by Lexi Whitlow
The look of mock horror on his face makes me cackle like a loon.
“What an awesome day.” I snuggle deeper into Justin’s shoulder. “And it was nice to finally meet one of your friends other than Nathan.”
We’re lying together in the old four-poster in our room at Millie and Tim’s rental house. It’s nothing compared to Justin’s house—obviously—but I actually like it more, because it’s quaint and cozy. I just wish the room would sit still. We might have had a couple too many at the Hyde Club.
“I don’t have very many,” he says. “I spent all my time building my company, so I didn’t have much time for anything else.”
“Sounds familiar,” I sigh. “Except I was lucky enough to go into business with my best friends. How did you guys meet?”
“I had a part-time job delivering gasoline to estates all over the island when I was eighteen. I definitely wasn’t paying the rent on my place in New Jersey with my software—not at that point. Anyway, Craig struck up a conversation in his garage one day, and it grew from there. He introduced me to some key people who were interested in my algorithm. Without those people, I doubt I would have been able to get things off the ground the way that I did.”
“Wow. That’s quite a story.”
“Craig never gave me a penny, but he did give me a gift I could never repay: he believed in me. No one else in my life except for Stella had ever given my ideas the time of day. And he showed me people who thought the same way I did. It was the springboard I needed to turn my dreams into reality.”
“Well, then,” I say. “I like him even more now. I can’t wait for tomorrow night.”
He pulls me close and kisses me softly and sweetly. It’s the perfect end to a perfect day.
“Me either,” he whispers just before I drift off to sleep.
Millie’s doing her best to keep it under control, but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s just as gob-smacked as I am.
“Tell me the truth,” she whispers as we stand next to the pool, eyeing up our fellow guests. “Am I underdressed?”
“Well, if you are, then I am,” I say. “We got them at the same place.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I let out a chuckle and touch her arm. The cocktail dress she chose is gorgeous and shows off her curves. The skirt might be a little too flared for this crowd, but there’s no denying she looks amazing. Even Tim, who normally considers a button-down shirt to be fancy attire, is rocking the blue pinstriped seersucker suit that he bought with Justin’s help. My boyfriend, of course, looks the same way he always does: like he just wandered off a page in the Brooks Brothers catalog.
“Millie, you’re stunning,” say.
Relief is written across her face. “Thank you. And you—I mean, holy shit, girl.”
I accept the compliment with a tilt of my head. My own is a scarlet sheath that goes down just past the knee. The shoulders are bare, with a V cut in the center that shows off my cleavage. All false modesty aside, I am rocking this thing hard.
“This house looks like a movie set,” says Millie. “I can’t believe we’re here.”
She’s right; it’s a three-story stone masterpiece that has to be ten-thousand square feet, not including the guest house and the garden studio. It’s a house where you’d expect to find Jay Gatsby popping a bottle of champagne and doing the Charleston, or whatever dance rich people used to do back in the day. It oozes class and sophistication in the same way that their cosmetics line did when I was a young woman.
And I’m here, at a party on the Preston estate, with one of my best friends, and having an incredible time. All thanks to the guy who’s calmly strolling over to me like he owns the place. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’d bought it off the Prestons and rents it back to them. Anything is possible with Justin.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says. “Having a good time?”
I pretend to yawn. “I suppose.”
“This shrimp is ridiculous,” Tim says as he sidles up to Millie carrying a plate loaded with cocktail prawns the size of small dogs.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” she snipes in a low voice. “These are classy people, for God’s sake.”
Justin grins. “They’re just people, Millie. You might be surprised how normal they are.”
“Maybe,” she sighs. “But I want to dream a little while longer, all right?”
Justin pulls me away from them and over closer to the pool. We stand there, facing each other, hands entwined, and I wonder how things could get any more perfect.
“Come here,” he says, and I obey. Our lips touch—just for a few moments, not our usual hungry passion—and I’m lost in the moment. The only sensation outside of my thumping heartbeat is a strange sound in the distance that I barely register.
When we pull away from each other, I can see a few lookee-lo0s glancing in our direction. Let them look; Justin is all mine.
We spend the rest of the evening getting to know the Craig and Elise, along with a few of the other guests. We see celebrities and bigwigs, including a cable news anchor and no fewer than three senators. We even get to meet the heads of the Preston clan themselves, Royce and Diane. They’re polite, charming and utterly self-absorbed. Craig’s apple fell a long way from the tree. We dine on delicious food and drink expensive booze and revel in the fact that it’s an incredible night and we’re surrounded by incredible people, and we’re all young and wealthy and have everything to be grateful for.
If only it could stay like this forever.
My phone buzzes on the glass coffee table between our loungers on the patio of Millie’s rental. We decided to spend the afternoon lying in the sun while Justin and Tim took the Saab out for another spin around the island. The perfect end to a perfect weekend.
“Ignore it,” Millie says, her eyes hidden under ridiculously oversized sunglasses.
“It might be Justin.”
