by JR King
While I sent an email to the reception desk to fly in lunch for two from NYC, Meredith quoted swatches of fact tables, but not to the point of exhaustion, and demonstrated easily how projects could break even. That was it, hired for life.
The same Meredith pulled me out of the remembrance. “Go knock ‘em dead.”
Excitement was building in the lobby. The décor here was slickly done. There was a hushed elegance to the room, but as a rule the ostentatious furnishings were meant to remind people of the life they couldn’t afford. Burnished mahogany walls, dimly lit sconces, and Turner Holdings proudly emblazoned in gold letters on the wall. Also sprinkled about were brass-studded leather sofas, side tables and lamps, and photographs of yachts and private jets.
The entrance almost looked chaotic. Quite the eclectic gathering with a teeming horde of journalists and paparazzi. A rostrum had been erected in the middle, displaying microphones bearing the logos of all the major networks. A veritable army of cameramen and others had embedded themselves in position around it, and some of the crowd even spilled out of the doors.
I scrutinized a bunch of interns that looked like MIT frat boys trying too hard to look respectable. Punters, really. Cheap suits, all that product in their hair, the toxic fumes of Gillette body spray and Aqua Velva polluting about. The flurry of pitiful laughs gusting around was already ongoing, so that wasn’t about me, but still, giving a speech in front of the world was no picnic. Halfhearted, I released my hands from my pockets and placed them on my back to hastily advance through the commotion. My curt nods managed to dodge requests of personal felicitations from colleagues. I wasn’t scared shitless. Just a little bit.
“I’ll be by in a minute, Jerry.”
His bespectacled face gave me a sharp nod.
I slid away for a quick stop in the men’s room. Lathering my hands after the deed was done, I looked at myself. Dark circles lay heavy under my eyes, marring my features. The erosion at the corners of my eyes pissed me off. Eleven months. Eleven months and she’s mine. I stared at my reflection until my thoughts crystallized.
Sudden panic allayed, I went back. Now the lobby was pinprick quiet, a tableau vivant. A pin drop would have given off a deafening sound, such was the silence, and because everyone was standing, I felt like a bride.
In times like these, I put on a charming mask. People fell in love with it because it could be anything you wanted it to be. A boss, a lover, a friend, and a leader. I plodded further into the lobby, gaining confidence. My usual scowl was absent, and the state of agitation I found myself in grew with each passing second. Cameras kept rolling and seasoned journalists checked notes, alternately staring at me and at the framed photograph of my father behind me.
Focusing on not stumbling on words as I spoke, ramrod-straight and knees tightly together, in accentless English I launched the keynote address. “The most clamant questions I’ve frequently received since I was elected are: why do you seek the fascism of control? Why bother with the wheeling and dealing of running a company? The answer to both questions is simple: I don’t trust most people’s judgment as much as I trust my own, so I prefer to lead,” I pronounced firmly.
Hidden out of sight, Sophia peered at me from behind a column. She looked slim and elegant in a crackle-print cropped top with a knit skirt and matching cardigan. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ebony bun, showing off the flawless face that many adored. I loved the way she stared at me. She reminded me of a civilian lurking about an autopsy table, who was unsure whether the glimmer of steel or the meat-suit on it was more fascinating. Staring back at her, I persevered, played my part vividly, connoted with trifling anecdotes and clever phrases, ultimately prevailing.
Shortly after, usual crap: endless stream of congratulations as I shook hands with board members, said all the right things, and allowed pictures to be taken.
“Mr. Turner?” A chubby balding guy in a cheap looking suit stepped up to me. His eyes were red and glassy, I was fairly certain he was high. “I have some questions about the disappearance of your father.”
At first my smile slipped a little, then I felt it go cold on me. A nod and a wink should have sent him on his way, but I knew it wouldn’t. Because I couldn’t cock him—imagine the Kafkaesque situation?—I went with the next best thing.
As a rule, I prevaricated when reporters asked questions about my parents. I stood straight with hands clasped behind my back. “And I won’t be answering them. Whatever you’re slogging away at, it’s worthless. Don’t bug me again, ever. Good day.”
