The Other Side of Greed

by Lily Zante

  “She didn’t hire you?” she strides into the office. I take off my jacket and fold up the cuffs to my sleeves. To my chagrin, she’s sitting in the chair opposite mine, waiting for the cliffhanger.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” I ask her.

  I loosen my tie before sitting down. I feel constricted. The collar feels tight around my neck, and most of all I’m just really pissed off that I seemed to fail at the first hurdle. “She said she didn’t need anyone.”

  “Even though you told her you would work for free?” She sounds surprised. “She doesn’t trust you.”

  I rock back on my chair. This is what I sensed. Kyra Lewis is paranoid and doesn’t trust a soul. She’s going to be harder to get through than I first anticipated, but I will rise to the challenge. There’s nothing I like more. “She will.” I need to find another avenue for reaching through to her. It won’t be through her, but maybe the older woman can help. She seemed friendlier.

  “She will.” I’m confident of that.

  Emma stands up. “I told you she was smart.”

  “And I told you I’ll find a way in.” That’s what Trojan horses do. I’ll need to find another way to break into Redhill.

  “These are divine,” Jessica says. The selection of amuse-bouches—courtesy of the head chef and prepared solely for us—looks mouth-watering.

  “Not bad,” I say, staring at a cup holding a crab filled pea pod straddled across the top of it. I don't know whether to eat it or admire it.

  “This looks heavenly.” Jessica's deep-red talons shine as her fork stabs a shrimp nestled in a martini glass filled with crushed ice. Only in places like this does food become art.

  We’re sitting in one of Chicago’s most expensive French restaurants. My slow and subtle pursuit of her continues. She’s playing hard to get, too. Which helps. The chase is exhilarating. At some point, I’ll find her sexually attractive, which is important given that she ticks the right boxes for so many other things.

  “You are a man of exemplary taste and refinement, Brandon. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

  “Just one?” I take a sip of water from the sparkling thin-stemmed glass.

  “Stop fishing for compliments.” She gives me a provocative smile. Those shiny, glossy, red lips are inviting, and yet I don’t feel the rush of adrenaline that I should. Could it be because we haven’t yet jumped into bed yet?

  “I’m not fishing.” I sober up, not that I’m drunk, not the slightest, but the more I meet with her and get to know her, the more I keep wondering and waiting for a flash of desire to scorch my already cold heart.

  It hasn’t so far, and I tell myself it’s because Jessica is composed and self-assured, that she’s elegant and refined, and that tearing-one-another’s-clothes-off sex isn’t how this relationship will go.

  I found her on a list of the most eligible and successful women in Chicago. What struck me was her quiet beauty; perfectly coiffed chestnut brown hair, swept back ‘50s style. She’s more polished than voluptuous. Physically and otherwise, she is perfect and she ticks all the boxes for the type of woman I envision my future with; a future which will involve society parties, gala evenings, fundraiser events. I need to be with someone like Jessica.

  I tell myself that the desire and lust will come later. She has made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t want to rush into anything either, having come out of a relationship that ‘trampled her heart to shreds’. That sounds brutal, and she’s had a hard knock, which means she must have loved hard and fiercely. I can’t remember loving anyone like that. I don’t let go of my emotions or give up my feelings. Being vulnerable is not a state I allow myself to be in.

  “You’re successful, powerful and rich, of course you’re going to have impeccable taste.” Jessica leans across slightly, so that her lips are harder for me to ignore. I dip my head, analyzing the order of her words. Women want a man who is rich and powerful. She and I are looking for the same things and we couldn’t be more right for one another.

  “I don’t want to rush anything,” she says as an afterthought, and the fact that she has mentioned this before makes me wonder if she also doesn’t feel that bolt of desire shooting through her.

  For all our fancy dinners, and polite and refined conversations, often taking place while we admire various works of art in her gallery, there is the niggling feeling that the chemistry is lackluster. My father had a string of mistresses, and perhaps that is how things will be for me later on.

  The server brings over the champagne and starts to pour.

  “To the good things in life,” I say, when both our glasses are filled.

  Jessica raises her glass to mine. “To all the good things.”

  I chuckle to myself, thinking about my interview with Kyra Lewis. Now that is one woman I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, even if she were the last woman left on Earth. There is nothing sleek or polished about her. No admirable qualities that I can discern and, given her desire to make life better for the losers of our society, I struggle to understand her.

  “What’s so funny?” A questioning twinkle in Jessica’s eyes loosens my guard. I have told her about my next ambitious project, of my desire to turn Greenways, that dumpster fire of real estate, into something that will make money, instead of bleed money for useless causes, but she doesn’t know of my ploy, or the pathetic attempt I made to infiltrate Lewis’s outfit.

  “I’m not sure what to do about Greenways. One of the business people there, a woman, runs a nonprofit organization and she’s going to be a thorn in my side.”

  “You must be referring to Kyra Lewis.”

  “You know her?” This surprises me because the two women might as well be from different galaxies for all that they have in common.

  Jessica looks visibly disgusted. “People like that? God, no. She feeds homeless people, and I … don’t.”

