by Sarah Cole
I thumb through the pages quickly as my eyes scan the documents. What amateur put this together? It’s as basic as it can get, and I’m pretty certain that any idiot could just Google this information. I toss the folder and papers into the trash can beside my desk and wiggle my mouse until my computer monitor comes to life. I’ll just have to do some research of my own to get the answers I need.
After a few hours and a few pots of coffee, I have nearly all of the information I need. Carter Raymond Linwood. Age, thirty-four. Birthday, June seventeenth. Owner and CEO of Linwood Technologies, better known as Lintech. Undergraduate degrees in Cognitive Sciences and Mathematics, Master’s degree in Biophysics, both from MIT. Carter started Lintech eight years ago with money from his trust fund and the money he earned from selling a Nano-technology that he developed alongside some classmates. The device was an implant that supposedly helped to generate organic tissues. He’s propelled Lintech to the top of the market, and landed it among Forbes Magazine’s top fifty as a multibillion dollar tech company. They develop everything from software and hardware to medical technologies, and now apparently have branched out into super computers and quantum computing. To say that I’m impressed would be a gross understatement.
Of course, I’ve heard of Lintech. I use plenty of their products on my systems in my own business, but I never really thought much of looking into the company or man behind it. He’s obviously very intelligent and philanthropic. I also now know the other things about him – the things I shouldn’t know. His address, social security number, blood type, food allergies, the results of his last wellness check, the balance in all of his bank accounts, how all of his investments are doing, and what gym he goes to. I also know that Lintech is looking for a new president for their web and application development division.
I guess it’s time that I create a resume and cover letter.
CHAPTER THREE
Carter:
“Dammit, Kline! I told you not to have that position posted. I had a list of people I wanted to seek out. It shouldn’t have been an open application.” I lean back in my leather chair and swivel it to stare out at Elliott Bay, watching the ferries cut through the water. It does little to calm me like it usually does. I’m on edge, and I don’t like it.
Kline Mansfield is the head of Lintech’s HR department, and I know he’s perfectly capable of doing his job, but there are times when I feel like wringing his neck. He has this tendency to disregard my orders and just do what he likes. While I appreciate his experience, this is still my company, and there’s a certain way things need to be handled.
“Carter, look…” he sighs in exasperation, and I swivel back around to face him. He folds his wiry body into one of the leather chairs in front of my desk as if he’d been invited to and he scratches the top of his shiny, bald head. He stares at me a moment longer than necessary before tossing a paper clipped stack of documents across the desk.
“What’s this?” Reaching forward to pick up the papers, I ignore the fact that he knocked over my desk clock and sent countless other papers fluttering.
“That’s a short list of candidates that my team has compiled for you to sort through.” I shake my head and begin to shut him down, but Kline isn’t having any of that. “Now, I know you had your own list, and that’s perfectly fine if you want bring some people in, but I don’t think strategically it’s a good idea to bring in someone from a competitor. Especially not with the launches we have on our plate. I think fresh blood is a smart idea right now.” With that, he raps his knuckles on my desk in a way that grates my nerves every time he does it, and he stands to leave.
“Just give it some thought, and let us know when you’ve got it narrowed down so we can run the proper checks.” I nod slightly, and I’m left alone once again as the heavy wooden door to my office closes behind him.
I toss the papers back onto the wooden desktop and spin around to stare out the window again. Truth be told, the list of people I have for the job is short. They are good candidates with excellent track records, but they’re almost too seasoned. Kline is right, and I know he is. I just like having control of situations – especially when it’s regarding something I worked my ass of for. I was blindsided when Trent, the former head of our web and application development, decided to quit to travel and “discover himself” or whatever shit excuse he gave. I should be more on top of this situation than I am, but I’m distracted and restless.
My usual excuse for ineptitude would be that it’s because I’m overworked and my mind is on overload with the amount of research and design I’ve been involved in, but that’s not it. The source of my mindlessness is easy for me to pinpoint because I haven’t been able to think of anything other than haunting blue eyes, tight leather wearing asses, and ‘go fuck yourself attitudes’ for a week now. I should be ashamed of how many times I’ve jerked off to her memory since that morning, but I’m not. I’ve been too busy with work to get away at night, not that it would help anyways. I’ve nearly killed myself at the gym, trying to work her out of my brain. I’m becoming borderline obsessive with seeing her again. Every morning since, I’ve gone to that same coffee shop. Every motorcycle that passes, I nearly give myself whiplash trying to see if it is her. I would track her down if I had any discernable information to go off of, but I don’t.
“Fuck it,” I say when I realize I just wasted another hour fantasizing about a woman I’ll probably never see again. I shut down my computer and grab my keys. I’ve got to unload somehow, and lifting weights isn’t going to fucking cut it anymore.
“About time you left in time for dinner,” Leanne, my secretary says as I walk past her desk. Her eyes wrinkle in the corners as she smiles.
“Yeah. I need to get out of here. Why don’t you go ahead and take off early too? I’ll just have our phones forwarded to my cell,” I tell her, and her eyes light up.
“Oh, are you sure you don’t mind, Mr. Linwood?” she asks.
“Not at all. You deserve it.”
