She watches me with growing disbelief. The wronged and totally innocent woman, shocked at this entire thing.
I smile. “What, did they get you from central casting? Don’t bother staying in character on my account.”
The dewy skin on her throat goes pink as she straightens her spine. “I’m not acting.” It’s a good delivery. Vulnerable and fierce at the same time. Raw, even.
“Of course you’re not. My advice is you take the money I’m offering in the next ten minutes. Because ten minutes is about how long you have, given rush hour traffic for our good friends on the police force to get here.”
She frowns back down at the number but she doesn’t come back with another. Why not?
I watch her, curious. Her neck pinkens more, as if heat and emotion roil right below the surface.
I don’t need her to make sense; I need her away from the company I love. The company I’d sell my soul to protect.
“Everyone has a price,” I say. “Especially you.”
Her face flares full red—her tell for high emotions, I’m thinking. “I told you I’m not a scammer.”
I step in closer, full-on intimidation mode. My skin tightens with the nearness of her. “Take the money,” I growl, “or I will fucking bury you.”
Something new comes over her face. It’s as if a switch flipped deep in her soul. She glows with energy. No—it’s more than that—it’s pure, white-hot loathing. She’s incandescent.
And so alive.
The sense of her prickles over my skin.
“That a no?” Brett growls, bringing me back to myself.
“The offer goes poof in two minutes,” I say. “Now or never.”
Brett shoots me a glance. He doesn’t like the idea of an ultimatum, and usually I don’t, either, but I have this sudden perverse need to push her.
“You don’t want to feel our power turned against you.”
She swallows. “Well here’s the thing, Henry Locke.” Her voice shakes, but she holds her ground, stands right up to me. “It’s not up to me.”
My blood goes cold. So she’s working with a team, after all.
I try not to react, but this is very, very bad. A good team could hack apart the company and extract billions in the process. I’m suddenly imagining a man in the wings, running her, directing her. Maybe even a boyfriend or husband. I bristle at the thought.
I exchange glances with Brett. He furrows his brow just slightly. Desperation. Why not bring them in? Unless they have a long game. Dismantle the firm. Sell off the pieces before we can stop them.
I swallow.
I turn back to her. “Who’s it up to, then?” I ask, cringing inwardly. For the first time I’m thinking about the mob.
“Who do you think?” She glows at me again, bright with loathing.
I brace myself for the bad news.
She smiles, widening her eyes. “It’s up to Smuckers, of course! Have you not been paying attention?”
I watch incredulously as she repositions the dog in her arms so that he faces us, eyes and nose like three raisins in a white cotton-candy cloud.
“What do you prefer, Smuckers? Would you like Henry Locke to write us a check for four point five million dollars? Or would you prefer to take your place alongside him as a visionary member and major shareholder on the board of Locke Worldwide?”
I swallow, mystified. Is she messing with us?
“Smuckers, concentrate,” she says, with a sly glimpse my way. “Do you want some money now? Or to vote on pressing issues while drawing a monthly stipend of seventy-five thousand?”
My blood races. I don’t know what to think—not about any of it. All I know is that she’s on fire. Fierce as an electrical storm, dark clouds flashing bright.
“You have to decide, you just have to. Do it for Jelly Bean,” she adds with a glance at me.
Smuckers wags his little poof of a tail.
“That’s right, boy! That’s right! You decide!”
“Oh, come off it,” I say.
Her lip quivers. Is she scared? Or enjoying this way too much? She turns to me. “You mind?” She turns back to Smuckers. “What do you think, Smuckers? Think hard, because they won’t offer again. It’s an ultimatum. Do you know what that is?”
I fold my arms.
She tilts her head, as if she’s listening with intense curiosity to a communication from Smuckers that she’s not altogether sure about. “Really? That’s your answer? Are you sure? I know, he’s a bit of a bastard.”
She turns to us.
“Smuckers has decided he would prefer to take his seat on the board. As a voting shareholder, with me as his assistant, to interpret his wishes regarding Locke Worldwide.”
Chapter Four
Vicky
The inside of the police station is an old friend I never wanted to see again. The shiny institutional surfaces, the hard seats, the sounds of police radios up and down the halls, the emotional distance that the cops and other staffers maintain, everything strangely plain and professional even as you’re scared out of your mind.
And, of course, the little room they make you wait in.
I tell myself it’s different this time, but it doesn’t feel different.
At least I have Smuckers with me. He took a pee on the way here, but he didn’t poop. I’ve got the poop card to play.
I wasn’t on the criminal end during the incident with Denny Woodruff—I was the one who made the accusations and Denny was the one who had to sweat it out in the little room. But after my story was made to look faked, I became the criminal. The false accuser. The one in the little room.
I sat in there alone, thinking I’d be sent to a juvenile facility. Considering home life at the time, it would have been an improvement, except for having to leave Carly unprotected with a mom who’d betray her own daughter for the right price.
Mom wasn’t always that way. There was a sunny “before” picture of us in a tiny but bright little home at the end of a long driveway. I would ride my shiny bike up and down it while Mom and Dad hung out with Carly, a pudgy two-year-old with fat cheeks and a huge smile.
