He would have proven to his uncle—and everyone—that he had what it took to make it on his own.
He had arrived five minutes early for his noon appointment, yet it seemed like ages since the housekeeper had deposited him in this anteroom, pointed at a closed door that must be Liu’s office, and said, “Mr. Liu will come get you when he’s ready.”
Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock came to life, playing its time-honored tune. When the chimes denoting the hours started, Cary began counting them, though he knew full well a man like Don Liu wouldn’t let his clocks go unwound. The counting served to center him, though, the slow bong, bong, bong like a metronome that steadied his breath. He had this. The Liu family had approached him, he reminded himself. Six, five, four. He was the new kid on the block, yes, but it wasn’t like he was new to the industry. He had a sterling reputation and a track record of returns that spoke for itself. He could be Don Liu’s wild card pick.
Three, two, one.
Cary turned to the door, his state of hyper alertness allowing him to sense that the knob was just beginning to turn. He stood and prepared to greet—
Alex Evangelista.
Oh, shit.
Alex smirked. “Well, well, well.”
“Do you two know each other?” Liu asked, coming to stand next to Alex. “Alexander, this is—”
“Cary Bell,” Alex finished, extending Cary’s short name on his lips, drawing the three syllables out in a way that stopped just short of being a sneer.
Alex and Cary had not spoken for twenty years, since that horrible day in the dining hall at camp. Cary had seen him at the odd event, of course, but somehow they never ended up seated next to each other. And in his heart, Cary knew that “somehow” was actually Alex, throwing his weight around to ensure he didn’t have to be near Cary. That was how much Alex hated him.
So Cary had seen Alex speak, had watched him talk to other people, wry smile flashing and brown eyes twinkling. And in moments of insanity over the years, Cary had Googled and turned up a few YouTube videos of Alex—an interview with him as part of a profile in a national business magazine, a recent clip of him yelling at a paparazzo as the guy tried to get video of Alex and that preternaturally good-looking model he was currently dating.
The point was, Cary had seen Alex talking from afar, and had heard him talking on video clips, but he hadn’t heard that voice in real time, coming out of that mouth, in forever. Hadn’t matched up the sensations of hearing him and seeing him at the same time.
So he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known the power Alex Evangelista still held over him. He had told himself, over the years, that the off-the-charts attraction between them at Camp Blue Lake had been the product of teenage hormones crossed with, at least in Cary’s case, the exhilaration of having acted on a same-sex attraction for the first time. They had been fumbling kids, circling around each other for an entire summer, and when they’d finally made out, it had been searing, electric. Cary had been chasing that sensation the rest of his life, even though he knew it was illogical to compare the experiences of a grown man to a lust-addled boy’s first kiss.
Hearing Alex say his name took him right back there. He could hear the waves lapping and feel the uneven slats of the wooden dock against his back. The skin-prickling sensation of knowing he was inches from Alex Evangelista nearly stole his breath, just as it had then. They had bobbed in the lake, looking up at the sky, counting shooting stars, screwing up their courage to kiss each other. The perfect night.
Before he’d gone and ruined everything.
And just like that pitch-black night, as he stood outside Don Liu’s office, Cary had no way to see what was coming and nothing to grab onto once that low, knowing, smooth voice hit him, saying his name like it was a cross between a curse and a benediction.
“Cary and I go way back,” Alex said, drawing Cary back to the present. His face was as blank as an empty picture frame. Their proximity obviously wasn’t affecting Alex like it was Cary.
Liu smiled broadly. “Glad to hear it. There’s nothing like a little healthy competition to keep a man on his toes.”
Cary had to get back in the game here, concentrate on the man in front of him instead of the boy he’d hurt so badly. “I couldn’t agree more.” He turned to Alex. “Nice to see you, Alex,” he said, extending his hand to shake as if touching Alex Evangelista skin to skin was no big deal.