“This just works out perfectly! My granddaughter has her first ballet recital tonight. I need to get home and over to Redmond. Maybe I’ll have time to catch dinner with them beforehand now!” Her excitement is almost palpable as her face lights up and she shuts down her computer.
“Well, be sure you get some of it on video so you can show me tomorrow. Let me walk you out.” I help her put on her jacket, and open the door for her.
Leanne was one of my very first employees when I started out, and to me she’s invaluable. She’s more than a secretary to me at this point, she’s family. She never fails to make sure I’m taken care of at work, and tries her best to make sure I don’t push myself too far. She’s most certainly more mothering than my own mother is. My own mother’s interests consist of Carrie Linwood, her social circle, and money in no particular order. But the fact that Leanne does all of these things without expectation other than her salary and benefits is one of the things I love most.
“You’re too good to me, Mr. Linwood.”
“Please, Leanne… I’ve been trying to get you to call me Carter for almost eight years, and it’s you who is entirely too good to me.”
She laughs softly as we get into the elevator. “Oh, honey. When people work as hard as you do, they deserve the respect that they earn. I just like for you to know you’re important.”
“I appreciate it, but you know it isn’t necessary. I hope you know that.” I smile at her.
She reaches her weathered hands up to up my cheeks. “My sweet, Carter. How have you not found a nice woman to share your life with yet? You aren’t gay, are you?” She seems suddenly very concerned that she hasn’t accurately assessed my sexual orientation.
I can’t control it. I throw my head back and laugh a full laugh, something that definitely hasn’t happened to me in far too long. I pull her in for a side hug around her shoulders. “No, I’m not gay. I’ve just been focusing on success for so long that I haven’t had time to date much. I’m also quite pick
y, as you know, and I just haven’t found the right woman yet.”
“Well, don’t give up my sweet boy. She’s out there somewhere. You’ll find her when you least expect it.” Leanne pats my shoulder as we step off the elevator and she heads towards where she parked.
“I won’t get my hopes up.” I mutter under my breath as I head towards my red and black, sixty-nine Plymouth Roadrunner. She’s pure Mopar power that my father and I built and restored from the ground up when I was in high school. It was a kind of therapy to help restore me in a way too I suppose. She doesn’t get out of the garage as much anymore, but on nice days like this, it would be a crime to keep her locked up.
I slide in behind the wheel and let the vibrations radiate through the steering wheel for a moment before I drive to one of the only places in this city that I can completely unwind.
***
I work my way through tangles of people in the dim lighting of Obsidian Lounge. It’s unusually busy tonight, which for me is both good and bad. Bad because it increases my irritability and decreases my ability to relax, but it’s also good because there’s variety. And right now, what I’m craving is indefinitely off the menu.
My eyes scan the crowd as a tumbler of Macallan 55 is placed in my hand by the bar tender. My eyes lock on a head full of dark hair that falls in waves, and my heart rate ticks. They travel down to a sinfully tight red dress, and a smooth, long set of legs.
It couldn’t be.
And it isn’t.
The woman turns and locks eyes with me, but rather than the spectacularly beautiful features I was anticipating, I’m greeted with someone that dulls in comparison.
While very attractive, the woman has brown eyes that have thick false eyelashes glued to them and a button nose. I try and reel the smile back in that was forming on my face seconds ago, but it’s useless. This woman already thinks the smile is for her. I’m an idiot. Men would trip over themselves to get this woman’s attention, and I’d typically be one of them, but not when I can’t seem to get over a five-minute encounter that was barely an encounter at all.
I will get that girl out of my head, though. Even if I have to fuck her out, and that is just what I’m going to do. And I think I just found player number one.
Anika:
I shut off the music and untie the pale silk ribbon that’s wrapped securely around my ankles, wincing at the blisters that have formed on my feet after hours of pounding the polished wood floor. The dancing still wasn’t enough to quiet the noise inside my head. It usually does the trick, but instead of the small comfort it usually provides, I was left with a hollow ache in my chest and a pit in the bottom of my stomach that nearly brought me to my knees. Violently shoving the memories of my mother down as I stare at the spitting image of her in the mirror, I throw my satin ballet shoes at my own reflection and shove my battered feet into tennis shoes.
I’m busy taping up my wrists for some bag work before my sparring session, when my phone rings in my gym bag. I consider ignoring it like I usually do for a moment, but think twice as a certain handsome face crosses my mind. I reach over and pluck it out seeing an unknown Seattle number flash across the screen.
I tap accept. “This is Anika Borkova.”
“Hello, Ms. Borkova, this is Leanne Finley from Linwood Technologies,” an older female voice greets me.
“Hello, Ms. Finley. What can I help you with?” I ask and she lightly chuckles.
“So polite, he’ll like that.” I smile as she laughs at herself again before continuing on in her warm voice. “Ms. Borkova, I’m Mr. Linwood’s personal assistant and I apologize for calling so late and on such short notice, but would you be available to come in for an interview tomorrow?”
“Could you please give me a moment to check my calendar?” I ask, already knowing good and well that I can make it. I work when I want to. I sit silently for a second, checking the tape job on my wrists before replying, “I don’t think that will be a problem. Can you tell me who I will be seeing?”
