Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  When I step on the elevator, though, Naveed is waiting there. I almost trip over my own two feet at the sight of him because his hands are shoved in the front pockets of his designer suit-pants and he’s looking at me like he just discovered the combination to my Hello Kitty diary and read the damn thing from cover to cover.

  It’s not like I can turn around and run away, so I continue walking forward until I’m standing in the back of the car and he’s shifted his way through the other occupants to stand beside me.

  “Well, hello there, Miss Peach.”

  I take a sip of my coffee and paste on a bright smile. “Hey, Naveed. How was your weekend? Sorry I couldn’t do drinks Saturday.” I was nailing my secret boyfriend and watching him finish a bench that would pay my rent for six months.

  I can feel his eyes on me when I stare ahead at the tag sticking out from a woman’s jacket in front of me.

  “That’s all right. What were you up to?”

  My upper lip begins to sweat. Why do they allow so many people on one elevator?

  “Oh, you know, just a little sightseeing.” Not a lie.

  “I heard as much.” He raises a hand to prop a finger on his chin and I stop breathing. “A little birdie told me you were standing on the sidewalk outside MoMA stuffing your maw with a hotdog and holding the hand of a giant brute whose description bore an uncanny resemblance to a broody blacksmith we both know.”

  My vision turns white and I grab the stainless-steel wall for balance, barely holding onto my coffee cup.

  “Hey.” Naveed wraps his hand around my arm. “Are you okay?”

  I nod but the dizziness only gets worse.

  Naveed gets behind me and grabs both my arms. “Move it, people. Low blood sugar emergency.” The doors part on a random floor and he leads me out before grabbing the cup from my hand and tossing it into a trash can.

  “Hey! That’s mine,” I complain in a disembodied voice.

  “Coffee doesn’t go well with wool.” He continues steering me to a black sofa in a lobby I don’t recognize and then gently pushes me into the seat.

  “Here.” He shoves a water bottle in my hand and I drink from it greedily until it’s empty.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I nod and look down at my lap. I have no idea what to say to him.

  “You have the worst poker face of anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.” He sits next to me and shoves my knees over. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’ve been keeping this Angus McKinley thing a secret from me all this time?”

  “Uh…” I look over at him and test the waters. “No?”

  His mouth tightens and I get an angry Kardashian vibe. I try throwing one right back at him.

  “Are you going to tell me who this little birdie is?”

  “Tweet.” He deadpans.

  Well, at least that eliminates the threat of it being someone else at the magazine who knows my sweaty blacksmith secret. Someone like Jenna freaking Baylor.

  Naveed is still giving me the scowl and I sigh.

  “I wanted to. I swear I was going to, Naveed. It’s just… complicated.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Name something that’s not.”

  “Mac and cheese.”

  “Enough with the mac and cheese, woman. Just accept the fact that New Yorkers are going to complicate the shit out of everything and move the hell on!”

  “Okay, okay.” I cross my arms in front of me, no longer sweating or seeing stars. “Yes, I’m seeing Mac—Angus—and I didn’t want to tell anybody because you know how people talk and you know half of this Warbey crew has had it out for me from day one. I wasn’t about to offer up any more fodder.”

  Naveed ditches his devil-may-care persona for a second and drops his voice. “But you could have told me.”

  My heart sinks and I feel like absolute shit. I reach a hand out and squeeze his arm. “I know. I’m so sorry. I guess I just got so caught up in wanting to make this new career all on my own that I pulled into myself a little too much. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was behaving inappropriately. Even you.”

  “Pop-Tart, my middle name is Inappropriate.”

  I nod at him and grin a little. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “And consider my lips sealed.” He mimics zippering his lips and turning a key. “Now, tell me everything!”

  I shove him in the shoulder. “I thought your lips were sealed!”

  He just shrugs and gives me the dimple. So, of course, I share the good stuff.

  Twenty minutes later, he’s got stars in his eyes and I’m late for work.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go rip Jenna Baylor a new one in an entirely professional manner that lets her know I mean business but won’t hesitate to slash her tires if she doesn’t cut this shit out.”

  Naveed stands and pulls me up with him. “That’s a tall order, but I have faith in you.”

  “Thanks, Naveed.”

  Thirty

  “The world can be a cruel place. That’s why God invented sweet tea.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  After I drop Naveed off on his floor, I decide since I’m already late I may as well go back down and get another coffee. I’ll need the caffeine for my planned come-to-Jesus meeting with Jenna. She sent another group email yesterday and I’m done with her.

  There’s a long line now, though, and I’m trying to decide exactly how badly I need the caffeine when a familiar head of honey hair drifts into my peripheral vision.

  I decide to abandon the coffee and flag down Elle who’s just coming in the front door of the building.

  “Elle, hey!” She’s never visited me at work before, but it’s a nice surprise.

  She does a double take and I expect her face to brighten with her usual smile, but her expression is an odd mix of determination and… exasperation. Huh?

  I slow my steps as I approach. “What’s the matter?”

  She looks from me to the elevator and back again before sighing and signaling for me to step with her to the side where an empty shoeshine stand and a row of large potted plants line the lobby wall.

