Me: Hey. I know you’re in a thousand business meetings as always, but need to talk. Not too far from your office. Can I stop by in like an hour?
Graham: Bad day. I have to make a lot of arrangements before we move.
Me: It’s about Chandler. I need help.
Graham. If you can get here in thirty we can talk. Put the coffee down and head over.
He knows me too well.
Me: See you in thirty.
Graham’s secretary is so used to seeing me show up that she doesn’t even ask me if I have an appointment anymore. Not that I’d stop if she told me to, but it helps that she doesn’t. I wave without even looking and then walk right into his office. I know he’s expecting me because his door is open, and his door is never just open.
“I need help,” I tell him.
“Good to see you too. You look tired, I see you took my advice about the coffee.”
“I had to. There’s no way I was making it here otherwise. When’s your next appointment?”
“I don’t have one. My afternoon is clear.”
“Wait, what? You told me I had to rush over here or you couldn’t see me.”
“I know. That wasn’t really the truth. I just wanted to see if you still had the hustle in you that I expect of you. I’ve had assistants—though none as good as you, if I’m being honest—who’ve gotten a little soft and complacent once their bank accounts got filled. Looks like you haven’t fallen into that trap.”
Jesus, I’ve had about enough of all these rich assholes. “Graham, I don’t even really work for you any more, you don’t need to test me like Chandler is doing. Hell, even he doesn’t need to test me like he’s doing. This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“All due respect, Dylan, but you don’t know what men like Chandler and I need to do to be where we are in life. I know to you we just seem like over privileged monsters who don’t appreciate anything, but if you knew the kind of intensity, focus and, yes, even ruthlessness you need to ascend to where we are in the business world—especially in this city—you’d understand a little better. One day, perhaps.”
I’m going to lose my mind. I get what he’s saying, but after the morning I just had, the last thing I need is some life lesson from another grown ass man. But I love Graham, so I’m not going to be rude. He hasn’t just been an employer over the past couple years, he’s been a mentor. He knows I have ambitions of my own, and whenever I’ve had a business question or idea he’s let me run it past him and offered some constructive feedback. I’m just not in the mood to be big-brothered right now.
“Listen, do you know anything about your friend’s business dealings?”
“If you’re referring to Chandler, he’s certainly not my friend. The man is a snake.”
“Didn’t you just lecture me about having to be ruthless? Isn’t being a snake acceptable?”
“It’s a fine line, Dylan, like everything else in life. It’s not black and white, but shades of grey instead. Some things are unethical but not illegal. Some are illegal but not unethical, and some things can’t be measured by that standard at all. But in Chandler’s case, he has no problem going straight to unethical and—if the rumors are true—illegal.”
“What rumors?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I looked on my phone the entire way over here, trying to corroborate some of the things Tomas was telling me. He wants to write an exposé of Chandler’s business practices that he hopes will not only bring about legal action, but also cancel the giant takeover set to bring Chandler untold millions of dollars.
“Have you ever heard the expression data mining?”
“Once or twice.”
“Essentially what it means is that companies take data that’s supposed to be private—everything from the personal information you have to put in when creating a profile on a social media account, to your online browser activity.”
“You mean like websites you visit, online purchases, that kind of thing?”
“Exactly. There are specific rules in place as to what can and can’t be shared with other companies. But some. . . how should I say this. . . less scrupulous businesses will share the information people have with other organizations.”
“Like advertisers?”
“Right. So let’s say a person sets up a profile on Chandler’s social media platform, and then Chandler sells that person’s page likes and browsing history to an advertising company so that that company can target the person as a potential client.”
“I get it. Basically, if I set up an account, and like a bunch of sneaker pages, Chandler could sell my information to a sneaker company and they’ll start emailing me and targeting me with ads. Do I have it right?”
“You do. Now, most companies shield themselves from getting sued by having this all written into the user agreement you need to approve before setting up a profile.”
“The ones that are like twenty pages long that no one ever reads?”
“Exactly. But, from a legal standpoint, the company can cover its ass by at least saying that you signed off on your data being mined to other companies. But, in Chandler’s case, the accusation is that he never put that in the user agreement until very recently, so everyone who’s had a profile before six months ago—basically a majority of the ten million users he has—had their data mined illegally. What he’s worried about is that this will go public and there’ll be some kind of class action lawsuit against him. That would throw a wrench into the acquisition of his company.”
Now I get it. He has his employees—the ones who do all the data mining—sign NDA’s so that they can’t ever run to the cops or a reporter and tell people what the company is doing without opening themselves up to a lawsuit. And that’s what Tomas meant when he said that there were accusations of privacy breaches against him.
