The Other Side of Greed

by Lily Zante

  “I didn’t. I mean,” he coughs lightly, “I helped out on some community projects in … uh … in El Salvador.”

  “In El Salvador?” I’m aware that many community projects take place in less developed countries, and that there are many tour agencies that facilitate such things. “Who was that with?”

  “Excuse me?” He looks confused.

  “Which agency did you go with?”

  “I didn’t use an agency. I’m not a wuss and I’m okay with traveling alone.”

  I stare at him. “You said you worked for some start-ups in Silicon Valley. I’ll need a reference from a former employer.”

  “Is that necessary, now that I’ve started?” He stands up. For a moment, it looked like he was about to pull at his shirt sleeves, but he’s wearing a t-shirt.

  I sense resistance. “It’s necessary. I need a resumé, too.”

  “Do you want to hear about what I can offer to your company?”

  “Sure. Just don’t forget about the paperwork I need from you.” I remind him.

  “I won’t.” He looks around. “I need a whiteboard. Do you have one?”

  “Nope.”

  “How do you brainstorm ideas?” He looks at the walls, dirty and peeling. I suddenly feel more self-conscious than ever.

  “We talk.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “Your setup doesn’t help.”

  “With what?” I sit back and fold my arms defensively.

  “I suppose you don’t even have a conference room?”

  “We don’t need a conference room.”

  He swipes a hand over his forehead, as if this place, this setup, me and my management team, are a farce. I don’t like his attitude one bit. I stand up slowly. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  His shoulders slump. “Because I’m telling you some hard facts?”

  “Because your tone is insulting.”

  “I’m making observations.”

  “So far you’ve observed that we have buckets to catch the water, and that I’ve been surfing online on company time. You’re complaining about the setup, and the building, and what you perceive to be a shortage of good resources.” I cock my head. “Are you a journalist, looking for a story on me? I don’t like to do interviews, but believe me, if this is why you’re here, this isn’t going to get you anything.”

  He throws his head back. “I don’t need a story. You’re the story. You’re the one everyone talks about.”

  Simona walks in with her cup and saucer still in her hand. “I can’t stand up for too long. I need to sit down.”

  “I never told you to leave,” I say to her. This isn’t the type of morning I had in mind. I put a hand to my back. I think I pulled something while I was lifting the boxes and shifting things the other night.

  “Have you injured your back again?” chides Simona.

  “I’ll be fine. It always gets worse after food night.” I decide to leave and walk around the factory floor. Or maybe I should check the storeroom. Anything to get away from here. Or maybe I can send Brad out to check for me.

  “Will you run Brad through the inventory check in the storeroom when you can?” I ask Simona.

  “Don’t you want to do it?” There she goes again, trying to offload him onto me.

  “No. It’s fine. You go ahead. You can get started on things now.” An idea comes to me. Why not get him to do the menial tasks I usually end up doing? “Can you show Brad the inventory list and have him go through and write down how much we have of everything?” I ask her, eyeing Brad with a sense of jubilation. “You can make yourself useful from the get-go.” The corner of my lips curl up into a satisfied smile.

  “Lucky me,” he mumbles, loud enough for me to hear. Instantly, my elation freezes. That hint of insubordination puts me on alert.

  “You’re the one who came to me, looking for work,” I remind him. “You’re free to leave at any time.”

  The plastic smile he slaps on his face makes me sit up. He can’t even be bothered to hide his displeasure with the task I’ve set him. “I’m happy to be here,” he tells me, as he saunters out after Simona.

  I’m left wondering what I’ve let myself get into.

  Chapter Twelve

  BRANDON

  * * *

  I follow Simona to the storeroom, anger seeping out of my pores at the thought of the menial task before me.

  “This is where we keep everything. My goodness,” Simona’s hand flies to her chest. “This is all very neat and tidy. It will make your task much easier.”

  “I helped her with that,” I point out. “Last night. We were here until late.”

  “That’s Kyra for you. She has no life outside of work.”

  I snort. I can tell. As CEO of this business, Lewis needs to work on the business, not waste her time cleaning up storerooms and doing the inventory.

  “You don’t look happy,” Simona comments.

  I’m not used to doing menial tasks. I have people to do that for me. But I’m also not impressed by the menial jobs that Kyra does. “She’s wasting her time cleaning out the storeroom and rearranging the shelves. She should be focused on more important things.”

  “She works too hard, that girl. Fredrich does a lot, but she still puts in all the hours. Kyra has no airs and graces. If she sees that something needs doing, she’ll do it.”

  “You can’t beat commitment like that,” I say, “But she could still make better use of her time.” I gaze around the room, seeing it properly this time and not wanting to get my clothes dirty, but I have no option. I’ve put myself into this disgusting situation, and now I have to see it through. Which means I have to check the inventory against the items that are here. It is craziness of the highest order.

  “Is this important?” I jerk my head at the shelves. “Feeding the homeless? Why does she do that when it has nothing to do with the core business. That’s where she should be spending all her time and effort.”

