by Lexi Whitlow
“Excuse me?” I can feel myself on the brink of raising my voice, and it irks me that I’ve allowed Darryl to affect me like this. He’s put me off my game, knowing full well that the board is watching intently. Now I realize that was his plan, and the reason he did an end-run around me and went straight to Tyler.
“I was the initial investor,” he says in a lecturing tone, as if reminding me of something I didn’t know. “And, to be honest, Sarah, the company wouldn’t be in the situation it’s in now if I’d had more of a hand in guiding it.”
Thank God Jenna kicks me under the table and brings me back to reality, because for an instant, my body was actually tensing to leap over the table at Darryl and maul him like a panther. He must see it in my eyes, because he shuts up.
“I serve at the pleasure of the board,” I say, trying to keep my breath even. “And until I hear otherwise from them, I’m still the CEO. So, I’ll continue to run the company for now, if that’s all right with you.”
I’m spoiling for a fight now, which is probably not the best way to handle this situation. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and be sandbagged by a cretin like Darryl Lawrence.
Before I can say anything else, though, Linda Davies raises her hand from her spot next to me at the table. She’s a smart, capable lady who took a chance on us in the early years and has always been a staunch defender of my leadership since she was elected chair of the board. In some ways, I almost see her as a foster mother.
“Point of order,” she says. “Darryl, any lawsuits will be dealt with by the legal department. You know that.”
Of course he does, and he also knows he doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on. That’s why he brought it up at the meeting; he thinks there’s strength in numbers.
Linda continues: “As for Sarah’s leadership, I haven’t heard anything before now to imply that she’s lost the trust of this board. PinkBook is currently weathering a storm, yes, and we need to take a hard look at our plans for the future. But it’s still business as usual. If you’re calling for a confidence vote, Darryl, make the motion. Otherwise, we’ll move on to the next item on the agenda.”
I manage to keep a triumphant smile from my face as Darryl visibly slumps in his chair, but just barely. His gambit didn’t work the way he thought it would, and this moment is ridiculously satisfying for me.
Unfortunately, that’s all it is: a moment.
My cell suddenly starts to rumble on the table in front of me, and I glance down to see the Bens smiling face on the screen. I snapped the pic of him a week ago as we were walking in the park. I remember it vividly, because right after I took it, he pulled me into a copse of elm trees and kissed me so hard I thought I might melt into a puddle right there in his arms.
For just an instant, I feel the urge to answer the call and tell him I was wrong, that I want him back in my bed, that we can work things out. I just want to hear his voice again.
But it passes just as quickly and I hit “ignore.” I didn’t get where I am by giving in to girlish urges.
“My apologies,” I say sheepishly. “I should have turned it off.”
That’s when I see the stunned look on Darryl’s face across from me. Beside me, Linda’s own face is intently facing my screen. I know phone calla are considered a faux pas in the boardroom, but I didn’t expect this kind of reaction.
“I’m turning it off,” I say, thumbing the red circle on the screen. “See?”
“What the hell is going on?” Darryl snaps. “Since when is PinkBook talking to that slimy bastard?”
What? I turn to see Linda frowning at me, which causes my stomach to drop just a little.
“I’m curious myself,” she says. “What was that about, Sarah?”
My cheeks feel warm all of a sudden as confusion takes hold of me. They want me to explain what’s going on and I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about!
“It’s—it’s just an ex-boyfriend,” I stammered. “It has nothing to do with this. We should move on.”
“Ex-boyfriend?” Darryl acts like someone just dropped a live slug in his coffee. “You were dating that… that vulture capitalist?”
To my left, Linda is still glaring at me.
“Answer him, please, Sarah.”
“I don’t—what’s the big—” Finally I get ahold of myself and take a calming breath. Everybody needs to just chill out here, including me.
“I think this is a case of mistaken identity,” I say. “That was just a guy I dated for a few weeks. He’s not a, whatever you said, vulture capitalist. He’s an unemployed software designer.”
“Sarah—” Linda says, but I hold up a hand to cut her off. This is getting ridiculous.
“With all due respect, Linda, I’m entitled to my privacy. Now can we please get off the topic of my love life and get on with the meeting?”
“Justin Lucas is not a software designer,” Darryl says with a degree of venom I’ve never heard from him before. “And he’s sure as hell not unemployed. He’s the worst corporate raider in New York. In fact, he’s in the process of trying to dismantle my own company as we speak!”
“What are you talking about?” But part of me is already starting to suspect the answer. “His name is Ben Lucas, not Justin.”
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” says Linda. “But that was a photo of Justin Lucas. There was no mistaking that face.”
I barely have time to gather my thoughts before Darryl takes another shot. This time, it hits home—hard.
“My God,” he says with an incredulous grin. “You didn’t know. You were dating one of the most notorious men in the city and you didn’t even realize it because he gave you a fake first name. That’s amazing.”
Oh, shit. The full weight of what he’s saying is hitting me now, and I feel like I’m drowning. My only hope is that Darryl is wrong, that it’s just a lie to discredit me out of spite. Because the truth is too ugly to believe.