“What does this have to do with what Chandler asked of you?” Graham asks. Knowing I can’t tell him everything, I give him a severely abridged version of my tasks. “He asked me to speak to a reporter that has been calling his offices, talk to the woman who caused that scene yesterday,” I pause before admitting the next part, “and talk to his fiancé about going back to him.”
“I see,” Graham says. “Look, I can’t tell you how to play those cards—all I can do is tell you the rules of the game, and then it’s up to you. Chandler is a ruthless man, but he’s also highly intelligent, he pays his people well, and you can make a lot of money working for him. That’s why I put you in contact with him—so that you could make the kind of money you’ve been making with me. Enough to save up for those business ideas you’re always running past me. Assuming you saved your pennies, and if things were to work out with him, you’d have enough capital to explore some of those ventures. You have a good mind for business.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“You’re welcome.” I take a deep breath. This is a lot to process. “So what’s on the Chandler agenda next?”
“Penelope.”
“What about her?”
“I’m taking her to dinner. You know, to convince her to stay with him.” I grin, and Graham reads it right away.
“Be careful, Dylan. And you know what I mean.”
“I’m actually not sure.”
“Don’t give me that,” he says. “I know you too well. You like her, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You’re not taking her to dinner to interrogate her for Chandler. You’re taking her to dinner because you want to. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I hesitate for a second before saying what we both already know. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Listen, I know that Penelope is beautiful—very beautiful, and she happens to be a really great person. I always felt that she was too good for a person like Chandler, but you’re about to go swimming in some shark infested water if you pursue this. Remember what I told you. Remember your mantra.”
The mantra. When Graham first hired me, he told me that, while there were a lot of complexities to this position, there were only
two rules:
Never betray secrets.
Never, under any circumstance, get personally involved.
I’ve never broken either of those, and I never even considered it. But for Penelope, I might just have to do both.
“I remember. Don’t worry about me, I can swim pretty well. If a shark comes up, I’ll punch him in his face. Go worry about your pregnant wife.”
“Why do you think I’m in the office today?”
“Ha. Go home, Graham. I’m going to go see about a girl.”
“Be careful, Dylan. I see that look in your eyes.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
That’s a lie. That’s a terrible, terrible lie.
I leave his office and head back to the co-op. I can’t wait to see Penelope.
13
Dylan
After that exhausting mid-morning, I run home, put out some brush fires at the building, which there are never a shortage of, and then take a quick shower before dinner. My phone is blowing up with texts from Chandler, my grandmother, and Graham. After taking ten minutes for myself I decide to answer them in order of importance from most to least—which means Nonna comes first.
She’s asking if I want to come over for dinner again, and I feel like a total dick for saying no, but I need to see Penelope tonight. When I tell her that I need a raincheck she seems a little sad, but when I tell her it’s because I need to see a woman, she tells me to forget that she even asked me. Nonna is always on me about finding what she calls a ‘nice girl’, and I tell her that I might have actually found one. She doesn’t need to know who that girl is, or why I’m actually seeing her. But I promise to stop by this weekend for some kind of meal.
The more I interact with Chandler the more I already miss my job with Graham. We had a little friction at first, and I didn’t know how to handle his personality, which can be domineering one minute and hilarious the next, but we came to understand one another. It really does suck that they’re moving. His text is just another warning to tread carefully.
The last text, the one I don’t really want to deal with, is Chandler’s. He asks how the meeting went and what I was doing next.
Me: Well. Let’s meet tomorrow to discuss when you have time.
Chandler: Eight AM, sharp. You can brief me. I have twenty minutes in the morning before I have to be at very important meeting regarding the merger.
Me: I’ll be there. How do you like your coffee?
Chandler: Black.
Of course, just you like your heart. And no need to thank me, right?
Me: Great. I’ll have some.
Chandler: What else?
This next part seems awkward for one man to write to another, but then I remind myself how uncomfortable this entire situation is in the first place.
Me: Taking Penelope out to gauge how she’s feeling. I’ll brief you in the morning.
He hesitates before writing back. First, I think he’s pissed, but then being pissed would require him caring, which I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. Actually, he cares, just not about her. She’s just a prop in his game.
Chandler: Good. Make sure you let her know it’s in her best interest to come home. I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down.
Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?
Me: I won’t. See you at eight with a large cup of black coffee.
I put in a laughing emoji at the end, but he doesn’t even write me back. Once I finish all that business, it’s time to see Penelope. I don’t just need to see her because it’s part of the trifecta that Chandler wants me to ‘handle’ as part of my job interview to become his assistant, but I actually want to see her.
I started thinking last night, right before I feel asleep, of the first time I saw her. I came from behind and touched her on the shoulder. I thought about it for maybe ten seconds before I did because, generally speaking, I don’t like touching random women who have just come into the building. I could have just called out a gentle ‘excuse me, miss’, but the truth is that I wanted to put my hands on her then, and I still do now.
