It’s not the response he wanted, so he walks off with his panties in a bunch.
What is this? Amateur half hour? No wonder the country is going to Hell in a handbasket.
By the time I’m back in my room, I have a cozy twenty-five minutes to write a postcard for Lilly and get something to eat before I drive the boss to a public debate on genetically modified farming. The boss isn’t interested in being media-friendly, but Pam encouraged him to go, and since this really is something he’s passionate about, they worked with the schedule. She also pointed out that the Agriculture Division at UVM needs all the help they can get. The boss agreed—eventually.
It’s a complete contrast to the meeting I just had. The public talk is at the International Food Policy Research Institute. Security is minimal, and it’s gigs like this that worry me the most. The security team is made up of students, supervised by an ex-cop who’s ready to retire. He knows what he’s doing, but his guys haven’t had extensive training. They do quick searches of purses and bags as the audience enters, but it’s not a ticketed event, so there’s no way of knowing who’s attending. Sure, there are metal detectors, but otherwise, the place is wide open.
I’ve learned that genetically modified agriculture is a touchy subject and it would be easy for some crazed fanatic to enter the building. I keep very close tabs on Anderson, minimizing his contact with the great unwashed.
There are three chairs on the stage at the front of the hall: one for the boss; one for the Chairwoman, some college type; and one for the opposing speaker, a hippy chick with blue hair and tits that reach her knees. She really shouldn’t have burned her bra.
She’s been staring at the boss since he shook hands with her.
Yeah, he’s a good-looking bastard, although he barely knows she exists. But his old fashioned manners and natural reserve are rubbing her the wrong way, and I see the light of battle in her eyes.
The Chairwoman invites Moonbeam Herbaceous or whatever the fuck her name is to speak first. She rambles on and keeps looking at her notes, but states her points against genetically modified agriculture eventually: environmental risk; we don’t know enough about the long-term effects, a.k.a. “remember when cigarettes were supposed to be good for you?”; big business is bad for small farmers; and finishes up with a rather trite, ‘nature knows best’ argument. Yeah? Is that why whitefly and lack of rain decimated crops in India in 2015, and 2,500 farmers committed suicide?
All facts I’ve learned since working for Anderson. I attend a lot of meetings and just ‘cause I blend with the wallpaper, it doesn’t mean that I’m nodding off. I listen. I lurk. And guess what? I learn stuff.
The boss stands and eyeballs his audience, connecting with every person in the room before he opens his mouth. The anticipation is killing them. They don’t know what to expect from Mr. GQ in his shiny shoes and Armani suit. Half of them want to hate him, but they can’t.
“I know what it is to live without hope.”
I’m more than a little surprised by his opening words. I hadn’t expected anything so personal. Nor had anyone else in the room.
The flower child has her mouth open and is watching with rapt attention.
“There are seven billion people in the world today. By 2050, it will be nine billion. Food production needs to double, but the amount of farmland is shrinking year after year. Genetically modified crops are the only way to meet that need.
“My company, DMA Solutions, ensures that we work with farmers in both developed and developing countries.
“Stronger crops mean fewer pesticides, not more. Introducing genetically modified soybean and corn into the U.S. has reduced the use of pesticides by ten million gallons in the last decade. Not only can we make food healthier, we can improve the taste as well. For example, increasing the antioxidants in tomatoes that we know help prevent cancer and heart disease.”
Anderson winds up his speech and sits down.
The environmentalist chick is speechless. For some reason it didn’t occur to her that the billionaire businessman might actually know his ass from a hole in the ground.
THE NEXT MORNING, we’re pounding the streets of Georgetown, and following the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Towpath. The air is crisp and fresh, and Fall is right around the corner.
A few people are out rowing, and I wonder if the boss feels nostalgic. Nah, he doesn’t seem the type. If he was, then it would be his private college kissing his ass for research money, not the Agri Division at UVM.
Or maybe he just doesn’t like being predictable.
