AXEL (The Beckett Boys, Book Eight)

by Olivia Chase

  In the awkward silence that follows, I imagine what’s on my sister’s mind. Our father doesn’t have money for college—not for books, expenses, or a roof over his own daughter’s head while she’s at school. Renee waitresses at a burger joint for extra cash, but it’s barely enough for tuition. My throat swells. The plan was for me to cover her school costs once I landed a good job. Not an option yet, so I deflect to my back-up.

  “My apartment is small,” I say with caution, and scan the cramped apartment that is over stuffed with junk. It’s not much bigger than a bachelor, with a galley kitchen, one bedroom, a tiny bathroom and a balcony that fits exactly one chair and overlooks a back alley teeming with garbage and discarded drug needles. “And it’s probably dangerous.”

  I can feel her grinning through the phone. “I’d like to see someone try and mess with the two of us.” I open my mouth with another protest, but she hits me where it hurts. “I can help with rent. Groceries.” Another pause and then, “I bet you don’t have more than a loaf of bread and a stick of butter in that place.”

  “Wrong,” I say, smiling. “Right now, I am eating the last spoonful out of a very decadent tub of Ben & Jerry’s.”

  “Chocolate fudge.”

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  Her tone turns serious. “What’s happened today?”

  Damn it. Without thinking, I’ve let down my guard, and my sister swoops in with her sibling intuition in prime form. I’m sure Mr. Mason Wood would have something snarky to say about that too. “Nothing I want to rehash.” I swallow the last drop of wine in the glass and lean back on the couch. The cushions part to reveal three popcorn kernels wedged between them, stale and speckled with mold. An offering to the creatures that come out when I pretend to be asleep.

  “If I were there, we wouldn’t be drinking that vinegar you call wine,” she says.

  My gaze lands on the bottle, too far from reach. Which is probably a good thing. “Hey, I worked hard for every penny of this five-dollar bottle.”

  “We’d be drinking champagne.”

  “Two-dollar prosecco?”

  She laughs. “You love the bubbles.”

  My voice sobers. “My apartment isn’t the Ritz, Renee.”

  “But it has you,” she says. “And that’s what matters.”

  “Well, I can’t have you living on the street,” I say, trying to keep the conversation light. But the truth is, it’s hard to act like everything is okay when I feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under me. The stack of bills on the edge of the coffee table pulses like a lighthouse beacon, a red siren of warning. I’m in trouble.

  “And I guess you’re not bad company,” I say, masking my despair with a light chuckle.

  Personal drama aside, I’m looking forward to having someone else around. My last real relationship ended abruptly after nine months of me pining for a stability that naively included an eventual fairytale Happily Ever After, complete with white picket fence. Add to the mix the fact that Dad and I aren’t speaking except through cryptic, often sarcastic, messages via Renee. And Mom, well, she hates driving and public transport—no way she’d make the trip from the Jersey suburbs. Not like I want her to see my dire apartment anyway.

  “When should I expect you?”

  Renee giggles. “Tomorrow?”

  There’s a flutter of happiness in my belly, and then a genuine smile stretches across my cheeks. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Chapter 5

  My fingers hover over the weathered keys of my old Smartphone, hesitating before I dial the number for Daylight Holdings. I squeeze my eyes shut and the last of my dream lingers in my subconscious. I’m fifty years old, unemployed, living like a spinster with five cats and a parrot that squawks its disappointment on a continual loop: Shoulda taken the job Mason offered. Squawk. Squawk. Shoulda taken the job.

  Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

  I inhale a sharp breath and finish keying in the number, practicing my spiel as the phone rings on the other end of the line. I’m still practicing my groveling and sniveling when the receptionist answers. I’m sure it’s the same girl—she sounds blonde, and cool, like Mason’s ice-blue eyes.

  “I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Wood,” I say.

  “May I ask what this is concerning?”

  Pin pricks of hesitation tap between my shoulder blades. “I was in yesterday for a job interview.” My heart flutters like a trapped bird in a cage. “Olivia. My name is Olivia Landers.”

