“You know you don’t have to,” I tell her for the millionth time. “You can take out student loans like the rest of us.”
“I’d rather not if I don’t have to. I owe enough to other people as it is.”
She’s got a point. She’s had a tough life and has seen tragedy that left more and more debt on her tab, and student loans are tough enough without all the other stuff in her life.
And even though she always turns me down, I have to offer once again, just on the off-chance she’ll say yes this time. “Still, if you need anything . . . I mean, I’ve said it before, but you can always come live with me. I’ve got room at my place.”
Izzy snorts, finally cracking a smile. “You mean you want someone to stay up with you until two in the morning on weekends playing video games.”
Before I can elbow her in the side, the bell above the door rings and in walks the third member of our little party patrol, Charlotte Dunn. A stunning girl who turns heads everywhere she goes with her long, naturally bright and beautiful red hair, she slides into the booth opposite Izzy and me, looking exhausted herself.
She settles in, sighing heavily, and Izzy looks over at her. “Tough morning for you too?”
“I think walking in the back and sticking my head in a vat of hot oil might just be preferable to working reception on the ground floor of Satan’s Skyscraper,” she jokes. “It’s not like anything bad happened either.”
“So what’s the deal?” I ask, and Charlotte shakes her head. “What?”
“I guess it’s just that everyone there walks like they’ve got a hundred-pound albatross on their back as they come in. No smiles, no greetings, even though I try. It’s just depressing,” she replies. “You got lucky, landing in the shining palace.”
“Girl, please. I work all by my lonesome in the deep, dark dungeon of a basement,” I point out.
Charlotte snorts. “But that’s how you like it!”
She’s not wrong, so I don’t bother arguing, instead teasingly gloating, “And I get to wear whatever and work however the hell I please.”
Our waitress, one of Izzy’s co-workers, comes over with her order pad. “So, what can I get you ladies?”
“Something with no onions or spice,” Izzy replies, groaning. “Maybe Henry can whip up a grilled cheese for me?”
“Deal. And for you ladies?”
We place our orders, and the three of us lean back, relaxing. Charlotte looks me over enviously again, shaking her head. “Seriously, Mia, can’t get over the outfit today. You trying to show off the curves?”
“What curves?” I ask, looking down at today’s band T-shirt. It’s just a BTS logo, twin columns rising on a black shirt.
“Hey, you’re rockin’ it.” Charlotte laughs. “It fits the girls just right.”
I roll my eyes. Charlotte always seems to see something in me that I don’t. Men don’t seem to find me interesting. Or at least, the men I find interesting don’t find me interesting.
Deflecting back to her, I ask, “How’re things looking for you? That guy in Accounting ever come back downstairs to get your number?”
Charlotte snorts. “Nope. I saw him the other day, but it’s okay. It’s his loss.”
She does a little hair flip and I can’t help but smile. She hasn’t always had the best luck with guys, but she never gives up and always keeps a positive attitude about the whole dating game. Her motto is ‘No Mr. Wrongs, only Mr. Rights and Mr. Right-Nows.’ Maybe not the classiest, but a girl’s got needs, and sometimes it’s nice to have an orgasm from a guy not named B.O.B.
We eat our lunches, chatting and gossiping and bullshitting as always. It’s never a big to-do since we share lunch together at least once a week, if not more, but it’s still nice to catch up. Izzy and I have been friends for so long, and Charlotte and I met in college. They’re important to me.
“So, when do classes start up again, Izz?” Charlotte asks. “So you can, I don’t know, get some sleep and not have fallen arches?”
Izzy snorts. “Too soon, I think. But if I can string together another two semesters—”
“Wait, two?” I ask in shock. “Honey, you’re like the super-duper-ooper senior at this point. Seriously, some of the professors are probably younger than you by now.”
“Hey, we’re the same age!” Izzy protests, but shrugs. “You know, I had a freshman ask me if I was a TA the other day?”
“Ouch, that had to hurt,” Charlotte says. “What did you say?”