He never talks while we run. I used to think he was pretending that I wasn’t there, but that’s not it; it’s his time to let his mind roam free, his thinking, planning and plotting time, his other meditation. I get that. All those post-exercise, happy endorphins. Must be why he’s such a relaxed, easy-going guy.
We’re back at the Four Seasons before most people have enjoyed their first piss of the day, then looking all spiffy in our snazzy suits, we head off to meet the Wizard.
Anderson is scowling the whole way, irritated that the President of the United States is taking up so much of his precious time.
And you know what, I kind of dig that about Anderson.
Once we arrive at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he puts on his game face.
The security guys I met yesterday aren’t making any jokes today, but if looks could kill, my ego might be slightly bruised. Nah, probably not.
Even as guests of the Prez, we still have to go through metal detectors like everyone else, and weapon and ammunition is checked in with the Whitehouse security. I don’t take it personally: even Capitol Police are required to check their weapons when visiting the WH.
Anderson strides into the White House radiating latent power and carefully controlled energy. He’s in CEO mode. I’ve seen it before: he can turn it on and off like a damn light switch. I guess it’s what us lesser mortals call charisma.
Anderson shakes hands and almost smiles for the Prez’s official photographer. It’s over quickly.
I’m not allowed into the meeting, so I can’t tell you what Anderson and the President discussed.
Instead, I’m invited for a cozy coffee with the G-men. Aw.
In reality, they escort me to a shabby break room, point me to a coffee machine and either ignore me, or give me blank stares while I search without luck for a donut.
Anderson doesn’t seem to enjoy his meeting any more than I have.
All I do know is that once we’re back in the hotel, he mutters ‘waste of fucking time’ in a stream of foul language that is almost impressive, and orders his jet to be ready as soon as we can get to the airport.
It’s anticlimactic, and I didn’t even get to check out the yak hair rug. At least the Prez tweeted the photo of him and Anderson.
I’m surprised when the boss tells me that his therapist will be flying back with us. Apparently he was in D.C. for some symposium, and he’s hitching a ride in style.
I’ve never spoken to the chief headshrinker, although I’ve escorted Anderson to his office every week since I started working for him. I do know that the sessions can be hard, because sometimes Anderson comes out looking like he wants to shoot someone, and sometimes more quiet and thoughtful than usual. Occasionally, he’s calmer. I never know what I’ll get, and I’ll bet the doc doesn’t either.
I escort him on board, intrigued to see how he interacts with the boss.
I’m disappointed that he looks normal. I was hoping for a hang-out hippie with a soul-patch, love beads and maybe a tat with pictures from the Kama Sutra. It would have been fun fucking with him. But this dude is wearing a three-piece suit and I’m already bored.
“Good morning, Devon. How was your meeting with our esteemed President?”
“A PR exercise. He wasn’t interested in hearing about the strides made at UVM. So I told him about our solar powered comms technology and cell phones, and I think he confused me with Evan Spiegel.”
“The
likeness is striking,” the therapist says with a straight face.
“I don’t wear Chucks.”
Holy shit! I think the boss just made a joke!
The therapist glances up at me, one eyebrow raised.
“I look forward to seeing more photographs on Twitter,” he says.
The boss grunts and opens his laptop. Conversation over.
When it looks like the shrink might start talking to me, I move to the back of the jet, plug in my earbuds and open a book.
I’ve got nothing against him, and he seems like a decent guy, but I’m not letting any shrink dick around with my brain ever again. There are some things that I don’t think about for a reason. Call me repressed, but talking about my fucking feelings isn’t going to help me, isn’t going to stop me remembering what I’ve done on half-a-dozen different deployments. You can’t un-see Hell.
I had a shrink ask me once where I felt safest. I think he wanted me to talk about going hiking in the hills, or swimming with dolphins, talking to turtles, I don’t know; but he wasn’t happy when I said, ‘Behind a set of gun sites with a weapon in my hand.’