  “Right,” she says, voice clipped. “Just a moment.” I can almost see her lips form a tsk of annoyance, and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

  There’s a click and for a brief moment, I’m certain she’s just hung up on me. But a few seconds later, she comes back on the line, sounding no more friendly. “Mr. Wood will see you at 11 a.m.”

  My pulse spikes. “This 11 a.m.?”

  Now there’s no mistaking the disdain in her tone. “Unless there’s another appointment option you’d prefer…perhaps next month?”

  I get it, Mason’s busy. Time is money, as the old business adage goes. I glance at my clock and my stomach goes all fluttery. I have less than two hours to get ready, and get my ass down to the Financial District. No sweat. “Today is great. I’ll be there.”

  But when I glance at my reflection, my confidence takes a sharp nosedive. The bags under my eyes foretell of a long, sleepless night, and the wild mass of my hair would be the envy of Medusa herself. I look desperate, unhinged. I wouldn’t blame Mason if he retracted the offer and then called in the white coats to take me away. Hell, maybe I belong in a straitjacket, because going back to Daylight Holdings to grovel for a job might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

  With no time to shower, I run my fingers through my hair, using a dry shampoo to lessen the oil and grit that comes from sleeping on my old mattress, and pull it back into a professional up-do. I tug a few strands down on either side of my cheek to soften the school-secretary look, and apply foundation, blush, mascara, and a light pink gloss. It’s far from glamorous but it’s not like I’m trying to seduce him—I just need to pull it together enough to ask for—accept—a position at his firm. Even if it means lowering myself to the role of personal assistant.

  I can learn from him and the money is good, I think, as I root through my closet.

  Slim pickings on the professional attire, but I opt for nylons and a one-piece jumper that zips up the front and hugs my curves a little too close for comfort. I’ve never considered myself on the cusp of trendy, but I’m not horrified by the me that stares back from the cracked mirror either.

  I gather my purse, gaze lingering on the folder of research strewn across the dining room table. It takes all of my willpower to leave it behind, but that’s one lesson Mason Wood has taught me loud and clear. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

  My bus comes early and I arrive at the office half an hour ahead of schedule. As I stare up at the glass façade of a building that towers over me, my skin starts to tingle. Letting my pride get the best of me yesterday was an error in judgment. Shortsighted. Unprofessional. I’ve dreamed of working at Daylight Holdings for as long as I can remember. So what if it isn’t the position I applied for? It’s a step.

  Some people would kill for this—a chance to work alongside a man who, despite his personality shortcomings, is considered one of the top hedge funders in the world. Training with him—closely—can only be a benefit, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that the man is some serious eye candy.

  My brain wanders back to the sight of his fine ass, and my thighs tingle.

  I shake my head of inappropriate thoughts, take in a deep breath, and step into the elevator. This time I don’t second-guess my appearance in the mirror. My hands don’t shake, my nerves aren’t shot. I don’t worry what will happen if Mason Wood gets in the elevator with me, because I can’t fuck up any worse than yesterday’s demonstration of absolute unprofessionalism.

&nbs
p; In fact, when I reach the thirteenth floor, alone with my thoughts for the entire ride, I’m almost disappointed Mason isn’t in the elevator—as though I somehow missed out an opportunity for a real do-over.

  The nervous flutter in my stomach returns as I approach the reception desk, where the blonde barely acknowledges my presence before pointing to the seating, as though this is my first crack at this. If only.

  I carefully sit in a chair across from where I sat yesterday—change your stars any way you can—and instead of flipping through the business magazine with Mason Wood on the cover, I skim Forbes.

  At five to eleven, I set down the magazine and take quick stock of my surroundings. Too nervous, I’d barely given it a cursory glance, but today the light and sun-drenched room begs for closer inspection. It’s devoid of color—all cream and beige, from the plush carpeting to the painted walls—aside from two abstract paintings that hang side by side above a fish tank. Two large Bala sharks weave between twin halves of a shipwreck that looks suspiciously like the Titanic. An antique pocket watch dangles from the stern. Actual prop from the movie or a clever replica? Hard to tell.