Alex evaded him, though. He’d been holding a briefcase in one hand, and his coat had been slung over the same arm. But by the time Cary fully extended his arm, the coat had moved to cover Alex’s other hand, and Alex did it all so smoothly that Liu didn’t notice the deflection.
“It’s Alexander,” Alex said, stressing the second part of his name. He’d always gone by the shorter nickname at camp and was so quintessentially Alex in Cary’s mind, it was jarring to be corrected.
“I’ll be in touch,” Mr. Liu said, and then, turning toward Cary, added, “I told Mr. Evangelista, and I’ll tell you, that I won’t be making any decisions right away. My children and I will be considering a variety of scenarios for moving things over. We’re in no hurry.”
“I would expect no less,” Cary said. “It’s not a decision to make lightly.” He forced himself not to look back as Liu led him into the office. “But I’m confident I can make a compelling case for Bell Capital.”
“Yes,” said Liu, smiling as he shut the door behind him. “You’re my upstart. I do love an upstart.”
…
Alexander had an advantage. He had known Cary would be in that sitting room outside Mr. Liu’s office. Liu didn’t fuck around. He was direct, and Alexander appreciated it. When he’d asked the older man who else he was seeing today, Liu hadn’t hesitated to say that he was meeting Cary just after Alexander left.
And Alexander knew the black BMW X1 parked on the street at the foot of the house’s long gravel drive was Cary’s. Equal parts sleek and sporty, the car was Cary to a tee. It was tasteful and luxurious, but it didn’t scream stuffy old money. A man could fill a car like that with camping gear—he wondered if Cary was still outdoorsy—or he could take it to meet with a billionaire. It was exactly the kind of car a rich guy who’d turned his back on his family’s wealth would drive.
Alexander still marveled that at age thirty-five, Cary had walked away from Rosemann Investments. Though Cary’s uncle was the face of the company and was technically in charge, Cary’s time there had to have made him a wealthy man. Well, he’d been born a wealthy man, but he’d proven himself capable of taking the huge advantage life had given him and running with it. Alexander wondered why he was shaking things up now.
He shook his head. What was he doing? Jesus. You didn’t win a war by humanizing the enemy. So Cary had some balls. That didn’t mean he was going to win the Liu account. Liu would mean hundreds of millions for Dominion over the life of the account, and a nice hefty bonus for Alexander, too, when the board reviewed his performance at the end of the year. So, Alexander vowed, Cary was very decidedly not going to win the Liu account. As Alexander intended to remind him—rather forcefully.
And here was his chance. Cary, ambling down the long gravel drive from the house, hadn’t caught sight of Alexander yet. Alexander leaned against Cary’s Beemer, watching his nemesis approach. Since he always made a point of avoiding Cary in public, he hadn’t had a chance to really look at the guy in years, to catch more than a sideways glance that was always his cue to leave. Checking him out now, Alexander suspected that Cary was still a sportsman. His slim-cut navy suit showed off a trim waist and broad shoulders. It was more than that, though. He carried himself with a certain grace. He always had, even in the years when everyone else had been bumbling, awkward teenagers whose bodies were changing too fast for them to keep up.
He still had that same gorgeous mouth, too. Pink and plump, it was like a fucking rosebud. It was soft, too, he knew. He shook his head. He wasn’t strolling down that particular fucked-up memory lane. So he forc
ed himself to continue his assessment of the enemy with ruthless indifference, letting his eyes continue up from that mouth that had always been his Kryptonite. Unlike back then, Cary’s hair was short. He’d always worn it long at camp, shoving it into a ponytail when they were swimming or playing volleyball. But now it was almost military short.
“What the hell are you still doing here?” he asked as he caught sight of Alexander.
And there were those striking blue-gray eyes, which had not changed. Despite twenty years of avoiding eye contact, Alexander had not forgotten those eyes, either. Right now they were a swirling mixture of confusion and irritation. Cary had never been able to hide his feelings. The eyes had always given him away. Or so Alexander had thought. But it had turned out he’d been wrong about everything else to do with Cary Bell, so what the hell did he know?