Then Dad died.
The “after” picture was a chaos of lost jobs and increasingly shabby apartments, and us two sisters eating cereal dinners alone in smelly, dirty kitchens. And Mom was either a ball of scary energy or else had the shakes and the weeps and the two-day sleeps. And the kind of boyfriends who were overly friendly to little girls when she wasn’t looking.
The Woodruffs “generously” decided not to press charges; they saw to it that I didn’t get into trouble for supposedly lying to the police, falsifying evidence, and selfishly causing a three-day manhunt. “You owe them a debt of gratitude,” a stern policewoman named Sara told me as she led me out.
I said nothing. I had protested my innocence enough by then to know it was a waste of breath.
I followed Sara out, hungry and tired and beaten down because I’d told the truth and the whole world had turned against me, and I still didn’t understand how those tests came out the way they did, or how Denny’s lies became truth and how my truth became lies. And I didn’t know how I’d get home or if there would be food, or if Carly was okay. She was eight that summer, and Mom would leave her alone to “do errands.”
Sara held open the door for me and I stepped out into the sunshine only to come face-to-face with a crowd of reporters, yelling questions, taking pictures.
Do you have an apology for Denny Woodruff and his family? Do you feel like you deserved to be released? Do you have a message? Do you have a statement? How does it feel to be forgiven?
I didn’t have much left in me by then. Just two words for the crowd: Never again. I just looked into the nearest camera and vowed it. Never again.
People wanted clarification. Did I mean I’d never lie again?
I headed off onto the sidewalk. A few of the reporters tagged along with me, trying to get me into conversation. I would say nothing more. Eventually Sara the police
woman took pity on me and drove me home.
My release and my definitely-not-grateful-enough comment made the local and national news. It was your classic study in “do and don’t”—the Woodruffs outside their beautiful home with their forgiveness, hoping I could get help. They were the DO. And then there was me with my tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes croaking Never again into the camera. I was the DON’T. Put a red circle around my face with a line through it.
I got asked about my terse statement a lot after that. People want contrition from a villain. They need you to feel pain for the wrong of your ways. Never again just doesn’t do it.
But it did it for me.
Never again was my vow to the world, to myself. Never again would I be bullied by people like the Woodruffs. Never again would I allow a rich asshole to make me feel small and scared.
Never again.
Looking back, the exercise of hauling me down to the station was simple intimidation. It was the Woodruffs flexing their muscles. This is what happens when you oppose us.
I tell myself that’s all this is with the Locke clan. I’m being detained, not arrested.
I think again of Henry, standing there all smug. We will bury you. Suddenly he was Denny Woodruff. And all I could think was Never again, motherfucker.
Never again.
The price of taking that money was way too high, because it would be like admitting I’m a scam artist or a liar or guilty of something.
The price of taking that money would be losing myself.
When Henry’s cop friend showed up wanting to “Clear up the matter down at the station,” I went. They didn’t fingerprint me, though I was alarmed when they ran my ID. It seemed to hold up. It always does. The person who supplied our wildly expensive new identities seven years ago said they’d be foolproof, but it’s not like you can test drive that sort of thing.
I wait to see what the police will do, worrying mostly about Carly. I don’t want Mom knowing where to find us and taking Carly back. She never filed a missing persons report on us, but she’s a drug addict who’s proved she’s willing to put her habit above her girls. I’m not taking chances.
I called Carly on the way down to the station. She was just leaving rehearsal with her friend, Bess. I talked to Bess’s mom and made arrangements for Carly to stay there until I could deal with my “unexpected personal emergency.” I’m sure that left a great impression.
My phone is running out of juice, and frankly, so am I.
Finally the door opens, and there’s Henry, still in his fabulous suit.
His smile is pure arrogance, his attitude breezy. He sets a white bakery bag on the table—a bag that’s full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, if the smell is any indication.
I’ll admit, the smell of the cookies is exciting me a lot, but mostly it’s Henry. It’s as if his presence is lending me new energy.
Like he’s the lion who has finally appeared to my David.
Or maybe he’s the flame who has appeared to my moth, but let’s just go with lion.
“The playboy smirkitect has arrived,” I say simply. “How lucky for me.”
His blue eyes twinkle. He tilts his head. “Hello, jelly bean.”
I ignore the sizzle of his gaze on my skin. “Not my name.”
He puts down a leather folder and settles into a chair opposite me. I’m struck by how muscular and golden his hands are, with just the perfect amount of roughness to them.
That wristwatch still peeks out from under his jacket sleeves and white shirt cuffs, all hot heft and dials.
Like what a race car driver would wear. Henry probably owns race cars. He probably drives them in places like the Alps or Monaco.
I tear my gaze from his hands and back to his eyes, ignoring the warmth spreading up my spine.
People have reactions to each other, just like chemicals do. Some blend. Some layer. But some transform each other—they fizz and bubble right out of their containers.
That’s Henry and me—something about him gets me reacting—pulse too fast, skin too tight. Wanting to spar. Something. Anything.