  When she still doesn’t say anything, I grab her arm. “You’re worrying me.”

  She straightens to her full height in her gorgeous steel-gray and ivory dress and brushes my hand off. As soon as her eyes reach mine I know it’s bad. The humor and warmth I’ve become accustomed to over the past few weeks since New Jersey has been replaced by a bitter cold. As has her voice.

  “I suppose it’s best I ran into you first.”

  I don’t respond but just let her clipped tone hit me and try not to wince.

  “The inaugural issue of Work Home Life magazine is running concurrent articles on Angus. The newest one is a human-interest piece on how he overcame his tumultuous background and his ties to the alleged criminal activities of one of Boston’s richest families.”

  My mouth hangs open and, for the second time in the last hour, I grab onto something to keep myself upright—this time it’s one of the giant pots to the side of us.

  “No.” My head shakes back and forth. “They can’t do that. They wouldn’t do that.” I blink a few times, willing my brain to snap out of it. “Elle, we have to stop… whoever is doing this.”

  She sighs. “We don’t have to stop anything.” She shifts her weight to one hip. “Look, Poppy, anything Angus told you is on the record. He signed a contract allowing you to print anything he volunteered.”

  She must have eaten a bad salad or something. “But he didn’t. The answers he gave hardly even fill half a page and none of it is about his family,” I remind her.

  She smiles a sickly half-smile that has me wondering if I’m hallucinating. “Ah, but that was just in the first interview.”

  What is she talking about?

  She unzips her purse and pulls out her phone, running her thumb over the screen.


  “Not that it wasn’t infuriatingly tedious waiting for you to pull the whole sordid tale out of him. I teed it up so thoroughly for you, how it took you so long, I have no idea.” She shakes her head in disbelief.

  “Hell, I had to resort to working the celebrity connection with that insipid starlet while you got your shit together. And that was no easy task, let me tell you. It did bring a nice uptick in sales, but I knew it wouldn’t last without Mac playing ball like a good boy. I’m just happy we wrapped this up before I had to take you line dancing or something similarly gauche.” Her words come out in a disdainful twist and she looks at me like I just suggested we grab lunch out back at the dumpsters. My confusion is obviously plastered all over my face.

  “I admit I was annoyed when I initially received the contract to find that it was a lifestyle magazine that wanted to feature Angus. I’d heard rumors of a new design publication from Warbey and was hoping for the cover of that.” She swipes again with her thumb and waves a dismissing hand in the air. “But when he started panting after you and signed the contract behind my back, I eventually figured if he couldn’t get a cover of a respectable industry magazine, at least we could get him attention in other ways. Imagine how the client base will be clamoring to pay whatever we ask once his story goes public.” She glances up at me again. “Everybody loves a tragic hero.”

  Her eyes drop back down to the phone in her hand but I see nothing but red. I can’t believe this is the same woman who texted me about Chinese baby fruit! “There is no way I’d ever do that to Mac,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

  She laughs but it’s the furthest thing from funny. “You say that like it’s your choice. You have a lot to learn about the way this town works if you think you have any control over what goes into a Warbey publication. All the juicy details have already been conveniently leaked to all the right people. Angus doesn’t have a leg to stand on, legal or otherwise once your interview confirms it. That pesky non-disclosure agreement was threatening to be the death of me before you and your sweet little Southern accent and ‘aw shucks’ routine came along.”

  I get right in her face and have to hold myself back from decking her. “You’re insane. I’ll never tell a soul anything Mac told me.”

  She smiles and holds up her phone, assuming a fake low-toned voice. “Mr. McKinley, did you or did you not divulge the following statement to Ms. James of Warbey?”

  She taps a button on her phone and I flinch when I hear my own voice. “Why would your mama do it? Why would she push your father? I mean, what did she have against him other than him asking for money?”

  Mac’s guttural voice follows, his response crystal clear. “Because I chose him. And nobody ever puts her second.”

  “I swear I thought I’d have to bug half of Manhattan before you got your act together.”

  I barely hear her as my mind races at a frantic pace. I need to do something. Surely Naveed would never go for this. And Kate! She can fix this. Or Athena!

  “Whatever plan you’re scheming, it’s no use.” Elle slides her phone back in her Burberry purse and flips her long fall of hair over her shoulder. “If Warbey doesn’t publish the story—which they will—I’ve got contacts at less… reputable publishers I can work.”

  The dizziness threatens again but I push it down. “Why? Why would you do this to him? What did Mac ever do to you?”

  She holds her purse at her waist with both hands and speaks in an entirely casual tone. “Oh, Poppy. You act like this is personal. It’s not. It’s just business.”

  Who is this woman and why would Mac have ever allowed himself or his father to be within a hundred miles of her? “What could you possibly get out of this?”

  Her brows spike. “You think I took Angus on as a client because we’re besties? You think I enjoy trying to make the career of a man who pushes back at every turn? Honestly, it’s exhausting. He’s a stepping stone, my dear. And while his pieces go for twice their current value, I’ll happily take my twelve percent. Like I said, it’s business.”