“Of course, dear. It will be with Mr. Linwood, Ms. Preston the Director of Research and Development, and Mr. Mansfield the head of HR. Would two o’clock, here at headquarters work for you?”
“That will work for me, yes.”
“I’ve got you on the calendar, hun. Again, I apologize for the short notice,” she says.
“I assure you that it’s fine. Thank you, Ms. Finley. See you tomorrow.”
“See you then!” she says in parting before ending the call.
I’ve got this hook line and sinker. I’m qualified. I only added enough to my resume to draw them in, but not enough to give away all of my abilities. My only problem might be with Veronica Preston. I don’t score well with women…shocker, but she’s a shark. She’s cutthroat in business and has clawed, schemed and fucked her way to the top. She’s like me, and that’s what worries me the most. The only bit of information I haven’t been successful in uncovering is the extent of her relationship with Carter, and just how deep she might have her claws in him. She seems very much his type as far as I can tell. Blonde, beautiful, and more than willing. I’ll just have to deal with her if it comes to that.
I pull my black training gloves over my hands and walk over to the punching bag, sizing it up as if it were a poised attacker. I bounce back and forth between my feet to get my muscles loosened up again before striking out with the first hit. The pain barely registers as it sends tingles up my arm, helping me to forget the present. The anger and aggression surface too easily, sending me to a darker place where I’m free. Free from the torment of sin and free from the need to satiate my sinister thirst just one more time.
***
So, this is what eighteen looks like, I think to myself as I pull my father’s Mercedes into the driveway of our home.
Home.
That’s a funny word considering this isn’t home. At least not the one that I grew up in, but it was impossible to go back there- not after what happened. I look up at the brick two story, and the windows are dark. I’m filled with sudden disappointment. It isn’t as if I expected anything else, but now the hope is gone. I doubt anyone even remembers it’s my birthday, not that I want to remember myself, but every year there’s the possibility of it being different. Erik certainly didn’t remember as I dropped him off at his friend’s house. I know he’s up to no good, and I can’t stop him. Papa isn’t any help when he barely gets himself out of bed most days. I’ve already fixed Erik’s mistakes for him more times than I should have, and I can’t do it again. I’ve degraded myself, let others violate me, and have done terrible things all for him. I’ve given up parts of myself that I will forever regret just to ensure he stays out of jail, or worse.
For the past five years, I’ve been living in this nightmare I can’t wake up from. I’m sick and twisted inside. No matter how much I scream or shake the chains and beat the bars, I’m imprisoned inside my own head and taunted by the innocence I can never recover. I need help. I need something or someone to hold onto, but there isn’t anyone because I’m the one that holds everything together. But who is going to save me?
“Papa?” I call into the dark foyer searching for my father, but I’m greeted with silence. It’s not unusual, but this is a different stillness. It’s the kind of deafening quiet that rings in your ears and sends warning bells ringing through your head that something isn’t quite right.
I switch the light on in the kitchen, only to find the half-eaten dinner that I made still on the table. I force my feet to keep moving one in front of the other as my skin prickles into goosebumps and my mouth dries. I crack the door open to my father’s office, seeing the computer screens alive with data filtering through algorithms. The warm sweet smell of cigar tobacco fills my nose, and I feel a small sense of relief at the familiarity as I push the door open a little further and step inside. My weight causes the worn wooden boards beneath my feet to groan, startling me. Clutching my chest to slow my heartrate, I turn to where my father is sitting staring
at his work with an empty bottle of vodka in front of him.
“Papa?” I question again. He swivels around slowly to face me and his bloodshot blue eyes dart to the door before falling back on me. He moves slightly and I notice the shiny glint of the forty-five-caliber resting in his right hand.
“No…” my voice cracks with the weight of reality. I know that look. It’s the look he’s worn for five years, but there’s something more resolute about it now.
“Floor boards and car,” he whispers harshly as an errant tear falls down his pale, stubbled cheek.
“Papa, no… don’t do this.”
“Listen to me now, Ani,” he says, calling me by the nickname I haven’t heard cross his lips in years. “Floor boards and car,” he stresses again.
“Don’t… I love you.”
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispers to me in Russian as he lifts the weapon to his head and pulls the trigger. My body jolts in shock as I feel the hot wetness of his blood splatter my face and chest. My ears ring with the sound as my father slumps and falls to the floor, and I hear the front door slam.
I wasn’t alone.
Without thinking my body springs into motion as I run out into the hallway and towards the door. I make it to the front porch as I see a black SUV tear away from the curb, leaving only marks on the pavement and a cloud of thick burning smoke in the air.
“Son of a bitch!” I scream into the twilight sky as my eyes fill with hot, unshed tears. I will not cry. Not this time. No more. I repeat it to myself inside my head like a mantra as I feel the hot burning lump of despair climb up my throat. I decide in this moment, that the ashes of my past will become my steel resolve for my future. I won’t feel this way again…I refuse.
Pulling the phone out of my pocket, I dial the same number I did five years ago to this date. “911, state your emergency.” The operator says on the other end. My body tingles with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