  I sit upright. “How do you know?” This catches my attention like a bolt of lightning. I casually skimmed over the file that Emma had prepared for me on her. I didn’t take her seriously before, but maybe I should. The fact that Jessica knows of her is a testament to Lewis’s draw.

  “She’s the city’s newest icon, aside from Elias Cardoza.” Jessica’s voice drops an octave. I don’t like that she’s talking about that boxer guy as if she’s in awe of him. Cardoza is the toast of the town. The King of Chicago. He used to be Chicago’s New Hope when he first came on the scene. The city loves him. Even when he lost the fight to defend his title, the people didn’t give up on him. There’s a rematch slated for next month and everyone is rooting for Cardoza to win.

  He and I have something in common. We both stayed at the same children’s home, but I didn’t suffer the abuse that he did. I was rescued by a wonderful couple who gave me a new life.

  “What do you know of her?” I ask.

  “That she looks like a mutt. Short-haired and skinny. It’s a national disgrace that there seems to be so much interest in her.”

  While Lewis is not my ideal woman, I wouldn’t describe her the way Jessica has. Short shoulder-length hair, green defiant eyes, and attitude, that’s how I saw her.

  “Don’t you read any magazines?” Jessica asks.

  I only read the financial papers, and the business news, and I’m certain that the likes of Kyra Lewis don’t appear in them. Jessica runs her hand down her chocolate brown hair. Her manicured hands and her perfectly painted nails indicate that this woman has time to run a business and take good care of herself.

  She goes on to tell me how Lewis has become a rising star in the last few years on account of her business.

  It’s a shame that Lewis didn’t hire me for free. Now I have to come up with Plan B.

  Chapter Seven

  KYRA

  * * *

  “What happened to you?” I rise from my chair in shock. Fredrich stands at the door with his arm in a sling.

  “I tripped and fell down the stairs.”

  “Fredrich,” I
murmur, feeling sorry for him.

  He only went home a few hours ago. We’ve got another homeless food night tonight. We start getting things ready for it around six o’clock in the evening and given that I’m often still in the office then, it always ends up being a long, long day for me.

  Simona says that I live in this factory and she often wonders out loud why I don’t set up a bed in here. That’s a great idea, and I would, were it not for the fact that it’s so cold. I don’t mind the spiders and insects, or the dirt. We try to keep it clean but I don’t pay anyone to clean it. I guess I ought to. The employees take care of things, and I’ve been known to go around with a broom now and then.

  This factory came at a good price, and I like the idea of not having any landlords to deal with, of owning something outright, but I just wish we had a bigger place. Redhill is doing well, much better than I ever thought and we are expanding fast. Every year, we help more people and change more lives, and it’s exhilarating, running a company which helps people. Sometimes I wonder if we should stay here or go elsewhere. It makes sense to find somewhere else with more space rather than staying put and building another factory on the side, but I have a good feeling about Greenways and my instinct tells me that we’re onto something good here.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him angrily. “You must be in so much pain.”

  “It’s food night.” He saunters in and perches slightly on his desk, as if he needs to rest. He doesn’t look anything like his usual strapping self.

  “You can’t go to that.” He’s the one who does the bulk of the lifting. He can easily swing the pallets of water bottles and food and he’s also the one who goes to the various restaurants around Chicago who have signed up to donate food on these nights. They supply us with warm pasta, some rice and bread rolls. We wouldn’t be able to do what we do without the spirit and help of these people who donate weekly to our cause. This is the community helping the community; it is much appreciated and vital to our success.

  I suddenly realize that Fredrich being out of service is going to cause me a huge problem. “You need to take a couple of weeks off,” giving him my sternest look.

  “I’ve only fractured my arm, Kyra. It hasn’t fallen off.”

  “It might as well have.”

  “I’m sorry! I tripped and fell.” He touches the cast gingerly, as if he’s getting used to it.

  “I didn’t mean to gripe. It’s just... busy.” What with tonight, and everything else going on at the factory, there is just too much to do, and right now I don’t see how we can function at the same level as we need to with my strongest man out.

  “It’s a shame you turned away our only chance at free labor, from someone who sounded pretty smart.” Fredrich, like Simona, seems irritated that I didn’t take on that Brad guy who came here last week. I throw my hands up and tsk. Both he and Simona have been telling me at every chance what a great opportunity I threw away.

  “Hiring more people at our level is not our number one priority.” We don’t need a new guy. Especially not in the office. We have enough people in the management team with three of us. We’re not managers sitting at our desks watching everyone do the grunt work; we get on with things.

  We are doers.

  I’m not sure that this guy they both seem to like so much is a doer. He seems to me like someone who can talk a good talk. He looked too slick. Too salesman-y, even in his ripped jeans.

  But, Fredrich being out of commission is going to set me back a lot. “How will you manage?” he asks.

  “We’ll manage.”

  “You could use that guy now,” Fredrich insists, before pushing off with a grimace.

  I ignore that comment. “You should go home and get some rest.”

  “I need to go load up the truck.”

  I’m about to sit and reply to my emails, but I can’t. Fredrich is stupid enough to think he still has his Herculean powers and that he can continue one-armed with his duties. “No, you don’t.” I march towards him. “I’ll do that.” I gasp. “Did you drive here?”