“Excuse me.” Cary hit a button on his keychain to unlock his car. When Alexander didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just stayed there lounging against the driver’s door with a nonchalance he hated having to fake, Cary said, “Get off my car.”
Alexander still didn’t move. He was being a prick, but that was okay because he was a prick. “What the hell am I doing here?” he drawled, repeating Cary’s earlier question. “I might ask you the same thing.”
“What I am doing here is giving an invited presentation to Don Liu about the advantages of moving shitloads of his money under my umbrella.”
Just hearing Cary speak made Alexander’s jaw clench. “You’re in over your head, kid.”
“Kid?” Cary echoed, incredulous. “I’m a year younger than you.”
It took more effort than Alexander would have liked to unlock his jaw. “I’m not a kid,” he said, mocking Cary in a sneery, sing-song voice. “Isn’t that exactly what a kid would say? The kid doth protest too much, methinks.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of such a mature, wise elder.”
“I’m the CEO of fucking Dominion Bank,” Alexander shot back. “And I didn’t get there because of my family.” It was a low blow, but it was designed to sting. Cary didn’t as much as flinch, though, so Alexander kept going. “You can’t be in business four months and expect to get billions handed to you to play with. You’re way out of your league, and you’ll only end up embarrassing yourself.”
“I guess that’s why Liu just gave me a speech about appreciating upstarts. ‘The power of disruption,’ he called it. Says that’s how he made all his money, by taking calculated risks.” Cary raised his eyebrows. “But thanks so much for your concern. You always were great with the younger kids at camp. Still have that light touch, I see.”
That fucking entitlement. That presumption. Alexander’s fingers flexed of their own volition. He wanted more than anything to hit Cary, or shove him or…something. Instead, he pushed off Cary’s car and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. Then he flicked a leaf off of his suit lapel, waiting until he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake to say, “You’re not going to win. You should just do us all a favor and take yourself out of the running.” He looked up to meet Cary’s gunmetal blue gaze. Neither man looked away for a long moment. But then Cary grinned, which pissed Alexander off even more. “You’re going down, Bell,” he ground out.
“I see.” Cary opened his car door and threw his briefcase inside. “That’s why you’re handling a client personally, Mr. ‘I’m the CEO,’ why you stayed an hour after your meeting was over—to wave your dick around and tell me that the big bad bank is going to crush me, the untested new kid on the block. Because you’re not worried at all. Because you’re totally going to win.” He huffed a laugh, and fury surged through Alexander’s limbs. How was it that Cary could still make him feel like the overly earnest, socially awkward kid who tried too goddamned hard?
Well, at least there was fury this time. Twenty years ago, it had been more like shame, and Alexander would take fury over shame any day. A man could use fury. Fury could be capitalized upon.
Cary started his car and rolled down the window. “Well, good luck, Evangelista.” There must have been a delay in his car picking up a Bluetooth signal from his phone, because all of a sudden the car was flooded with the jarring, harsh sounds of Nine Inch Nails. Apparently, Cary still liked his music loud and off-putting. Even though it was chilly, early May, Cary didn’t roll up the window. No, he winked at Alexander—he fucking winked—and sped away, spraying gravel and Trent Reznor behind him.
When Alexander got home that night, he poured himself a glass of Barolo and shook off his suit coat, wishing he could shake off the day as easily. He’d gone back to the office after the confrontation with Cary, of course, and carried on with his afternoon, but he hadn’t been able to keep his mind from wandering back to Camp Blue Lake. He was usually extremely mentally disciplined. The jujitsu he’d taken up that summer after coming home from camp and continued to this day had made his body strong, but it had also honed his mind. He could break anything down into steps, like a chess game. That’s what he told the kids’ groups he worked with. The key to success was to think about the playing field in front of you even as you projected several moves ahead. But, he would tell them, under no circumstances should you think about the past. The past didn’t serve you.