When she turned around, we had this moment that I can still remember like it was yesterday—she looked at me and I looked at her, and it felt like time stood still. I know I said something to her right after, but I couldn’t even tell you what that was. All I remember is thinking how hot she was, how my cock was stiffening in my pants almost instantly after seeing her, and how much I wanted to throw her down right there on the lobby floor and do unspeakable things to her.
Now she’s my future boss’ fiancé—at least I think she is. I can’t imagine that the engagement is still on after finding out what she found out, but I’m going to put my insane desire to put my hands all over her body aside, and just try to see where she’s at with everything.
We decided to meet locally—which for us is a few blocks from the hotel she’s staying at and the building her scumbag fiancé is living in. I know the restaurants in this city like the back of my hand, so she left it up to me to pick the place. I choose something casual because I need to gauge how much of the Queens is still in this girl, and how much of this fake rich life has seeped in.
There are a good thirty “Ray’s Pizza’s” in the city, each claiming to be the original, and each with a fairly decent slice, although some are much better than others. Lucky for us, one of the top five—in my opinion—is also the closest to us, so I ask to meet her there. She’s already waiting when I get there.
We make eye contact as I approach. I don’t know why, maybe I’m just jaded by being around demanding, snooty rich people all day, but I expect the first words out of her mouth to be full of shock that I asked to take her out to a pizza place, but that isn’t what she does. She smiles, and once she does my pants feel about three sizes too small. She’s really beautiful, and she has a body that doesn’t seem real. I give it a quick once over when I’m still far enough away to not make it obvious.
“Where have you been? I’m starving.”
That’s my girl. “I’m sorry, traffic.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she jokes. “Excuses, excuses. Let’s go, there’s a long friggin’ line in there and I want my pepperoni slice.”
The test of how much of a down to earth girl she is is now officially over, and she’s passed with flying colors. “Just one?” I ask.
“Hell no,” she says. “I was trying to be all proper. You have to be like that when you live in this world we live in—you know what I mean.”
“I sure do.”
“But since it’s just a couple of kids from the old neighborhood, I’m getting two slices and a soda. I like to eat.”
I think I just fell in love.
After some chit chat in line, we get our slices and grab some of the few outdoor seats they have open. It’s a nice night. The sun is just starting to set, and the air is cool without being cold. The city is abuzz with people, as it always is, but not so many that it’s distracting. Once we take a few bites, the conversation goes where I want it to go.
“So tell me something,” she asks.
“Anything.”
“Careful there, I’ve been known to ask some pointed questions.”
I laugh. “Trust me, I’m an open book. It’s hard to make me uncomfortable.”
“Oh really? Alright, fine, challenge accepted.”
“Wait,” I say. “That wasn’t a. . .”
“Uh-huh, I hear you loud and clear. But back to what I wanted to ask.”
Oh Jesus, what did I just do? “Right, you were going to ask me. . .”
“The odds of the two of us meeting. It seems a little astronomical to me. We should play the lottery or something.”
“Before they died, my dad used to play the lottery every week. I swear if that man had saved the money he used to try to win it big I wouldn’t have to work for guys like Graham, I’d be one of them!” I smile, but not for the reason she thinks. I’m smiling because I like to remember my mom and dad.
“
My parents were the same way. Trust me, rich guys don’t play the lotto—they don’t have those dreams of making it big through a scratch off ticket, they get there on their own.”
“That’s true.”
She puts her food down and looks right at me. I can see the sympathy in her eyes and it’s really touching. Most people just fake that for appearances, but from her I can tell it’s genuine.
“Life fucking sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Yeah it does. But that was a long time ago.”
“Did you grow up in a house?” she asks, changing the subject quickly. I know what she’s getting at—she’s doing to me what I was doing to her before—putting out feelers to see how much of a Queens kid I really am.
“Nope. I’ve never lived in a house my entire life. Grew up in a five-story apartment building not a whole lot bigger than that pizza place inside. You a house girl?”
She giggles. Like, really giggles, to the point of almost spitting out her food. When she looks up, she has the biggest smile ever on her face. “No. I had a friend in middle school who had a house—I went over once and it felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. She had a yard and a fence and everything—three floors! It was nuts. And then I got to go back to where I lived.”
“Which was?”
“A thirty-floor building. Do you know what Section 8 housing is?”
I nod. Section 8 housing is government subsidized housing —the kind you can only get if you’re pretty far below the poverty line. “I do. I had a friend who had to move there after his dad lost his job. You grew up over there?”
“Over there? You make it sound like the wrong side of the tracks.”
I feel like an idiot when she says that. The last thing I’d ever do is make someone feel bad about where they came from—especially considering that I grew up only a step or two above Section 8 housing in the first place. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t. . .”
Secret Keeper Page 7
