by Tara Wylde
“You too,” I say. “Everything okay with you and Tre?”
He frowns. “Nothing that I haven’t dealt with before. Sometimes Tre oversteps his authority and forgets that I’m the CEO.”
“Hm,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow. “What?”
“Just that you two used to squabble a lot when we were kids, and it usually turned out Tre was right.”
“Don’t you start on me, too,” he says, rolling his eyes.
He’s right. We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend – are we? We’re definitely not at the stage where I can start second-guessing him about anything, especially when, technically, he’s letting me actively work against him.
God, this is such a crazy situation.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean anything, and I don’t know anything about this. I know you guys will eventually rise above it, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
He smiles and takes my arms, pulling me close.
“You don’t have to go that far,” he says, parting my lips with his and touching his tongue to the tip of mine.
Suddenly my mind is flashing back to dictation fantasies again, and I forget all about Tre.
77
40. INTERLUDE: QUENTIN PEARCE
“I hope I wasn’t overstepping my bounds by asking you here personally,” Pearce says, pouring scotch from a crystal decanter into a pair of tumblers on the bar in his office.
“I’m being honest, it was a bit of a pain in the nuts,” says the man, sixty-ish with a shock of silver hair swept back from his high brow. His olive skin is in remarkable condition for someone his age.
Pearce hands him a glass and motions for him to sit.
“Normally I’m happy to follow the chain of command,” he says. “But I’m afraid dealing with your nephew has become, as you say, a pain in the nuts.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows rise. “Not a lot of people got the guts to say that to my face.”
“I’m not most people,” says Pearce, taking a full ounce of his scotch in a single gulp. “I don’t measure dicks, I measure profits. If there’s a problem with that, we can certainly part ways amicably.”
The older man’s eyes flash, but he keeps his mouth shut. Pearce’s eyes, as usual, are impassive.
“No need,” says the man. “I think we know where we stand with each other. From now on, you deal directly with me.”
“Excellent,” says Pearce. “I’m sure neither of us wants to lose this opportunity.”
The man swallows some scotch and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Pearce curls a lip at the gesture but says nothing.
“I still don’t get why you’re so keen on this,” the man says. “I mean, it’s obvious for me. Buying Atlas will make me a shoe-in for a Senate run in 2020. Hell, the vice president himself showed up at the company golf tournament last summer. You can’t buy that kind of influence.”
“Obviously you can,” says Pearce. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be doing this.”
The man chuckles. “You got balls,” he says, nodding. “I like that.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, since we’re going to be working closely for quite a long time.”
“How do you figure that?”
“That’s why I’m brokering this sale,” says Pearce. “I have a thousand times more money than even a Kardashian could ever spend. It’s time to move into the next phase of my career.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Political strategist.”
The man’s eyes widen. Now he’s getting it.
Pearce leans forward in his chair and places his empty tumbler on the glass coffee table.
“You’re thinking Senate,” he says. “I’m thinking beyond that. And when you get there, you need someone to be your advisor.”
The man glares at Pearce for several long moments.
“Don’t you think that’s a little presumptuous?” he says.
“More presumptuous than positioning an organized crime figure as the head of the world’s only humanitarian security company?”
“Why, you little fuck – ”
Pearce raises a hand. “Spare me. I don’t scare, period. Now, I have someone working on getting enough information to convince Chance Talbot to sell. I’m confident we’ll be in a position to buy without his interference at the end of the thirty days.”
The man snarls. “Then why did you call me all the way here?”
“Because I need you to do something for me that’s more in your wheelhouse than in mine, if you get what I’m saying.”
“You ask for a lot, you know that?”
“Yes, I do,” says Pearce. “And I deliver a lot. Now if you’d kindly listen to my request. We need this taken care of as quickly as possible.”
78
41. SARA
“I’m getting impatient,” Pearce says on the other end of the line. “I hope my faith in you wasn’t misplaced.”
I’m in a Starbucks up the block from Atlas’s offices, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing and wondering how to keep Quentin from firing me and leaving me broke.
“I can’t do it all in a week,” I say. “It’s a long process. Interviews, research –”
“I could have had anyone do that,” he says impatiently. “You’re supposed to be an investigator, and yet all I hear is praise for the company you’re supposed to be investigating.”
My gut clenches at that. I’m starting to really like the people at Atlas, and I’m on the verge of betraying them all right now. But what choice do I have? Chance himself said I had to do what I had to do.
“There is one thing,” I say, lowering my voice and turning toward the wall near my chair. It’s not like the other caffeine addicts are eavesdropping, but I don’t need to take unnecessary chances.
“Good,” he says. “What is it?”
“There’s a bit of a gap in the accounting from the early days of the expansion period, when Patrick Sullivan was still the sole owner.”
“Details?”