That wasn’t quite right, though, or at least, it wasn’t the whole story. It didn’t serve you to think about the past, that much was true. But Alexander was fully aware that his past had made him who he was. He’d even come to appreciate the past for that reason. If he’d been more of a normal kid—a jock, a popular kid, one of those guys who made their way easily through the world with a smile on their faces—he’d probably be living an unremarkable middle-class life today. He’d be settled down with an unremarkable guy, have two-point-three unremarkable kids, and commute in an unremarkable compact sedan to his unremarkable nine-to-five job every day in an unremarkable suburban office complex. He would have to save up to take the kids to Disney World, set up spreadsheets to figure out the best financing options for his fucking suburban ranch house. His mom would still be waiting tables. He would give her perfume for Christmas, just like he had always done as a kid. A bottle of her favorite, Chanel Number Five, which she wouldn’t buy herself because she saw it as too much of a splurge when there were winter boots for a growing kid to buy. Not that she ever complained. So she had scrimped to buy him the necessities of life, and he had scrimped to buy her a bottle of her favorite perfume once a year.
No thanks. He preferred his life the way it was today, where he could buy his mother enough Chanel to bathe in. Or he could send her to Paris to buy it directly from the source. He was living his own personal revenge of the nerd, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
But it wasn’t only the trappings of success he coveted—he swirled the fine vintage in the crystal glass made specially to showcase the tannic ruby beauty—though he did appreciate the hell out of the trappings. It was knowing he’d had the last laugh. He was the youngest-ever CEO in Dominion’s history. He had the penthouse, the vacation homes, the sweet wheels, and the hot guys on his arm. Everyone who’d hassled him in school and at camp could go fuck themselves.
The point was, Alexander had a healthy respect for his past and the role it had played in shaping his life.
He just didn’t, as a rule, think about it.
Until he couldn’t keep it contained anymore.
Chapter Three
Camp Blue Lake
Twenty years ago
Alex hated camp, and this summer was no different.
As he transferred pancakes to a warming dish in preparation for the onslaught of two hundred boys soon to shuffle through the dining hall line-up, he pondered the particulars of his aversion.
He wasn’t athletic. He had to push himself through swimming drills, and his arrows rarely met their target on the archery range. He was no help in tugs of war. He wasn’t musical, either. Thanks to a completely tin ear, he couldn’t sing for shit. He’d learned his first year here,
when he was ten, to mouth the words to campfire songs so as not to set himself up for any more ridicule than necessary.
And it wasn’t like his mom could afford this place—hence his job as a kitchen aide. The first year, he’d come on a scholarship from an agency that paid for impoverished city kids to attend sleep-away camps. In subsequent years, he’d paid for some of his tuition himself, from his earnings from the part-time job he held during the school year. The rest was made up by the camp in exchange for working, something the camp’s director had come up with once Alex was old enough to help with the grounds crew or in the kitchen. It probably made her feel pretty good about herself. Help the charity case from the concrete jungle to experience the wonders of nature.
The problem was that the charity case from the concrete jungle was woefully unprepared for mingling with the sons of the region’s richest and most powerful families.
And it was only getting worse as the years wore on. As ten-year-olds, the differences hadn’t been so stark. But as they grew, it became harder to hide the fact that he didn’t have the right gear. His second-hand shorts were ragged at the start of the summer, his sleeping bag from an Army surplus store, his hiking boots not name-brand.
And it wasn’t just the class difference. Alex wasn’t a natural outdoorsman. He tried to embrace it was much as possible. He had memorized knots suitable for any occasion, for example. He knew which plants were poisonous. But he wasn’t a good swimmer, never having had the chance to learn properly. His fires went out as often as they roared to life.
His Heart's Revenge (49th Floor Novels) Page 2