  “Not to Mac.” I swallow hard. “You’ll destroy him.”

  She shrugs like it’s nothing.

  “He’ll quit. He’ll abandon his studio and move out of the city and disappear.”

  And he’ll leave me. I’m to blame for everything, after all.

  “Not before I’ve made my mark. I’ll be representing the next up-and-coming designer by then—one who’ll be only too happy to let me work the public angle.” She tilts her head and looks at me like I’m nothing but a small, dumb animal. “And, besides, you underestimate the power of money. When someone dangles a hundred-thousand-dollar check in front of Angus for a hunk of metal, it just might surprise you how quickly he could change his tune.”

  She doesn’t know the first thing about him. He’d never take a paycheck on the back of his father’s ruined reputation and his own privacy.

  Elle tilts her head and looks me up and down until I feel the need for a shower. “You know, you seem to be forgetting how you’ll benefit from this little scenario. Not a lot of nobodies from Georgia can show up in New York one day and have a byline on an exclusive just like that.” She snaps. “And this is just the kind of springboard your magazine needs.” She puts a hand to the side of her blood-red lips and pretend whispers. “I hear your little rebrand could use all the help it can get.”

  I hold in my gasp.

  I am the human embodiment of panic. There has to be a way to protect Mac. But how? Elle is right about the dog-eat-dog world of publishing. I can think of a dozen publications that would kill for an exclusive, especially now that Mac’s name is out there and all this scandal with Sterling Pile’s hotel chain is beginning to break. Mac will be fodder for the vultures and they’ll pick his bones clean.

  “Looks like I may be getting my cover after all. He does have the face for it, you know. And ladies love a scar.” She taps her nose and slinks away like the snake she is.

  My entire body is burning with fury.

  I watch her get buzzed in by security and make her way to the elevators. I consider pulling the fire alarm to keep her from getting upstairs, but she already said the magazine has the story. She’s probably just meeting with someone as a formality. Either that or she’s here for her monthly coven meeting with the likes of Jenna Baylor.

  I turn to the doors of the building and start walking as I yank my phone from my purse. I need to call Mac. I need to go to him right this second. We’ll talk it out and find a way to fix this.

  We have to.

  * * *

  Mac doesn’t pick up so I flag down a cab like a pregnant woman who’s about to crown and won’t take no for an answer. I throw cash at the guy and jump out just as the car is coming to a stop outside the studio.

  My fist bangs on the wood of the door till it hurts and Jonathan opens the door in exasperation.

  “All right. All right.” I don’t even pause to say a word or decide if he’s offending me today. I just rush on by until I get to the back studio. But Mac isn’t there so I backtrack until I hear a loud repetitive banging.

  The forge.

  “Don’t!” Jonathan shouts, but there’s no stopping me.

  I swing the heavy door open and pant from all the running around I’ve been doing and the adrenaline pumping through my veins. The door slams shut and I lean against it, shutting out Jonathan’s voice and everything outside this room until it’s just me and Mac and a room filled with noise and tools and soot. The air is thick and hot.

  “Mac.” My voice broadcasts my panic, but he doesn’t look up from where he’s focused on a steel rod with a glowing orange tip. His corded hands and arms are streaked with black and each swing of his hammer ends in a loud clang as metal strikes metal and sparks fly. He repeats the movements over and over, each bang echoing in my chest.

  “Mac!” I yell and he finally lowers the rod into a basin of water with a cloud of steam and a hissing cry.

  He still doesn’t look up but drops the
heavy items with a clash and walks over to a table against the far wall where he picks up his phone and stalks in my direction as he tears off his safety glasses. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a horrible inkling that the news I came to share has already made its way here.

  When we’re only a few feet apart, he taps his thumb on the phone and finally meets my eyes. What I see there breaks my heart into a million tiny shards.

  A disembodied voice fills the air around us. “Mr. McKinley, this is Domonique Harwood from Warbey Publishing Incorporated. We’d like to get your comments on details of an article we’ll be printing, per your contract with us. It contains statements made by you regarding several incidents, including an accident involving your late father, Angus McKinley, Sr., and your mother, Margaret Tenneson-Pile. We’re happy to send a copy over with interview excerpts between you and Ms. James if you’d like to read it before commenting. You can call us back or we’ll try again tomorrow. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll just make a note that we received no additional comment.”

  “It’s Elle.” My voice isn’t as loud as I want it to be, but I push it out anyway. “She—”

  Mac advances a step, his damp face dirty with soot and contorted with pain—betrayal. “She what? She told me not to do the interview with your magazine.”

  “Wait. What?” It’s all so overwhelming I have to remind myself that he’s right. But he doesn’t understand.

  “When your buddy Naveed sent that contract over I was ready to give her hell for disregarding my no-interview edict. But I didn’t have to. She said she was just being nice and would never agree to it.” His voice is practically a snarl.

  Elle’s words from earlier come racing back and I put both my hands out in front of me, as if to hold Mac there so he’ll listen. “That’s just because she wanted an industry magazine cover. She didn’t realize it was for WHL when she first met us. She would have manipulated you into doing an interview if it was for one of her precious design publications.”