Absconding the festivities, I made a beeline for a phone charger. I liked my iPhone but hated its battery. The boardroom was quite the vision, the designers at Visnick & Caulfield Associates came up with its versatility, and the technology was a Groundworks Design concept. The sleek round conference table was made of thassos white Caesarstone and linac marble so the surface reflected ambient light, brightening up the room. To emphasize the almost pinstripe-like veining of the marble, stainless steel had been employed. Along with microphones, data connectivity was concealed in the tabletop hatches and under the table, too.
Just as I popped open a hatch and docked my phone, “Why are you avoiding me, Alexander?” I heard.
Ever the gentleman, I leaned back against the conference table, a smile on my face as I looked at Sophia. “Not avoiding you. My cell was out of juice.”
She came closer, flung her arms around my neck, and let out a tight wail. “She would be so proud of you.”
“I’d sell my soul to the devil if he could bring her back.”
“This is all because of her.” Sophia’s complaint came too quickly, like a famished lion jumping onto a fresh elephant carcass that might disappear.
“Hush now.” My heart thundered in my chest, and I was sure she could feel it through the touch.
“I thought you were going to deal with Elena when you left for California.” Sophia failed to mask the taut wiring of resentment that had risen in her. “You promised me that day, Alex.”
The dint of repetition is the most dangerous reality. Say it long enough, and you might start believing it. “I’ll deal with her in my own time.”
Sophia seemed antsy and impatient for me to elaborate, shifting her weight from foot to foot, crossing and recrossing her arms over her belted blazer. “You’re evading.”
“You’re haranguing.”
She lifted what seemed like a somewhat unsteady hand to her hair, smoothing it although not a single glossy strand was out of place. “There’s that. Because you seem to have changed your mind.”
“Why do you think that?” In my effort to sidestep the issue, the untruth came out as a mumble of a whine, irritatingly slow, totally betraying me.
“A hunch.”
I stayed silent and she studied me in the silence.
We were both quiet for a long time before she spoke again. “I won’t compromise, darling. If you don’t, I will deal with her. By the end of the year, I want her—,”
“Fuck that shit. Don’t, Sophia. Pitting yourself against her won’t make you come out on top. Don’t challenge me. Same blood runs in your veins. You know how far I can go.”
Stalking away without saying goodbye, she slammed the heavy oak door behind her with much force. Were it not for the magnetic latch, I was sure it wouldn’t have caught, swinging wide instead.
From behind my desk, a while later, I peered at the city and coffee fiend that I was, I drank my fifth espresso. I stayed holed up in my office and trawled through legalese first, and then footage of Elena. Although the guy she briefly dated was gay, it pissed me off. Still, Ian was a better bet than an A-list Hollywood actor who had that A-Rod thing going on.
Far into the afternoon, I was maddeningly sober, even the shots of Evan Williams bourbon did nothing to shift or lighten my mood.
Fucking Elena Anderson. Because of her, all that was left of my mother was the color of her eyes. Mine were the same beguiling grey. And yet, I couldn’t kill that girl
; couldn’t rape her; couldn’t even watch her struggle.
Was it wrong that I wanted to love her?
Alexander Turner
The Twin Sister Experiment
Bear with me. I’m going somewhere memorable with this. With eyebrows on fleek and hair lightly gelled into a striking semblance of Christian Baleish sleekness, I raced down Commonwealth Avenue. My latest Tesla—reduced American masculinity, but American nonetheless—screeched to a halt in a sea of foreign cars. I checked myself out in a hallway mirror. Straightened my bow tie and finger-combed my hair, resolved not to drink too much.
Time to ride the terror.
Social mask in place, I made my entrance. Whenever a party was given in my honor, if everyone didn’t notice me enter the room and stopped what they were doing to look at me, then I had no business being there.