  A glass cabinet at the far end of the room overflows with more Hollywood memorabilia—the volleyball from that Tom Hanks movie where he’s stranded on a desert island, some kind of green mask that is vaguely familiar, a silver C3P0 skull perched next to a replica of the Millennium Falcon.

  I mentally catalogue the inventory, assessing how I might use it in conversation. Some kind of ice breaker or tension obliterator, a way to make Mason forget that yesterday I snubbed his offer, and today I’m begging for him to hire me.

  The elevator door pings and I hold my breath, anticipating Mason’s entry. Will he furrow his brow at me? Scowl? Or will his smile be warm, welcoming, with the kind of pride I suspect a man of his nature gets when he realizes he’s right?

  I don’t have a chance to find out, because the guy that steps into the lobby wears a UPS uniform and is throwing himself at the receptionist while she signs for some kind of package. My mind starts thinking about what could be inside the box.

  I grew up on my mom’s old Nancy Drew mysteries, the adventures between those pages fueling my own curiosity. Mom figured I’d be some kind of investigative reporter—a real Katie Couric type—but then my “investigation” into where my Dad kept going every year outed his long-standing affair with a woman half my mother’s age. That was enough to turn me off any further amateur sleuthing. Some secrets are better left buried.

  But Day trading holds a certain kind of mystery, an often unexpected outcome, for better or worse. You can never tell what will cause a spike in the markets, or force a trade. My adrenaline heightens. Maybe Mason didn’t see it yesterday, but I get a rush from that kind of challenge. Dad used to say I thrive on it.

  But then, Dad said a lot of things I’m not sure I believe anymore.

  At noon, I walk back to the reception desk. The blonde acknowledges me with a cool smile, and I try for a frost-melting grin. No dice. This chick is the ice queen. A shiver zigzags up my spine, and I wrap my arms around my waist.

  “Hi,” I say, lamely. “I just wanted to confirm that my appointment was scheduled for 11 a.m. The line was a bit crackly and I may have misunderstood.”

  She drops her gaze to the appointment book, where my name is written in with bold, black ink. “No misunderstanding.”

  I nervously glance over at the clock like it’s the new elephant in the room. “I’m sure he’s running behind. It’s just…” My voice trails off. “Never mind.” I snag one of the breath mints from the dish perched on the edge of her desk and peel off the wrapper. “I guess I’ll just go back and wait.”

  She gives the unwrapped candy in my hand a pointed look.

  I pop it in my mouth and crinkle-crinkle-crinkle the paper until she holds out her hand with an exaggerated sigh. The wrapper is clammy from my sweat, and I don’t even care. Professionalism be damned. I squish it into her palm and head back to the seating area, swinging my hips a little as I walk.

  This time, I grab the copy of People tucked under the more serious magazines. Mason Wood isn’t on the cover of this publication either, but I find him on Page 6, his arm slung around some model’s thin shoulders. She’s grinning at the camera—and he’s smoldering. I mean, it’s like he’s staring at me from the page, and I’m loathe to admit it, but it does something to my insides. I get this tingle between my legs, and suddenly I’m worried that I should have worn underwear. I mean, who doesn’t wear panties to a job interview?

  Sure, I wanted to avoid ugly panty lines, but now I’m wondering if it was such a good decision.

  I turn the page to break the connection, but there’s another shot of him, this time without the model. He’s in a navy suit with thin white pinstripes, and his crisp shirt is unbuttoned to his mid chest.

  My throat constricts. Yeah.

  Without even realizing it, I swipe my finger across the page, lingering over his glistening, muscular chest. My cheeks burn. The elevator pings, and I look up. It’s not Mason, either. Just another delivery guy, this one in a bike helmet and spandex shorts.

  I slam the magazine shut and stand, eyes quickly seeking out the restroom. I spot it to my left and go inside, splash some cold water on my face and then touch up my makeup.

  Fresh towels line a basket perched on the granite countertop. An orchid bloom hangs over a generous sink basin flanked by an assortment of fancy soaps and lavender scented lotions, creams, and sprays.