“You’re wrong,” I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. On my left, Linda’s expression makes me think of my mother.
“I’m afraid there are only two explanations here,” she says. “Either Darryl is right, and Justin Lucas duped you, or you’re not telling us the truth.”
“This is exactly what I was talking about,” says Darryl. “This is why I need to take a bigger role in this company!”
I turn to Linda and look her straight in the eye. “You have to believe me: I didn’t know who he was. I mean, who he really was. I honestly thought he was just a random guy I met in a bar.”
“Oh, please—” Darryl begins, but Linda silences him with a raised hand.
“We all know your thoughts on this, Darryl. But I believe Sarah is telling the truth.” She turns to face the rest of the board members. “If any of you disagree, you’re welcome to call for a vote of non-confidence. If not, we’ll move on with the meeting.”
My pulse is hammering in my ears as I look into the faces of the other members. They glance at each other, and Linda, but no one speaks. Finally, all of them turn their eyes to Darryl, who simply scowls and slumps lower into his chair. He says nothing, and I allow myself to breathe again.
“I’m going to move for a ten-minute break,” says Linda.
The motion is seconded and carried, and soon everyone is up and milling about the room. A few head for the table at the side and fill mugs with hot coffee from a large catering urn.
Jenna appears next to me, her eyes wide. “That was not good, Sarah,” she whispers furiously.
“You’re telling me,” I mutter.
The room isn’t quite spinning around me, but I feel like I’m hung over. Jenna sees Linda approaching me and heads for the other side of the table to leave us alone.
“I’m sorry about all that,” says Linda. “But this is a bad situation, Sarah. I hope what you say is true, and that Justin Lucas wasn’t trying to set you up for a hostile takeover of PinkBook.”
I muster all my courage and ste
el myself for an argument. Linda is the last person I’d want to tangle with, but I’m not going down in this without a fight.
“Corporate raiders prey on struggling companies,” I say. “PinkBook isn’t struggling, Linda. We’re going through some rough waters, but we’ll come out stronger on the other side. You know that. You know me.”
She nods, but the look on her face is still sad.
“I do know you,” she sighs. “I just never thought I’d be this disappointed in you.”
With that, I realize that my foster mother has now become exactly like my real mother. And it hurts. It hurts a lot.
10
Justin
Shit. I know Sarah has no reason to take my calls, but I was really hoping that she’d pick up just this once. Even if she never answers me ever again, she needs to hear this.
She probably thinks I’m just casually calling because I’m looking for sex, and I can’t blame her for that. What kind of a moron strings along a woman like Sarah with a cockamamie fake identity? Then I got to the point where I couldn’t think of a way out and I was completely stuck, and I ended up looking like I was hiding a double life—which I guess I was. How long did I think I’d be able to string her along down that ridiculous road?
Like Nathan said, I done fucked up big time. That particular line could be nominated for the Understatement of the Century award.
But she really needs to listen to me right now!
I run a hand over the stubble on my cheeks, and the odor from my armpit reminds me that I haven’t showered yet today. Normally I’m a stickler for personal hygiene, but I barely slept last night after I came across Darryl Lawrence’s name in the minutes of PinkBook’s last board meeting. That set off my alarms, so I started digging, and anyone who knows me knows that, once I get on the trail of something, I don’t stop until I’ve got it cornered.
Next thing I know, it’s 4 a.m., sunlight is creeping onto the eastern horizon outside the windows of my penthouse, and the low-battery light on my laptop is flashing.
Sarah is smart—maybe the smartest woman I’ve ever known—but she lacks experience, which means she probably doesn’t see the snake under Lawrence’s suit. Even if she does, she might not realize what he’s up to until it’s too late.
It’s not just because I can’t stand the guy, or because I want to take him down. This is about Sarah, not me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since she closed the door on me. Her smile, the taste of her lips, the way she called me on my bullshit—well, the bullshit she knew about, anyway. I never even knew I was capable of feeling like this. Every other woman I’ve ever been with was after something, but not Sarah. She has everything she could ever want, and she sure as hell doesn’t need me to make her dreams come true.
And that’s why I’m so crazy about her.
Should I text her? Maybe she wasn’t able to answer my call. Maybe she wanted to but she was in a meeting and she couldn’t.
Who am I kidding? I know damn well why she didn’t answer. But I have to warn her about Lawrence for the sake of her company.
And, let’s be honest, if I ever want a shot at being with her again, I need to come clean about who I am. Even if it means I never see her again, I need her to know that the guy she got to know was the real me. I didn’t even realize it myself until she sent me away. I’ve been putting on a front for so long that I actually started believing my own bullshit.
I push myself up from the sofa that runs the width of the wall in my living room and press the heels of my palms into my lower back. Maybe some sleep will help me see things better, so I shuffle off to my bedroom. I plug in my phone on the nightstand next to my bed, and before I realize I’m doing it, I’m texting Sarah: You were right: I haven’t been honest with you. My name’s not Ben, and I’m not a software designer. Also, PinkBook is in danger. We need to talk. Please.