“I pointed him in the direction of the student union and turned him down when he asked for my number. Seriously, I’m not sure if he even needed to shave yet. I don’t have time to teach eighteen-year-old man-boys what and where a clit is!”
Charlotte and I laugh, and I punch her in the shoulder. “You’ll get there in your own time, girl. But still, why the wait?”
“Mostly the internship,” Izzy admits. “I can juggle classes and work, or internship and work, but I can’t do classes, internship, and work. There’s just not enough hours in the day.”
I nod, understanding that Izzy has plans and dreams. But unlike most, she’s willing to sacrifice and work hard to reach hers.
We shift topics, like we always do, until we’ve covered all the usual topics and my tummy feels pleasantly happy without risk of an afternoon food coma.
Wiping our mouths with our napkins, I glance at my phone, checking the time. “So, Char . . . rock, paper, scissors?”
“Nope, this one’s mine!” Charlotte says, giggling as I lean into Izzy, preventing her from moving as Charlotte grabs the check and runs up to the counter.
“Hey! Hey, dammit!” Izzy protests. “I—”
“Should be quiet and let your friends pay for lunch for once,” I whisper. “Or else I’ll use my secret Russian pressure point skills on you!”
“Oh, fine, since you put it that way!”
Charlotte comes back, and she smiles at Izzy. “Chill, Izz. You bust your ass, and you’ve snuck us an extra pickle more than once. You’re allowed to let me buy you lunch every now and then.”
“We could all use some more pickle.” Izzy chuckles. “Seriously, at this point, I’d settle for a one-nighter. No commitment, no issues, just a good old-fashioned hookup. As long he’s well into his twenties, at least,” she says with an eye roll.
“Mr. Right Now?” Charlotte asks, and Izzy nods. “Hmph. You find him, send him my way. I keep finding good guys . . . two months after they’ve met the girl of their dreams. Only single men I find are dogs.”
“You’ve just gotta make sure you give them a fake number and a flea dip, and enjoy the weekend,” I tease, though she knows I would never do anything of the sort.
“I’m lonely, but I’ve got rechargeable batteries.”
We all laugh, and my phone rings. I pull it out, checking the screen. “Shit, girls, it’s my boss. Says he’s got a rush job for me to complete.”
“How’s he working out, anyway?” Charlotte asks as I finish my drink quickly. “And have you started working for The Golden Child yet?”
“Nope, I’ve never seen him except for the publicity stuff,” I reply honestly. “He’s the penthouse. I’m the basement. Twenty-four floors in between us. Anyway, I gotta jet, so I’ll talk to you girls soon, okay?”
“Yup . . . I’m going to relax for this next ten minutes before I need to clock back in myself,” Izzy says, stretching out. “Gimme a call later?”
I nod, blowing them a kiss, and head back to work.
Thomas
Looking out over Roseboro, I feel like I’m looking over my empire.
Of course, I’m joking . . . but maybe not so much.
Twenty-five years ago, this town was just a suburb of a suburb of Portland. Though it was already up and coming, I’d like to think that over the past six years I’ve added my fair share to this place.
I’d finished my MBA at Stanford and set up shop in the growing town, watching the landscape change and cultivating the business interests
that serve me best. Because I haven’t just watched. I’ve worked my ass off to get Goldstone where it is today.
Still, I made sure to keep the competition in sight, literally.
My office faces the Blackwell Building, a one-mile gap separating the two tallest buildings in the city. It helps me keep things in perspective. I came to town because I saw potential, even if Blackwell had already created something big here.
But this place is too fertile for him to fully take advantage of. A rose that, if tended right, can provide more blossoms than any one man could utilize.
I watch the morning sun hit the black tower. I’ll give Blackwell grudging respect. His design might be morbid, but it’s also cutting-edge. All that black is absorbing the solar energy and using it for electricity and heating. The man was environmental before environmental was actually cool.
Too bad you’ll never be that. You’re just a wannabe, another young upstart who’ll never stand the test of time.