People acted justly. No one but my friends and family knew I was introverted by nature. I loathed receptions like this, a layered landscape so frightfully drab and dull, making the chip on my shoulder weigh heavier. Trite conversations sucking in my mind, photographers eye-fucking me, threadbare businessmen with weak personalities, hypergamous women fawning over fortunes or family names, just plain nonsense. Superficial glitterati waved hello as enthusiastically and respectfully as their educational skills would permit, mostly average. The perfect greeting came from the portliest presence in the room. He stood in a corner all by himself, his mouth pursed with boredom, fingering an empty highball glass with a lemon wedge lying limply at the bottom of it. He wasn’t looking out at the crowd of people, his eyes searched for me. I acknowledged him with a nod and watched him walk away. Peppered mane, sloping shoulders, long limbs that moved with an easy, loping stride.
This inaugural reception was the appearance to keep up appearances. With Jerry’s ultimatums, I was entirely prepared to put in a good effort. Who knows, depending on my sensibilities toward the crowd, I might even enjoy myself. Of course, for that to even have the slightest chance of happening, I needed a partner.
Not a companion, those are more hassle than they’re worth pleasure: a partner in crime.
Mr. Barman. Bring me a drink.
While scanning the room with a where the hell is the bar? look, a rented guy in a tuxedo showed me the way. Three quick, wide sips and the barman poured me another. After a very long and surprisingly interesting conversation about The Alhambra and Spanish bullfighting, which was prompted by his knowledge about beer made with bull balls, I bit the proverbial bullet and was on my merry way to network.
I tallied up the beauty of the Downtown Harvard Club ballroom. I’ll give you a few details. Light of chandeliers scintillated against muted carpeting, contemporaneous paintings gave it a cozy allure, and draped highboy tables were adorned with sashes, rosettes, and fresh-cut flowers. Silver platters were decorated with parsley sprigs and radish roses, and the champagne was served in Baccarat’s Masséna coupe. Around me there were WASPs, card-carrying liberals, families that practiced endogamy, a few runts and bootlickers, too. And Boston’s nouveau riche obviously needed guidance, they not only dipped blinis in Osetra caviar and sour cream, they fucking double-dipped in both salvers.
Call me petty, but this is me. A pretentious and old-fashioned bastard.
Could you fault me for it?
Not according to the sea of stylishly dressed people that milled about. I could see dozens of familiar faces among the crowd: uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, nieces and nephews. It felt intimidating to be in a room with people who looked vaguely like me, all dressed in designer tuxes and exclusive gowns.
The Turners were, by definition, both obscenely rich and somewhat conservative. Devout, modern Catholics. We didn’t consider interspecies romance in Star Trek as bestiality—dude, are you familiar with Gene Roddenberry’s concept?—nor did we consider homosexuality as some idiotic, manmade illness. In short, we were frigging far from being as dogmatic and apathetic as the Taliban. In that respect, it made sense that we never missed a chance to dress up for a good cause, especially if it meant raising funds for the have-nots.
There was a cluster of haves in the centre of the room surrounding my grandfather, Philippe, who was laughing and holding a half-empty champagne glass. The woman beside him, my grandmother, was by far and away the best of us. She wasn’t taken in by the charade of the current generation. Cecilia was as clever as her business-savvy husband, touting her own business acumen while unofficially campaigning for the Tea Party and managing Smithsonian endowments. And, if Philippe was the man who cared too little about the comportment of the young Turners, Cecilia was the woman who cared too much about them. She wanted every Turner to be educated and respectable. For her, money wasn’t the only measure of success, it was all about humanity, about how thou shalt treat thy neighbor. To her, it didn’t matter if you were a bad-boy, a promiscuous girl, or an ungrateful child, if she could help you find a way to become a saint, she would. So you see, in her presence, I couldn’t nail my colors to the mast—wouldn’t you like to in front of your grandmother?—or undoubtedly she’d castrate me with bare hands if she ever found out about me taking out my frustrations on angel-faced girls. You know how it goes. One mention of spanking and they’re shipping you off to the nearest psychiatric institute.