  After lightly freshening up, I go back into the lobby where the minute hand on the giant clock over the reception desk clicks toward 2 p.m. Annoyance and anxiety flickers through me.

  Why is he keeping me waiting this long? Why not just refuse to see me at all?

  I stroll back to the reception desk and wait for the blonde to look up. She regards me with mild amusement. “Yes, your appointment was scheduled for 11 a.m.”

  Blood rushes to my head, and I bite back a sarcastic response. “Duly noted,” I say, thinly. “But, it is now 2 p.m.” I point at the clock with an aggressive finger poke.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Wood is running behind today,” she says with obvious enjoyment at my discomfort.

  What isn’t clear is for how long I’m supposed to hang around. “Should I make an appointment for another time?”

  She stares at her manicured nails like they’re prized artifacts from the Louvre and shrugs. “You could, though I can’t guarantee how soon I could fit you in. He did want me to assure you that he’d be here soon.”

  I exhale hard. “He did? When?”

  Her collagen lips curve into a snarky grin. “At eleven, when he checked in.”

  I refrain from pointing out how useful the information would have been four hours ago. Somehow I suspect the complaint would fall on ears made deaf by the enormous jewelry dangling from her lobes. “Well then, I suppose I should go back to my seat.”

  The phone rings, and she dismisses me with a quick flick of one of those perfectly-painted nails.

  I choose a different chair—a different view, another way to pass the time. From this position, I can watch the busy streets below, teeming with suits and skirts, most on their way to meetings, afternoon cocktails, or home for the day.

  Their professional attire blurs into a continual stream of the exact same thing, and I start to question the jumper. Should I have worn a more traditional pantsuit? A skirt and blouse combination? Perhaps just dress pants with a thicker shirt.

  I imagine myself in one of Renee’s designs and shake my head. The jumper is as risqué as I get. Does that make me boring? I cross and uncross my legs, struggling to find a comfortable position, while questions poke holes in the last of my confidence. I can feel my self-esteem pooling on the floor.

  Is this what Mason meant when he said my instincts were off? That I didn’t have “it?”

  The seed of doubt takes root in my stomach, sparking another wave of frustration. There’s no guarantee Mason will giv
e me a position anyway, not after I turned him down the first time. I have a feeling Mr. Hot Shot Hedge Fund Manager hasn’t faced much rejection from women. Making me wait is probably payback for bruising his inflated ego.

  Which means I’ve gotten under his skin.

  Interesting.

  That thought—no matter how potentially misguided—inspires new confidence, and I settle in for the long haul. He wants to make me wait? Fine. I’ll read every fucking article in these magazines. I’ll memorize every inch of this office.

  I’ll give his receptionist a name.

  Christy. Misty. I piece together every bit of intel I’ve gathered in the hours I’ve been stuck with her, and decide on Gertrude.

  Yep. Totally a Gertrude.

  Another hour passes. Finally, Gertrude stands and brushes off her skirt, like there’s crumbs on it, and starts shoving paperwork into a Coach messenger bag. My curiosity flares up again and I begin a new game. What’s in the bag, Gertrude. And that’s when it dawns on me that she’s packing up. As in, leaving for the day.

  Panic nips at my steely resolve.

  Am I supposed to wait here? Go home? Reschedule?

  I’m working up the nerve to ask when Gertrude slings her bag over her shoulder, walks toward the door—her high heels leaving dents in the carpet—and quips, “Mr. Wood will see you now. He’s in his office.”

  My pulse ratchets up and I bite down on my tongue to stop from blurting out something I shouldn’t. For more than six hours I’ve sat in the same damn place, staring at the same damn view, thinking the same damn thoughts—and Mason was in his office all along. Heat crawls up my neck.

  Fuck that.

  I stand with a huff and stomp to Mason’s office, my teeth grit, utter fury making my blood boil. There are a million things I want to yell at him, but the second I step into the room, every single word escapes.

  All but one.

  “Hi.”

  “I appreciate your patience,” he says, without even looking up from his paperwork. “Please, be seated.”

  I shoot daggers into his bowed head, full-on anger simmering just beneath the surface of my practiced calm.