I growl, pushing away the voice from inside me, even though I know it’ll be back. It never really goes away, not for long. No matter how much I achieve, that voice of insecurity still resides in my center, ready to cast doubt and shadows on each success.
The soft ding from my computer reminds me that my ten minutes of morning meditation are over, and I turn back around, looking at my desk and office. It’s nothing lavish. I designed this space for maximum efficiency and productivity.
So my Herman Miller chair is not in my office for lapped luxury, or for its black and chrome styling, but for the fact that it’s rated the best chair for productivity. Same with my desk, my computer, everything.
Everything is tuned toward efficient use of my time and my efforts.
I launch into it, going through my morning assignments, answering the emails that my secretary, Kerry, cannot answer for me, and making a flurry of decisions on projects that Goldstone is working on.
Finally, just as the clock on my third screen beeps one o’clock, I send off my final message and stand up. Locking my computer, I transfer everything to my server upstairs in case I need it.
I see Kerry sitting at her desk as I leave my office. She’s well-dressed as usual, her sunkissed skin and black hair gleaming mellowly under the office lighting, the perfect epitome of a professional executive assistant. While she works for me, she has this older sibling protective instinct. It’s not often that I need it, but I appreciate her looking out for me.
“Need something, Mr. Goldstone?” she asks.
“Just headed upstairs,” I tell her.
“Of course,” she replies, her eyes cutting to her computer screen. “Just a reminder, sir, the governor will be hosting his charity event tonight at seven. I’ve already had your tuxedo dry-cleaned, and your car detailer called. Your car will be ready and downstairs by three this afternoon.”
I give her a nod. Three’s plenty of time. “I just sent you a list of other projects to work on, by the way.”
“Of course, Mr. Goldstone. I was looking that over, and I got an email from Hank also, the team leader you assigned the Taiwan shipping contract to. He said that he’s going to have to take a day off Friday, sir. His daughter’s going to college this year, and he promised her that he’d drive her up so she can get settled into the dorm.”
I stop, pursing my lips. “What is her name?”
Kerry taps her desk for a moment, searching her memory. “Erica, sir.”
“Tell Hank that I understand and wish Erica the best, but if he isn’t at work on Friday, don’t bother coming in on Monday.”
My tone has grown serious, and Kerry’s eyes tighten, but she knows Hank is crossing a line. He should’ve given notice, especially when he’s working a contract this important.
He’s usually a good employee. But he knew his daughter was starting classes. No excuse for that.
No excuse for you, you mean. Failure just drips down from the boss’s office down to Hank, that’s all.
Leaving the twenty-fifth floor of the Goldstone building, I take the stairs up a level to stretch my legs. Not many people even know about this floor other than the executives. To everyone else, the Goldstone Building has twenty-five floors.
The twenty-sixth is mine. It’s my penthouse, and while it isn’t quite as large as the other floors, it’s still six thousand square feet of space that’s just for me.
I strip off my dress shirt, tie, and slacks, depositing everything in the laundry chute before pulling on my workout clothes.
Today’s upper body day, and as I go into my home gym, I swing my arms to loosen up my shoulders. They’re going to be punished today. Starting with bench presses, I assault my body, pushing myself to press the bar one more time, to get the fucking dumbbells up despite the pain, despite gravity kicking my ass.
Just like everything kicks your ass.
The finisher for today is brutal, even for me. The 300 . . . 100 burpees, 100 dips, and 100 pullups, in sets of ten, nonstop. By the time I’m finished, sweat pools on the rubberized gym flooring beneath me.
I have to force myself to my feet because I refuse to be broken by anything, even something as meaningless as a workout that’s supposed to do exactly that.
Instead, I jump in for a quick shower and meditate for twenty minutes after. I need to focus because running Goldstone is a mental exercise.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to push all the responsibilities away, to let it all fade into the background.