“What’s he texting? ‘Hey baby, want to have hot sex with my model body when we get back to the city?’ You people are disgusting.”
I laugh out loud at that as I thumb the screen to life, but the mood disappears when I see who it’s from.
“It’s Darryl Lawrence.”
“Ick. What the hell does he want on a Sunday?”
I shade my eyes and look at the screen. “Whatever it is, he copied it to the entire board.”
“Tell him to go pound sand; you don’t work weekends.”
“We both know that’s not true,” I say, thumbing the text into view. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
I read the opening line and my stomach sinks: “So apparently our CEO has time to hobnob with the beautiful people while PinkBook goes to hell in a hand basket.” Underneath is a link and a thumbnail of a photo that I can’t make out. I tap the link, which takes me to the Instagram account of Missy Page, a gossip blogger and freelancer for the Post. It’s a photo of Justin and I kissing beside the pool last night. The little bitch must have snapped it from some vantage point where we couldn’t see her. I guess that explains the weird noise I heard: it was that fake electronic click that accompanies a digital camera shot.
“What’s going on?” Millie asks.
“Nothing important.” My thumbs work the keyboard, making sure that my reply goes to everyone on his recipient list. If he’s going to call me out in front of the board again, he damn well better be ready for a fight.
“My personal life is none of your concern, Mr. Lawrence. Kindly keep your mind on your own business—for as long as you still have it.”
I read it back, wondering if I should try to be more diplomatic. Then I think, fuck it. He’s being an asshole, and I hope Justin takes over his company. I think it’s about time I started swimming with the sharks, just like Justin does.
Send.
A few minutes later, the boys arrive, looking tired but happy. Sadly, it’s time to start thinking about heading back to reality. Justin crouches next to me and gives me a peck on the cheek.
&
nbsp; “How’s your afternoon been?”
“She got a text from Darryl Lawrence,” says Millie. “On a Sunday. Can you believe it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
I slip my hand in his and smile.
“Everything’s perfect.”
A moment later, I shut off my phone. Millie is right: I shouldn’t work weekends.
Because of that, I don’t see Darryl’s reply until Monday morning.
It’s only three words: “You’ll regret that.”
16
Justin
Sarah is still asleep when I wake up, so I slide gingerly out of her bed and grab my clothes before padding into the kitchen. As always, my first order of business in the morning is to open my laptop and find out what was going on in the business world while I was asleep. I suppose Sarah’s friend Jenna would call that being a workaholic, but I figure I deserve it after taking an entire weekend off.
Nothing earth-shattering in the markets, so I flip to the social media sites to see what the Monday buzz is. It’s amazing how much business gossip happens via people with anonymous accounts who share things they really shouldn’t. I’ve used it many times to determine my next acquisition.
I raise my coffee to my lips just as I come across the hashtag #PinkBook. Then again. And again. Then I see a photo of Sarah and me kissing beside the Preston estate pool. Thirty seconds later, the cup is still hovering below my mouth, untasted.
Shit. This isn’t good.
“Hey, you,” Sarah says sleepily as she enters the kitchen. She’s in a tank top and pink satin shorts that give me a thrill down there despite the seriousness of the situation.
“Morning.” I try not to let my concern show. “You should probably grab some coffee and come look at this. There’s something going on you need to see.”
She gives me a look but does as I ask. Once she’s next to me, I point to what I’ve been reading on the screen and she scans it for a full thirty seconds. Her brow pulls down further with each passing second.
“What the hell is going on?”
“It looks like that photo of us made the rounds and some people took it as a sign that I’m getting involved in PinkBook.”
Her eyes narrow on the screen. “’Secret deal?’ What? That’s ridiculous! ‘Leveraged buyout’? Oh, come on!”
“I know, it’s crazy. You really should get out in front of this.”
“Wait a minute,” she says and grabs her phone from the counter. A few seconds later she thumbs the screen, peers at it for a moment and snarls.
“That son of a bitch.” She turns the screen to me. “Darryl Lawrence apparently didn’t like my response to him yesterday.”
She brings me up to speed on the exchange between them and the board, and my gut clenches. I warned her about Lawrence, but she’s still not taking him seriously. But do I say anything to her? Sarah built PinkBook, and she’s as smart as anyone I’ve ever met.
“These rumors have people talking about a sell-off,” I say.
“Who’s saying that?”
“Anonymous business accounts on social media. They’re pretty much gossip columnists for the high roller crowd. Think Perez Hilton if he owned a corporation and hung out with executives instead of reality TV stars.”
“So what, then?” Her fists are on her hips. “They’ve been talking to Darryl?”
“He’s the most likely source. From what I can piece together here, there’s already been a few major shareholders shopping their PinkBook stock around on the QT.”
Sarah’s eyes are blazing, but she simply shrugs.
“So they sell stocks. Someone will buy them. That’s how business works.”
Except that’s not really how it works. When rumors fly, people get nervous and start selling shares at bargain basement prices. That’s when guys like me swoop in and pick them up for pennies on the dollar. But I hold my tongue and go back to my screen.