  “I didn’t fly.”

  I tilt my head and flash my disapproving look at him. “You’re in pain, and you’re grumpy. Go home, Fredrich.”

  “Who’s going to get the food?”

  “I will.”

  “It’s not going to fit into your car,” he points out. He’s right. It won’t.

  “I’ll just have to use the old van,” I mutter to myself. I’ve been meaning to buy a better van for our factory but as usual, it’s not our top priority. I’ve relied on Fredrich to drive his pickup truck to get the food from the restaurants. We have most of the other supplies in the storage room here in the factory—cans of soup, water bottles, crackers, sanitary products and so on. “Go home, Fredrich. You’re no good to me injured.”

  “And let you do this alone?” He raises himself to his full height, his face and body posture indicating that he is in pain.

  “I’m not doing it alone. There are plenty of us here to help out.”

  “Let me help a little,” he insists.

  “No. Go home. Please.” I can’t have him be even more injured than he is. He’s the one who moves things around and lift things, not just for the food night but whenever a heavy hand is needed, it’s Fredrich I turn to.

  Yvette is here and the employees on the schedule for tonight are all here. I refuse to let the lack of Fredrich’s muscle power be our weakness, even though it has highlighted something to me; if anything should happen to me or Fredrich, or Simona, this business is on shaky ground, and I can’t afford for that to happen. Many already vulnerable people are depending on us and we can’t let them down.

  There’s no time to waste. I pick up the keys to the van and decide to make the restaurant run myself. “I’m going to get the food.” I mumble some instructions to the others letting them know what’s happened and that they need to band together and make sure Fredrich doesn’t make his injury worse.

  Rubbing my aching lower back, I climb into the rumbling old van. My back has been acting up lately, because, like Fredrich, I also think I have superhuman strength and can do everything. I cross my arms on the steering wheel, then lean forward and rest my head. I could fall asleep here, and the thought of the next four hours makes me want to go to sleep. I am so bone-tired. It’s a good thing Simona isn’t here to see me like this. She already hates that I work so hard and play so little, and she would have something to say if she saw me like this.

  I turn the ignition and the van splutters to life on the first try. Phew. I’ve known for months that we need something more reliable, but as with most things, and me, I squeeze every last gasp of usage out of it.

  Tonight will be hard work. I’m going to have to return the pots and containers to the restaurants, and then make sure everything is put back in the storeroom.

  It’s a shame you turned him away. Fredrich’s words float back to me.

  I could call that guy. The slimy one who’s traveled around the world and found his calling, or so he thinks.

  Use him.

  I don’t use people. That’s not me. Yet there would be something satisfying to be gained from watching him at the food night. This is my chance to see if he can rally to the cause and help me on demand.

  It’s just as well that Simona sent me his number. Now I can find out how serious he was about wanting to help out.

  Chapter Eight

  BRANDON

  * * *

  I’m about to cut into my nice, juicy steak when my cell phone goes off. It’s on vibrate mode, but I can feel it jiggling around in my jacket pocket.

  I ignore it but a few seconds later it goes off again. I give Jessica an apologetic grin and reach for my cell phone to quickly see who it is and to turn the damn thing off, but the darn thing stops buzzing.

  I stare at the number. It’s one I don’t recognize. Just as I go to switch it off, it starts to vibrate again.

  It could be a prospective investor. A client.
A chance to make another deal. I can’t ignore these things. “Excuse me. I have to take this.” Jessica shrugs and plays around with her salad.

  “Hi, is this Brad? Brad Hartley?” It’s a voice I vaguely recognize but can’t place.

  “Who?” My jaw clenches during the few seconds it takes for the penny to drop.

  “This is Kyra Lewis. You came for an interview at Redhill last week.”

  The corners of my lips turn upwards in a wry smile as I wipe my mouth with a napkin. Well, well, well. She wants me after all. “How can I help you, Kyra?”

  Jessica’s interest rockets. She sets down her fork, her eyes widening.

  “Are you still interested in doing some volunteer work?”

  Of all the times she could have called, she picks now. “Can we discuss this another time?” The quiet ambiance of the restaurant and the sight of my tantalizing steak divert my attention. I wish I hadn’t taken this call.

  “I don’t have another time. You either want to help or you don’t, and right now we could do with some help.”

  I cough lightly. It’s late in the evening. What the hell could she possibly want right now? “Now? As in, right now?” It’s after hours. I never signed up to work after hours.

  “You said you were free. You said you were eager to help.”

  “I am, but, I’m kinda busy.”

  “You don’t seem to be interested. Don’t worry about it.”

  She hangs up.

  My eyebrow lifts. No one hangs up on me. Jessica eyes me coolly. “Did I hear correctly? Was that … Kyra Lewis?”

  I hold up a finger, indicating to Jessica that I need to deal with this. Then I call Kyra Lewis back. She doesn’t pick up until about the fifth ring, and this infuriates me even more.

  “What?” Her irritation crawls down the phone.

  “You hung up,” I state, breathing in slowly, in order to ground myself.