  “Kyra wants to do her part in getting rid of poverty and homelessness.”

  “Why? Was she homeless?”

  “She wasn’t homeless, but she’s known hard times. Her mother, bless her dear soul, encouraged her daughters from an early age to help out in soup kitchens. Kyra tells me how she and her sister, Penny, used to help out on Christmas day.”

  “Help out?” My eyes widen as I choke it back, keeping it suppressed, the past that threatens to rise up from my belly and into my throat. “On Christmas day?”

  “That’s what she told me.”

  I wonder if she and I have more in common than not.

  “Here’s the list of things we need for the food nights.” Simona hands me a notebook. “Just note down how many of each item we have.” I take the notepad and pen and force a smile. Simona turns to leave. “We’re grateful that you’ve joined us.”

  “You might be. I’m not so sure about Kyra.”

  “She might not seem very warm, and you might think she’s not grateful, but she needs the help. She has grand plans.”

  “Grand plans?” My ears prick up. My smile widens as I slide my hand into my pocket. “I’m sure she does, a smart and resourceful woman like her. What is she hoping to do?”

  “Build out. For a start, expand the size of this factory. Our demand is fast outstripping our supply. News about what we do here seems to have caught the mood, and word is spreading fast. We’re also seeing an uptick in people wanting to work here, and soon we’re going to run out of room. She doesn’t like to turn people away.”

  “She turned me away.”

  “You’re not a vulnerable person, someone coming off the streets and striving to make a better life.”

  “Is that the bar for entry?” What a goddamn low bar.

  “We also take on women fleeing from domestic abuse.”

  What a great line-up of people. I can’t imagine what their resumes look like. I also can’t get my head around hiring losers. I only hire the best. “She sounds like a saint.�
�

  “She’s not, nor does she see herself in that vein. She, like everyone here at Redhill, wants to provide an environment where people who have been knocked down have a helping hand. We don’t give benefits or welfare checks. We give them hope and a strategy.”

  “I guess you do.” A tiny part of me understands what she’s trying to do. Simona examines my face carefully.

  “If Kyra isn’t being as gracious as she could, it’s because you don’t strike her as someone who needs that type of help.”

  “I’m not interested in working on the factory floor. I’m interested in doing my bit and helping her with the business. I had assumed she’d be grateful for my help.”

  “She will be, she is. Just give her some time to warm up to you.”

  “Thanks for showing me the ropes, Simona. This place will look transformed when you next see it.”

  I work methodically, taking note of the supplies. If Emma could see me now, she’d be roaring with laughter. She would think I deserved it.

  Kyra walks in sometime later. “Haven’t you finished yet?”

  “I was double checking everything.”

  She looks around the room. “Still, it shouldn’t have taken you all morning. I had put some time aside to go through some of our marketing ideas.”

  I rub my hands together, recoiling in disgust at the idea of the filth that has seeped through my pores. “We can do that now.”

  “There’s more. Follow me.” She walks away, leaving me no choice but to follow her. She shows me to another larger storeroom off the hallway. I am starving. I need my lunch. Suddenly I’m craving a pastrami sandwich.

  “If you could clean up in here. With Fredrich away, I’m not going to get a chance to sort this out until the weekend. This is where we store the deliveries for our product line.”

  “You want…” I choke internally. My stomach goes into lockdown at the thought of no food. “You want me to clean this now?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  I do. I’m about to die of hunger. “No.”

  “Good, because we have a delivery of supplies coming in this afternoon. We get it every few weeks and I’m going to need your help bringing things in here.”

  “I was about to have my lunch,” I announce, my brain furiously looking for ways to get out of doing this. “Do you suffer from OCD?” I lean against the doorframe and rub my hands together as if I’m getting rid of the imaginary dust.

  “My mom was convinced I was.”

  “And now? Does she think you’re over it?”

  She moves her lips but no words come out, then. “She died a while ago …”

  Oh, shit.

  She walks over to a shelf and lines up a box that is already neatly lined up. I follow her.

  “I’m sorry.” I place a hand on her shoulder but she shrugs it away. That’s when I notice it; a small tattoo on the rounded part of her shoulder. It’s in the shape of a sun, and I’m suddenly curious about it. But before I can comment on it, she hurls an order at me.

  “This room is messy. If you can manage to hold off your hunger, do you think you could tidy this before the deliveries arrive?”

  “Sure. I mean, I was going to go to lunch but, whatever.”

  She hangs her head as if she’s having problems coming to terms with what I’ve said. “You need to eat. Of course you do. Go ahead.”

  She turns her back to me again and starts to move things around on the shelf. The urge to walk away and get the hell out of this place is strong, but I have a reason I’ve put myself through this. I can’t wimp out now.

  “I’ll do it. You don’t have to. I’m hungry, that’s all.” She’s doing this to test me. I’m sure she would allow Fredrich to have a break, or god forbid, eat, if he was about to die from starvation. Kyra Lewis doesn’t bring out the best in me; I turn into a monster when I haven’t eaten for a while.