I read it again, and then one more time. It’s crazy. No one in their right mind would respond to a message like that.
Then I take a deep breath and hit “send.” As the little circle twirls next to the message, I offer up a little prayer to any gods out there that she’s crazy enough to do as I ask.
The sound of Beyonce’s Run The World blares from my phone and I practically jump out of bed. My mouth tastes like dirt and I’ve got a kink in my neck thanks to the ridiculous positon I fell asleep in, but even in my addled state, I know not to let it go to voice-mail: it’s Sarah’s special ringtone.
My heart jumps a bit as I see that go-to-hell grin on my screen. I slide the answer button and take a breath.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. My brain isn’t functioning properly, so I have no choice but to just follow what comes out of my mouth. “My real name is Justin, and I’m not unemployed. I’ve got a big company and a lot of money, and I was worried if you knew that, it would change things between us.” I wait a beat, and when she doesn’t say anything, I add: “I’m an idiot, and I understand if you never want to see me again, but I have to talk to you about Darryl Lawrence. PinkBook’s future might depend on it.”
She’s silent for so long that I begin to think she hung up on me. When she finally speaks, it washes through me like music.
“I’ll give you an hour,” she says. “Somewhere on neutral ground.”
The words feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Can you meet me for lunch?”
Another pause. “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”
I blink stupidly and look at the clock on the nightstand. She’s right. I must have practically have been in a coma.
“Tomorrow then?”
“Where? And don’t say one of those out-of-the-way places again.”
“How about the Blackthorn?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
I text her the address. “One o’clock work for you?”
“I’ll make it work.”
I realize that my breathing has been shallow the whole time I’ve been on the phone with her, so I take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Sarah. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to do this.”
What she says next prompts a sharp twinge in my gut: “You better make it good, Ben. Or I guess I should say Justin, shouldn’t I?”
She disconnects without another word, and I take another deep breath. I glance again at the clock. I’ve got 22 hours to make it good. I better get started.
I usually just go straight to my table at the Blackthorn—it’s a standing reservation that comes with my Diamond-Level membership—but instead I wait in the lobby for Sarah to arrive. Normally, I’m meeting clients and I make them come to me as a power move. This is the exact opposite of that. For the first time in my life, I’m coming to someone else, and if I have to crawl, then I guess I’m going to crawl.
Not that I hope it comes to that. I’m just saying.
The lobby of the building that houses the Brentwood Club and the Blackthorn restaurant is all burnished mahogany paneling and ornate carpets, with a doorman who still wears the old school long coat and captain’s hat. According to the older members, old Osbourne has held the job for over fifty years, and makes enough in tips from the discreet gentlemen of the Brentwood Club to afford a three-bedroom apartment in the Village. Also, none of them seems to know whether Osbourne is his first name or his last one.
He props open the heavy old door, allowing the midday sun and some welcome fresh air into the lobby as I wait.
“May I ask whom you’re meeting, Mr. Lucas?”
“It’s a lady today, Osbourne.”
The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes fan out as he grins.
“Do I dare hope, sir?” he asks.
I chuckle. “I don’t know if I dare hope, let alone you.”
“Let me guess: tall, blonde, brown eyes. Looks like she played volleyball in college, but still has the curves that you just can’t resist when she walks by?”
I give him a sidelong look.
&nb
sp; “How’d you know that?”
He lifts his hand to the brim of his cap as a silhouette appears in the doorway. His grin is wide and bright in his dark face.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “Mr. Lucas has been waiting for you.”
Sarah steps into the cool darkness of the lobby, but the polite smile she flashed for Osbourne disappears when she looks at me.
“Should we get started?” she asks, her tone all business.
“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”
The maître d’ plucks a pair of menus and motions towards the dining room. It’s been less than two weeks since I’ve seen Sarah, but I drink her in like desert rain. Even in a business suit, with her hair pulled back in a severe bun, makes my pulse quicken. I glance over at Osbourne as Sarah steps in front of me.
“Dare away, sir,” he says quietly. “I sure as hell would.”
I give him a half-smile and follow her towards our table. Once we’re in the dining room, Sarah’s attention turns to the 15-foot ceilings, which are lined with pressed tin tiles that are well over a hundred years old. She’s trying to look all business, but I imagine it’s not easy for someone who appreciates architecture the way she does. The Blackthorn is an impressive establishment, even in a city full of them, which is why you have to be a member of the Brentwood Club to dine here. To be a member, you have to be invited, and have fifty thousand a month lying around to pay your dues. Or in my case, seventy-five thousand for the Diamond upgrade.
It’s the kind of place I could only have dreamed about as a kid, where people don’t just have money, they have power. Funny thing is, I used to think this was what I wanted out of life. Then I sit across the table from Sarah, and I realize that none of it means anything if she’s not there to share the experience with me.
The maître d’ disappears, and now that we’re alone, Sarah fixes me with a look that has no sympathy in it. I’m on probation right now, and I know it.
