on those imported tile countertops.

  Holy shit, would that be amazing.

  I wonder if I’ll get it. I wonder if Mason will promote me. Three years ago, I was hanging sheetrock; now I’m touring headquarters and contemplating a job that might pay $200K or more. I’m definitely a rising star, as humble as I usually think I am. And although I know I’m not the only candidate, I get the feeling I’m one with a decent shot.

  I wonder how I can make Mason James like me more. I wonder how I can suck up enough to get that position because, holy hell, would that solve everything.

  The phone rings. To my surprise, it’s Margo, who Mason described as his Gal Friday. She wants to know if, instead of heading to the Stonegate project tomorrow, I mind dressing down and heading to an area not far from Reed Creek instead. It’s a place I recognize because I used to hike around Reed and the hills beyond.

  She wants me to scout the land. It’s the kind of thing an acquisitions guy might do. Maybe even the vice president.

  I grab a pen and my electric bill, preparing to take notes on the back of the envelope.