It’s hate, I tell myself.
I hate the hotness of his hands and the wrong heat of us in this room.
“Let’s end this charade,” he says.
Something dark arrows through me.
Charade. To most, the word conjures up a marginally fun game where you wish there was more wine.
Not to me. It’s one of the words they hammered me with. Selfish charade. Disgusting charade.
“I have the papers for you to sign right here. And a check.” He slides it across the table. The implication is clear—if I sign, I’ll be released.
I look up at him.
“You don’t win this,” he says softly. “You don’t win against me.”
My blood races through my veins.
Never again. Never again. I vowed it, didn’t I? Never again to be pushed around by somebody like this.
I watch myself stand. I watch myself pull Smuckers into my arms. “Keep your cookies,” I say. “And keep your money, too. Smuckers and I are not for sale.”
Speaking those words, I feel this rush of energy, like I’m sticking up for that girl I left in the dust of Deerville. I’m sticking up for Vonda O’Neil.
It feels amazing.
I turn. I walk. My knees are shaking like Jell-O, but I walk. With every step, I feel stronger. Expanding beyond my container. Bubbling over, wild and free.
I can’t believe they’re letting me leave, but they are. I get out of the police station with nobody stopping me. So they never intended to arrest me after all.
I walk down the sidewalk feeling strangely new.
Never again.
Chapter Five
Vicky
The first board meeting takes place on a Wednesday at Locke Companies headquarters. I enter the address from the sheet the lawyer gave me into my phone. It’s an easy subway ride.
The headquarters turns out to be one of those grand Financial District buildings, gleaming white stone and glass shooting high up into the sky.
The doorway is actually a bank of doorways that seems designed to illustrate the concept of redundancy. There’s a revolving door, an automatic single door, a single door for people with handicaps, a double door for people with handicaps, an automatic double door, a nonautomatic single door, and one last door, added, perhaps, as an insult to the undecided, next to which a uniformed attendant stands.
Above is a row of blue flags, flapping in the wind. Specifically they are Royal Blue 1—that’s the Locke Worldwide corporate color. This is something I learned from the packet the lawyer put together for me. The flags are emblazoned with the Locke logo, interlocking circles in the shape of a building, or a penis, if you will.
I take a deep breath and walk under the blue awning and enter a five-story-tall lobby with a giant triangular rock five stories high with water cascading down its sides into a Royal Blue 1 fountain.
One of the men behind the security desk rises. He suspects I don’t belong.
I can’t blame him. I’m wearing a black sweater with dusky pearls, a gray skirt, and kitten heels. When I put it on this morning, I felt like it embodied the timeless glamour of black, but now that I’m surrounded by women in chic brights and wow-factor shoes and men in head-to-toe GQ, it seems to embody I’m a sad panda.
Smuckers doesn’t care; he’s riding in his favorite purse today, gray pleather with a comfortable place for him to stick out his head. I can feel him wagging his tail in there, sensing petting opportunities.
“Service animals only,” the guard says.
I tell him that the dog belongs to the Locke family, that he’s expected. He frowns for a second, waiting for me to retract my story, maybe, then makes a call. Moments later, he waves me to the crystal elevator bank.
I ride up to the fifty-fifth floor and get out.
Into another world.
Manhattan at street level can be gloomy, especially aroun
d the Financial District with all the tall buildings.
But this place is spacious and dazzlingly sunny, with floor-to-ceiling windows that have a view of the river. But what’s most remarkable is the blue, blue sky, impossibly, soaringly blue with white puffs of clouds.
The floors are an expanse of sparkling white tile sweeping out to a balcony edged with grass and furniture more appropriate to a chic lounge bar. The walls are composed of giant sparkling blue tile with a glow that comes from cracks between the tiles. Yes, that’s the way the place is lit—a glow between tiles!
The flora scheme is tropical, with potted palms and Royal Blue 1 calla lilies as large as dinner plates.
It’s designed to impress, but really it just intimidates the shit out of me.
At the far side of the expanse of loveliness is a glass-enclosed meeting room, a fishbowl for the fancy. Six men and one woman sit around a table in there. I spot Henry at the head of the table.
Did they already start? I pull out my phone. I’m five minutes early.
“Can I help you?”
I turn, startled, not having noticed the two women corralled inside a large circular desk tucked discreetly to the side—so as not to spoil the impact of the room, I suppose. The desk would be the only place you can’t see the view.
Admins, then. Been there, done that.
I took a lot of temp jobs when we first came here. Temping in the day, waitressing at night, paying out half my earnings to sitters, but I made it work, and I was always there with a bowl of oatmeal and a smile when Carly woke up.
Things got better once my Etsy store took off, even better when we got the Upper West Side apartment-and-parrot-sitting gig.
“I’m here to…see the board.” I shift my Smuckers purse. “Did they already start? I meant to get here earlier, but the subway.”
“They’ll be out in a bit for the official start.” The black-haired secretary comes around the desk. She has a Princess Leia hairdo that I definitely approve of, and her name is April according to the sign on her desk. “Who is this little guy?”
Girl Meets Billionaire Page 59