“That’s just it: there are none. Atlas started to expand its scope and bring on more and more people. Wages and benefits went up. But I can’t find the source of the capital infusion.”
“Hmm. An angel investor at Atlas? Intriguing.”
“I wish I had more to give you, but I really need more time to follow up.”
Quentin is silent long enough for me to wonder if he hung up and I didn’t notice.
“All right,” he says finally. “I’ll expect a follow-up soon.”
Of course you do. This time he actually does hang up.
I tuck my phone back into my purse and drain the dregs of my latte before heading back out onto the avenue to the Atlas offices.
Why couldn’t I just have run into Chance at a coffee shop and rekindled things that way? Why does there have to be all this ridiculous intrigue around what we’re doing? Everything feels like it’s stuck in a giant web. I don’t know what to think anymore.
As I reach the lobby, I see Karen walking out of the building.
“Hey, Karen,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I’m taking a break,” she says without her trademark style. “Things are getting a little tense up there.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Chance and Tre keep staring daggers at each other. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s like having your parents fight in front of you.”
God, I know what that’s like.
“I’m sure it’ll blow over,” I soothe. “I’ve known them since we were kids. They always patch things up. They’re as close as any brothers I know.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says. “I just want things to go back to the way they were before Quentin Pearce came into our office.”
As she walks out onto the street, I find myself wishing the same thing.
79
42. CHANCE
“What are we going to do up here?” Sara asks as we climb the stairwell that leads to the roof
of the building where Atlas’s offices occupy the seventeenth floor.
“I told you, you’ll see when we get there,” I say.
“I wish you’d told me about having to take the stairs the last three flights. I would have told you Sara don’t do that shit. Plus, you said you were taking me for dinner.”
We finally reach the door to the roof. The stairwell landing is dank up here, with no light except for a bare security bulb.
“How do you know I’m not taking you to dinner right now?” I ask.
She grins. “Dining al fresco? On the roof?”
I just smile back.
“I’d hate to be the caterer who has to lug all the food up these stairs,” she says, looking back down the way we came. “But I guess the view will be worth it.”
“Oh, I definitely think the view will be worth it,” I say as I press the crash bar and push the door open.
We step out onto the tar-paper and gravel roof to a 360-degree view of downtown Chicago’s Loop business district. The sun is sitting at about the halfway point in the western sky, about two hours from sunset.
“Wow,” she says, scanning the horizon. “This is impressive. But I don’t see a table or anything.”
“What we’re looking for is over here,” I say, taking her by the hand.
We round the corner of a maintenance outbuilding and her eyes pop as she finally sees what I’m talking about.
“Whoa,” she breathes. “Is that…?”
“That,” I say, pointing at the pea green behemoth parked on the building’s helipad, “is the company’s specially modified Sikorsky HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter.”
We walk closer and Sara looks like a kid at an air show, inspecting the big bird from all angles.
“These are what the military used for search and rescue during Katrina in 2005,” I say. “They’re specifically designed to get people out of tight spaces under challenging conditions.”
She turns to me. “Challenging conditions?” she asks. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Live fire,” I nod, patting the armored door. “This baby has seen some of the roughest places in the world. But she always gets us back out again.”
Sara’s big blues are practically glowing. “This is so cool,” she says.
“I was hoping you’d like it,” I grin.
“So do you think you could take the boss into letting me ride in it sometime?” she asks, taking my hand.
“Why do you think I brought you up here?” I open the pilot’s side door and pull out a helmet. “We’re going to dinner.”
Her jaw drops. “You can fly this thing?”
“I’ve learned how to do a lot of things over the years.”
She gives me a leering grin. “One thing at a time, Tiger.”
“That’s it right there,” I say into the helmet microphone.
“What?” she shouts over the din of the Sikorsky’s rotors.
I point through the windscreen at the beach of the resort town of Grand Haven below us on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. It’s a favorite of the Chicago yachting folks, who use it as an excuse to cruise across the lake. Or, in my case, an excuse to show off my helicopter.
“Grand Haven,” I say, a little louder. “Dinner.”
She smiles and gives me the thumbs-up.
A few minutes later and we’re descending onto a landing pad at the Coast Guard’s sector field office.
A woman in a Coast Guard uniform opens the door for Sara and helps her out of the Sikorsky as it powers down. I meet them a few feet from the chopper.
“We have a car waiting for you, ma’am,” the woman shouts over the whine of the engine.
Sara gapes at me. “A car?”
I shrug. “I called in a couple of favors.”
“Mr. Talbot is being modest, ma’am,” says the woman, a lieutenant named Gloria whom I’ve met a few times. “Atlas has been a great friend to the Coast Guard.”
A white Ford Expedition pulls up and the driver gets out to open the door for Sara. I climb in the other side.
“Anything else you feel like impressing me with tonight?” she asks as we pull away.
“Wait till you see what we’re having for dinner,” I say with a grin.