  “I’ve got this, Hartley. You go and eat something before you faint.”

  Two strikes. She says my name as if it’s snake poison, deadly and vitriolic.

  If she only knew who I am. What I have. What I own.

  “There’s no need to get so riled up.” I start moving things around. “Do you want everything lined up neatly along the walls?”

  “Yes, and make room there,” she points to another wall, “for the delivery that’s coming this afternoon.” She slaps her hands along her slacks. “Can you handle it?”

  “I can handle it, Lewis. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Satisfaction warms my insides to see the hard set of her jaw. She’s the boss, but I don’t treat her like one, and she hates me for it.

  That’s what I call a result.

  Chapter Thirteen

  KYRA

  * * *

  Simona thinks I’m being cruel and she could be right.

  She says I’m being hard on Brad just because I’ve had him working in the storerooms for most of the day. He had barely finished in the factory storeroom when our new deliveries arrived. Now I’ve asked him to move everything and to make it all neat and tidy.

  “You don’t know how to be around someone who is young and good-looking and of the opposite sex!”

  I almost choked on the bite of my sandwich when she said that. “I’m cool around Fredrich, and I’d say he ticks all those boxes.”

  She scowls. “Fredrich is like a brother.”

  I make a face. “To me or to you?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Kyra.”

  “Please don’t play matchmaker.” Simona likes to meddle in these matters. As much as I love her, Simona has been trying to push me into getting back onto the dating scene. I haven’t been in a relationship for over eighteen months, ever since I split up with my boyfriend. He said I was more interested in Redhill than I was in our relationship. He blamed our continuing distance on me spending so much time on the business. Later, I found out that he had been seeing someone else for most of the time we were together.

  I give my all to Redhill, and I don’t have time for a relationship. The hurt still bruises inside. Simona thinks I’m working too hard, and she’s worried that I’m lonely and bored. She thinks I’ll die an old spinster. There are worse ways to die.

  “I don’t know if Brad is single or not. I haven’t yet gotten around to asking him,” she says.

  I’m just about to ask her why she needs to know this, when I hear his voice.

  “I am, as it happens. Why? Who needs to know?”

  That same old wry grin, irritating as anything, is the first thing I see. Simona’s face lights up. “We were just wondering.”

  “I wasn’t,” I grumble, feeling the heat on my cheeks.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, if you must know.”

  Because I need to look busy and not as if I’m embarrassed by this conversation, I keep my eyes on the screen and start typing random words that make no sense.

  “I’ve finished organizing the new delivery. Do you want to see what I’ve done?” This is leveled at me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “Ky-ra?” His tone is deliberate, as if the slight elongation of my name is an attempt to annoy me.

  “What?” I snap back. I can sense a telepathic link between us, as if he can read my thoughts and is doing his best to irritate me.

  “You’re looking flustered,” he notes, inflaming me even more. I glance at him standing in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling out his t-shirt, as he crosses one foot over the other, displaying a sense of ease and nonchalance that is the exact opposite of my mood right now.

  “I’m not.”

  Simona laughs in the background. “You bring a much-needed dose of humor to this place, Brad.”

  I want to glare at Simona, because I don’t like her putting down our workplace, but I manage to remain calm. I smooth my hands over my thighs, then rise from my chair. “Let’s see what’s taken you all afternoon.”

  “I’m not as fast as Fredrich, and I’m not built
like a tank.”

  “That’s obvious.” I try not to stomp down the stairs.

  “Are you annoyed because I overheard you both of you talking about me?”

  “Can you get it through that skull of yours, we weren’t.” I throw him a stony look, a dangerous thing to do given that we’re walking down the stairs.

  “Didn’t sound like that to me. I’m curious to know how the pair of you ended up discussing my relationship status.”

  We reach the bottom and I head towards the storage room, ignoring him. Everything is neat and clean. The boxes are all lined up perfectly, and there is a whole side of the room that’s empty.

  “Not bad. Almost as good as Fredrich.” I smile smugly at him.

  “Like I said, I’m not built like him. I can only try.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re used to getting your hands dirty.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I stare at his hands. “You have soft hands that look like they haven’t done a day’s work of hard labor.”

  “Lewis, are you hitting on me?”

  “No, Hartley. In which alternate universe would you think I was?”

  He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and flashes me a cheesy grin as if he’s enjoying this immensely and at my expense.

  “You’re admiring my hands, you and Simona are talking about whether I have a girlfriend or not—”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” He’s driving the conversation into uncharted waters. Worse, he seems to enjoy making me feel uncomfortable, and even worse than that, he thinks I’m crushing on him. “What brings you here?” I ask. “Someone like you could go work in the city. You could get a job as a banker or something, because you look the part.”

  “Look the part?” He guffaws, then appears to stumble back, holding his hand to his chest. “Of all the lines I’ve ever heard, Lewis, this is the most unexpected.”

  He has steamrolled this conversation into something that it never was. “It’s not a line. It’s definitely not a line. Hear me say it again, it’s not a line. It’s not even a compliment. It’s merely an observation.”