Now, don’t smash the book against the wall just yet, or the E-reader, for that matter. Don’t be confused, I wasn’t suggesting I was mentally ill, sadly I was sane at an enviable level. By envy I meant I was acutely aware of my triggers and my buttons, and how they brought out the colorful facets of my personality. Not many people could say the same for themselves. This might surprise you, but it wasn’t about trapping a girl so she was unable to speak or move, or mask her, or bondage. I mean, if I had to take the un-vanilla route every time I got horny, I’d probably wake up one day and blow out my brains, Desperate Housewives style. I spoke from personal experience when I told you that the best sex could be had without tools and extras. In a way, vanilla and BDSM were like slow-and-easy and fast-and-hard sex. I enjoyed both equally, but depending on the mood and the when and where, I liked sating a girl on a different level. Watch her shivering and sweaty body, her inky black hair clinging to her beautiful, smiling face, her eyes glazed, her strength slightly dimmed. Notice the difference?
I really hope you do on the whole, or else I’m fucked.
Anyhow. The next couple of minutes were a bit blurred. People asked me banal questions and I gave stock answers. What are your plans for the future? Further expansion? Would you care to meet my unwedded daughter? To be honest, I was caught up in private thoughts as I stood sipping my drink while satisfying everyone’s curiosity.
Glad-handing my way, I grinned salaciously when my two best friends came up to me. Tall Catholic-school postures and wide-striding and open-handed Rusty Ryan swagger. “Will you look who’s here.”
“Shiiit, you’re in that hole,” Aidan drawled in a deep, manly way. “Totally incumbent.”
Tony said, “You son of a gun, cool your heels and join the CEO club.”
“Caught in the toils of fuckedupness, sidekicks.”
Good words went out the door between us. Although we all had Ivy League degrees, we only applied education at work. In that atmosphere we were gruff, hard-nosed, and abrasive men, and we also tried to outdo each other. Outside it we were simply down to earth. To me, these hard asses were incredibly special because they’d rather gloss over my mistakes than judge me. Each one of us was—classically—straight.
“Usual fare,” Tony murmured beside me. “Four-way?”
To merge my line of sight with his, I cocked my head sideways. We were practically undressing my newest cousin-in-law with our eyes.
“Fucking hot. I’m game,” Aidan’s growl joined in. “It’s been awhile. Want me to go work my charm?”
“Good luck with Cecilia,” I laughed. “I’m quite fond of humongo. Ain’t ready to part ways with it.”
I felt a sharp pull on my arm, courtesy of Katherine. “Ah! M
y favorite skirt-chasers.”
I responded as I always did, with a playful slap on her ass. “Aw, double whammy. Be nice, it’s my evening.”
She tipped her head to the side and squinted. “Horndogs? Ladykillers?”
Tony refuted with a, “I prefer bon vivant or roué.”
Aidan followed up with, “And I prefer sybarite.”
She snorted. “Listen to Stephen King, dopers. Don’t try humping a thesaurus, yada yada yada. Stick to keeping those washboard six-pack abs tight like Channing Tatum.”
Muttering non-answers, we all checked out her well dressed behind before she pirouetted away. Yeah, she was going home with me.
Armed with a healthy portion of drinks and nibbles, the three of us were caught up in some feminist’s prating, “On a daily basis, the association of males and females is equally purposeful to both genders. This separateness underscores that one’s better than the other, which is irrelevant, since neither one of them is better for a healthy environment. Intelligence and humaneness isn’t gender dependent, and this display perpetuates the idea that environments unique to genders are in the pink. We must look further, outside the box, front to back.”
Her regaling statement referred to a recent article in regard to working alongside men that’d caused dissension between rabid feminists, but fuck, it’s not like we cared about the musings of big, hairy, ever-unwaxed vaginas or shouty twats. Crude, sure, get over it. It was her sesquipedalian family name that’d drawn us in. To that end, we noticed a man whose trousers had constellations of white specks. Recent blowjob for sure. That’s how we found ourselves listening to a congressman preach, “Only lazy people stay proletarian and waste away their life in melamine sadness. Egalitarianism doesn’t bestow savvy…,”