You can’t fix shit. You just learn to move on.
The best therapy is in Rachel’s bed, and I can’t wait to get back to it.
When I spoke to Rachel earlier, she mentioned that she’d got me a gift. I made the mistake of reading out her horoscope in the newspaper last week because it said Venus was in Uranus and romance was in the air or some shit. Then she asked what my star sign was and I admitted that it’s Scorpio—you know, passionate, assertive, determined, the jealous type.
So we’re celebrating my birthday when I get home. Thirty-three. That’s fucking middle-aged.
At least I wasn’t born on Halloween, whatever my ex-wife says.
WE’RE IN THE car and I’m heading for Manhattan when the boss throws one of his curveballs.
“Trainer, I’m going to the Farm.”
“Now, sir?”
He scowls, hating to repeat himself.
Gritting my teeth, I head away from Wolf Point.
I’m growing to seriously dislike these visits. Even with the new security Mason installed, it’s a scandal waiting to happen. Hell, with the number of guests he has up there, it’s a small miracle that Perez Hilton isn’t camped out in the front yard.
Unfortunately, Van Sant shows his ugly face the moment we arrive. He’s kissing the boss’s ass like a pro. How the fuck can Anderson stand it? He doesn’t normally surround himself with yes men, so why here? Why now?
Or is Anderson is playing the long game?
THIRTY-TWO LONG and miserable hours later, I finally walk into our living room at Wolf Point.
Rachel is stretched out on the sofa, deeply asleep. Something inside my chest, something buried deep—it tells me that this is my end-game. Everything I’ve been through is to earn the right to a moment of peace with this woman.
She wakes slowly, her eyelids fluttering as I sit silently on the sofa, stroking her soft hair.
“Oh, Justin! You’re home! I was waiting up and…”
My lips settle across hers as I drink in her words. When I finally pull away, her skin is flushed and she’s smiling.
“You look tired,” she says gently, brushing her finger under the dark shadows that ring my eyes.
“Been a long week. Missed you, babe.”
“I missed you, too. Do you want your gift now?”
“Best gift is you,” I mumble, my eyes drifting closed as she leans against me, her soft warmth soothing.
“Tomorrow then,” she says sweetly.
I shake myself awake and sit up straight.
“No, I don’t want to wait any longer. It’s been a shit birthday, but seeing you makes it better.”
My hands reach for her but she slides out of reach and digs around inside her purse. It’s huge—whole constellations could exist inside there—but I do enjoy seeing her ass stuck up in the air as she peers inside.
She returns to the sofa with two packages: one flat, one a box, both small and both giftwrapped.
“Two gifts?!”
“Well, there is a third, but you’ll have to wait till later,” she winks at me.
I’m tempted to go for gift number three now, but she’s gone to all this effort. I pull the wrapping off the small box and find a pair of monogrammed gold cufflinks.
“Someone who looks as handsome as you do in a suit should have their own engraved cufflinks,” she smiles.
They’re 18 carat gold and must have cost her a packet. I can’t believe she’s done this for me. I try to find the words, but I can’t find the right ones.
“Aw, I love them, baby. I’ll wear them tomorrow.”
Then I open the second package and find a gift card for the Museum of Natural History. I’m a little puzzled when I see it’s for A Night at the Museum, a sleepover for kids and parents—and there are two tickets.
“I … well, you said you wanted to take Lilly camping but she doesn’t like sleeping outdoors, so … I thought this would be a fun thing to do for you both…”
Her words trail off when I don’t speak, but honestly, I don’t think I can. I’m so fucking touched that she’d do something so thoughtful for me.
“If you don’t think Lilly would like it, I’m sure I could exchange…”
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing deeply, breathing in the scent of Rachel.
“I love it. I fucking love it. Thank you.”
And when I kiss her, I can feel her smile.
Chapter 16
Talking Turkey
HALLOWEEN IS OVER and I’m a thirty-three year old CP officer working for a twisted bastard and wondering what the next decade will be like.