I scan a few news sites, and suddenly I wish I had just grabbed Sarah and taken her back to bed instead.
“Ah, shit. This isn’t good.”
Her eyes widen. “What? Tell me.”
“One of the top bloggers is saying that an anonymous source told him the Pinkbook user data showed up in a search of the database of a criminal third party that’s under investigation by the FBI.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she snaps. “That’s crazy! I’m the CEO and I haven’t heard anything about that!”
I stroke her leg in an attempt to calm her down. “I know it’s all rumors, babe, but you really should get out in front if it all. As crazy as it sounds, emotions can have a serious effect on the markets. And it could really affect PinkBook’s new subscriber numbers.”
“How am I supposed to do that? The FBI won’t comment on an active investigation like this. They wouldn’t even tell me if there is an investigation. Besides, you said it yourself: this is all rumors.”
“True, but in this era of instant communication, a lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth gets its shoes on. Maybe a news conference—”
“I’m not doing that,” she says flatly. “I’ll meet with my staff today and tell them what’s going on, and we’ll put all our focus on rolling out the new content we’ve been working on. Once we get that out there, our brand will solidify again. It’s all a timing issue; we went too long without anything new coming out. That’s a classic mistake for online media, but companies recover from it every day.”
She’s right, but other companies collapse under those circumstances. I know from personal experience: a lot of the companies I recycle started out as rising stars, but a series of missteps pulled them out of the sky and smashed them against the hard ground. That’s how I found them and put them out of their misery.
Sarah has commandeered my laptop and is scanning the sites herself. She’s holding it in, but her eyes tell me she’s ready to kick ass and take names over this. It’s her natural response when she’s challenged to a fight, and I’m pretty sure it goes back to when she was a girl getting pushed around by her brother. But there’s no way I’m going to say that. Stella used to always tell me that the best way to get through life without getting beaten up was to keep your fingers away from other people’s buttons.
But I can’t just sit back and let this thing take her down with it. If she handles this the right way, PinkBook can weather it, but if she doesn’t… I don’t want to think about what could happen to the company that she put her heart and soul into. Especially if my suspicions about what’s really happening here are true: Lawrence is creating all of this chaos in the hopes of buying up PinkBook shares at fire sale prices via a shell corporation. It’s a shell game con that he thinks will save him when I finally take over his company.
And, of course, it’s revenge against the two of us for having the audacity to defy him.
“Look, Sarah, I’m just suggesting that you approach these bloggers and give them your side of the story. The sooner you do it, the sooner these rumors can be—”
“I said I’m not doing that.” She levels a cool gaze at me. “I’m not going to give credence to these rumors by addressing them. My GrandMa-Ma used to tell me that when you pitch mud, you get just as much on yourself as on the other person. So I’m going to go into the office today with my head held high, rally the troops and get to work. Is that all right with you?”
My gut twinges at that last comment. I know she’s under a lot of stress and she’s not trying to be hurtful, but that doesn’t change how it landed. The challenge in her stare is obvious, but under that I can also see fear. What am I supposed to do here? Keep pushing to fix her problem, or let her deal with it herself? It’s like that old story about the lady and the tiger, where you lose no matter which choice you make.
Finally, I nod. “You’re right, you know what PinkBook needs. And I know you don’t need some white knight riding in to save the damsel in distress.” I give her a half-grin. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
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The relief on her face is obvious as she runs a palm along my stubbly cheek.
“Thank you,” she says. “And I appreciate your concern. But I’ve got this.”
I lay my hand on top of hers. “I know. Just remember, you’ve got me, too.”
Her eyes glisten in the morning sun streaming in through the kitchen window, and her smile makes me want to take her back to bed and lay her down, softly and gently. But now isn’t the time. She’s got a company to save, and I have to let her go do it.
I just hope we both don’t end up regretting the choices we just made.
17
Sarah
The looks I get as I walk into the PinkBook offices are exactly what I suspected. People are scared, confused and wondering what comes next. It’s not easy, but I do my best to smile at everyone as if it was just another Monday morning and nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Whether it’ll work is anyone’s guess, but it’s the only strategy I can think of right now.
The rest of the “Gang of Four” is standing outside my office, sipping their Starbucks and looking nervous. They all texted me at some point on my commute, but I decided to wait until I got here to respond. If I’d done that on the weekend, things might have been very different this morning.
Millie manages a strained grin when she sees me, but Jenna and Candice both look like they’re under the sword of Damacles.
“Thanks again for the awesome weekend, Millie,” I say as I open the door and usher them into my office. “Justin and I had a wonderful time.”
The instant the door closes behind me and the rest of the staff are out of earshot, Jenna’s eyes flash. “What the hell happened?”
Candice, who normally acts as yin to Jenna’s yang, crosses her arms over her chest.
“Well?” she demands.
“Look,” I say. “This is just Darryl Lawrence screwing around trying to stir up chaos. He’s angry at me for resisting his lawsuit and not letting him have a say in the company. That’s all.”