I push away the flashbacks, the voice in my head, the memories that threaten from time to time, and imagine my perfect world . . . my empire. My perfect Roseboro, deep red petals soft as velvet and eternally blooming, ready to be passed from my generation to the next for tending and care.
I know I can do it.
I must do it.
Changing into my tuxedo, I head downstairs to the freshly cleaned limo waiting to take me to this event. The Roseboro Civic Library is one of the newest public buildings in town, a beautiful hundred-thousand-square-foot building in three wings over two floors. The central wing is named for Horatio Roseboro, who founded the city in memory of his daughter, who died on the Oregon Trail, while the other two wings are named for the main benefactors . . . Goldstone and Blackwell. My only request was that the Goldstone wing contain the children’s section, and they were more than willing to do that.
Tonight, though, it’s the scene for a fundraiser for the governor’s favorite charity. Governor Gary Langlee tends to ignore Roseboro most of the time—we’re not his voter base—but when it comes time to get money, he’ll go just about anywhere he can if someone will cross his palm with a little bit of green.
I arrive at just the right time, ten minutes before seven, in order to get the best of the press. I tolerate the leeches more than like them, but I do understand that the fourth estate has a purpose and a job to do.
And there are legit journalists who I respect. It’s just the paparazzi and empty talking heads that I despise.
So I smile for the cameras, giving a little wave and shaking hands with our local state representative before heading into the foyer, where the party has already started.
“Ah, Thomas!” the mayor says, greeting me in that hearty way that really endears him to the locals. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“You know me, never pass up a chance to press the flesh,” I reply, making him laugh. He knows I’m lying but thinks that I’m only here because of the press and good PR that Goldstone will get for tonight.
The reality is far different. While Governor Langlee and I might not see eye to eye on most public policies, I actually agree with the goals of tonight’s event.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself,” the mayor says after a moment when I don’t follow up.
Clearing his throat, he looks around. “If you don’t mind telling me, Thomas, there’s a rumor around town that Goldstone is looking into building a sea transportation hub in Roseboro. I’m not saying I wouldn’t appreciate it, but if you are, I happe
n to know a man who’s got about seven hundred and fifty acres just outside of town. It’s county land, but I’m sure we could work something out.”
That’s the mayor . . . a good ol’ boy to the voters, a sneaky dealmaker to those with money. The man would sell his grandmother’s grave if it’d make him a buck.
Oh, like you’ve been such a good son.
“If we do move on such a project, I’ll be sure to keep City Hall informed,” I tell him with a smile that turns just a little predatory at the end. “But of course, I would do my due diligence on the property. No use wasting my money when it could be spent on a proper seaport instead of along the Columbia?”
The mayor blanches just a little, which is what I want. A tiny reminder that while he may hold office, I hold the funds that make this city thrive or fail. Or at least a large share of the finances that do so.
Leaving him, I do my best to ‘mingle’. I know the faces. I’ve seen it all before.
A pat on the back here for a friend.
A backhanded compliment for the enemy whom you can’t quite man up and call out in public. The icy stare from across the room at those whose families have somehow found the time to engage in feuds despite not having the time to make a difference in the world.
It’s all old hat, and while some might find it interesting, I just tolerate it to get my goal here tonight done.
Finally, at nine o’clock, I can’t do it any longer. I retreat to the children’s section, which is relatively quiet in comparison, and I look over the newest books on the display.
“You know, I’m not too sure if Long Way Down really belongs in the children’s section,” a throaty voice says behind me, and I turn to see Meghan Langlee, Governor Langlee’s daughter.
She’s wearing a Chanel cocktail dress that fits her like a glove, highlighting a very fit body and a camera grabbing face. A former beauty queen like her mother, Meghan’s parlayed her looks into a budding career as a political pundit.
“Actually, I personally insisted on it,” I reply, turning away from her and looking at the books again. “While the subject matter might be a little dark and violent, the days of young people growing up needing little more than The Andy Griffith Show and reading Judy Blume are pretty much over.”
Rough Edge Page 31