After stunning me with her gifts, Rachel threw me a birthday party for two, which ended up with her losing her underwear and me eating the cake she made for me off of her tits, so I score that as a win all around.
But now it’s the holidays, and that puts me in a shitty mood.
The boss is going to his parents for Thanksgiving which will be interesting. I’d hoped to get some time off and go see Lilly, but my Princess is going away to see the coven leader, a.k.a. my ex-monster-in-law, and I’m not wanted.
Rachel will be going to her sister’s as usual, so I think I’ll catch up with some of my Marine buddies. I know a couple of them will be in NYC. Drinking beer, watching football, eating greasy burgers, it all sounds good to me. A little slice of normalcy. Fuck knows I could do with it.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I’m laying on the sofa with my head in Rachel’s lap, half asleep after a long-ass day that started before dawn, and she’s watching some chick flick. Her hands are stroking my short hair, and it’s so relaxing, I’m almost in a coma.
When her phone rings, I want to throw it across the room.
Rachel huffs out a sigh of annoyance.
“It’s my sister.”
I try not to look too pissed, but I guess I failed because Rachel gives me an exasperated look.
It’s not that I don’t like her sister, I’ve never even met her, but she does seem to have an uncanny knack of interrupting the few free hours we have. And when I say ‘interrupting’, I mean cock-blocking.
Rachel takes the call and they chat away about crap like knitting yogurt or whatever.
“Okay, Allison, I’ll let you know. Thanks for asking us.”
My ears prick up at that last word.
Rachel is frowning slightly as she looks at me. I force myself into a sitting position and rub my eyes, yawning.
“What’s up, baby?”
“Allison has invited us to spend Thanksgiving with her, Bill and the girls.”
Now it’s my turn to frown.
“ ‘Us’ as in you and me?”
Rachel smiles tentatively.
“Well, yes. That’s what it usually means. What do you think? Would you like to?”
I realize this is one of those ‘next step’
moments you come across in relationships; that moment when it’s a case of move things forward … or not. I can’t say the idea of spending time with Rachel’s sister thrills me.
Rachel hasn’t said anything—it’s probably what she doesn’t say—but I get the distinct impression that Allison doesn’t approve of me. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit, but Rachel is special, really special, and I don’t want to risk losing her.
I admit defeat: whatever happens, it’s a lose-lose situation.
“Sure, baby, why wouldn’t I?”
She raises her eyebrows in a way that tells me she’s not buying my brand of bullshit. That woman can read me like a book: either that or she saw me shudder with horror at the whole Thanksgiving-ritual-slaughter-holiday—and I’m not just talking turkey.
“Well, I thought you might want to see Lilly.”
Yeah, I really would like to see my daughter.
“She’ll be with her mother and grandmother in Salem.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Justin. I know you miss her.”
I don’t like talking about that because it makes me want to break something. Only kidding. But I wouldn’t mind smashing the shit out of that ugly wedding china her family gave us.
I realize that Rachel is still looking at me.
“It’s cool. I’ll see Lilly after they’re back.”
Unless my ex- changes her mind, which is pretty damn likely since the personality implant didn’t work.
“What about Mr. Anderson? Will he give you the time off?”
“Yeah. He told me today that he’s planning to spend time with his parents in Scarsdale.”
“Really? For the whole weekend?”
I seriously doubt that. The guy is chained to his laptop, and I strongly suspect he won’t want to spend more than one night at his folks’ place.
“Probably not, but he said he didn’t need me. I think he’s just planning on working…”
Rachel shakes her head and sighs.
“Such a shame.”
I know what she’s referring to, but even though he’s a fucked-up bastard, he’s got more than most thirty year olds could ever dream of. Yeah, I know, and a lot less, too.
“So, do you feel ready to meet my family?” She pauses and looks away. “You don’t have to, Justin. I’d understand.”
Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 17