“Oof,” Sara breathes as she finally pushes her plate away from her.
I do a slow clap. “That was impressive.”
“Why did you bring me here?” she groans. “That burger had to have been 5,000 calories.”
“Don’t forget the sweet potato fries,” I remind her, wiping the last of the grease from my lips. “Easily another thousand.”
“Burpees,” she sobs. “Kelsey’s going to have me do a burpee for every calorie, I know it. I hate burpees.”
“Good thing you didn’t enlist, then. Burpees are what you do to celebrate that the workout is over.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I feel an obscene throb under my jeans.
Across the lake, the sun is setting in a riot of orange and indigo. Our table is on the beachside patio of Banana Cabana, a summer-only burger shack that I discovered a few years ago. It’s been a mainstay for locals and summer tourists since it opened in the ‘80s.
“I can’t blame you,” Sara sighs. “You can lead a horse to burger, but you can’t make her snarf it down like a pig at the trough. That was all me.”
“You loved it,” I say.
“Is it sick to admit I want to get one to take home with me?” she asks in a conspiratorial whisper.
“No sicker than the fact I flew a helicopter to bring us here.”
“That was pretty decadent.”
“What can I say? I had a girl to impress.”
She grins. “Mission accomplished, soldier.”
We sit silently for a while, watching the sunset and slurping the last of our Diet Cokes through our straws. Sara was right – it was pretty decadent to bring the Sikorsky for a date.
But something about being with her makes me want to show off like a peacock. It’s like I didn’t even realize I was rich until she came back into my life. All of a sudden, I’m like a kid showing his friend his toy room: I got this and this, and one of these, and my X-Box…
Sara leans in closer.
“How fast does that chopper go?” she asks.
“About 195 knots,” I say. “Works out to 200-plus miles per hour. Why?”
“I’m just wondering how fast you can get me back home. I need to work off that burger, and like I said, I hate burpees.”
The look in her eyes has me standing at full attention under my jeans now.
I reach down and pull her from her seat with one hand, tossing a hundred onto the table with the other. We practically jog across the parking lot to the waiting Expedition and our Coast Guard driver.
80
43. SARA
“That was so much more fun than burpees,” I pant.
Chance nods. “Probably burned more calories, too.”
I look around his bedroom and see the clothes piled in random spots where they landed after we flung them when we got here. A night breeze is lifting the sheer curtains over the window next to the bed, helping to cool the aftermath of our passion.
He reaches an arm around me and pulls me close. We lay like that silently for a while. Tonight has been probably the most incredible night of my life.
So why can’t I get Quentin Pearce out of my head?
“Everything okay?” Chance asks.
I come this close to just saying yes before I stop myself. Not being honest with him was what led to me losing him all those years ago. Now I have a second chance. And no, the irony isn’t lost on me.
“There’s something I really should talk to you about,” I say gingerly. “But I don’t know how to do it.”
He sits up, eyes wide. I can read his mind in that gesture.
“I’m not pregnant, dummy.” I give him a playful smack as he exhales heavily.
“Okay,” he says. “Now that we’ve got that out of th
e way, anything you have to tell me will be a piece of cake.”
“Even if it’s about Quentin?” I ask.
He sighs. “I suppose. Why, what’s up?”
“He called me yesterday demanding an update.”
“That’s fine,” he shrugs, lying down again. “Like I said, don’t worry about doing your job. I’m good with it.”
“I had to give him something, so I told him about the only thing I’ve found that might be a red flag.”
“What’s that?”
I take a deep breath. We’re wading into uncharted waters here.
“That there’s no real accounting of where the capital came from during Atlas’s expansion phase a few years ago.”
Chance’s body tenses next to mine. He’s silent long enough for me to start worrying.
“What did Pearce have to say about that?” he asks finally.
“He assumed it was an angel investor. But there’s no ownership equity that I can find. Unless it was one of the Sullivans, of course.”
Silence again.
“Chance, I don’t care what Pearce thinks. I know everything is aboveboard at Atlas. And if he has a problem with the truth, he can go fuck himself. I’m not going to make things up to help him steal your company, no matter how much he offers.”
He rolls over to face me. The intensity in his gaze gives me goosebumps. Please don’t tell me everything is going to come crashing down again over this. Please.
“Do you trust me, Sara?”
That’s not what I expected. “Of course,” I say.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me. Now I have to ask if I can trust you not to tell Pearce what I’m about to tell you.”
“Off the record,” I say, pretending to lock my lips with a key. “Journalism grad, remember?”
“I just don’t want to put you in a conflict of interest.”
I shake my head. “Like I said, the longer this goes on, the more I think Quentin Pearce’s interests can spin on my middle finger.”
I wasn’t trying to be funny, but Chance chuckles anyway.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says. “Would you mind taking your phone out of your purse?”
