by Mackenzy Fox
I roll my eyes and take a big swig of cold coffee. “Don’t you start,” I warn. “That’s the last thing I need; you riding my ass too.”
“I’m serious! You don’t want another repeat of last year,” she reminds me. “That was pretty scary stuff on all accounts.”
“Ugh, please don’t remind me.”
You have one crazy stalker who attempts to break-in to your apartment building and everyone loses their minds.
“In any case, I’m sure you could make him useful if he’s really a stick in the mud, make him carry your shopping bags, better still take him to Victoria’s Secret on Black Friday or something.”
“He’d probably enjoy it if he’s a dirty old pervert,” I sigh. “Can’t you at least come over and give me some moral support?”
“You know I’d love to but I’m working late tonight,” she reminds me.
Dixie Alcott is one of the senior managers at Macy’s Midtown Manhattan store on 34th Street and she takes her role very seriously. Pity she doesn’t take anything else just as seriously, like my impending dilemma.
“Thanks, friend, I’ll remember that when Secret Santa time comes around and you’re buying your own cheap perfume.”
“Suck it up, buttercup,” she laughs. “I think you should see how this meeting goes tonight first before you blow your gasket, at least you’ll have a better understanding of who he is at least, then you can decide from there.”
“You act as if I have a choice,” I mutter, pressing send on the email I just typed. “And I don’t have a choice, remember? They’re probably both over at his office now re-arranging not just my schedule but my whole goddamned life.”
Poor Dixie, she’s very patient with me but I know when I’m defeated, there’s nothing she can do except sympathize and offer suggestions that are meant to make me feel better.
“Just give it a try. If you don’t like the new guy, your dad can hire someone else.”
I mutter into my cup again about life being unfair.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go,” Dixie says hurriedly. “I’m having lunch with some department execs for the new Benefit line. Got to get my shit together, I’m late.”
“I want samples,” I say before she quite unsympathetically hangs up on me. So much for moral support.
I mean, God, how rude. What’s a girl got to do to get someone to mope and gripe along with her these days and tell me how right I am about all of this and how unfair it is?
I scroll through my phone wondering which other friend I can call to moan to when there’s a knock at my door.
My assistant, Jolie, breezes in, holding her hot pink filo-fax and I know I’m in for a long Monday morning just by the look on her face.
She’s also carrying a very large clear mug of black coffee and I know things are about to slowly go downhill.
“Good morning, Morgan,” she says, taking a seat in front of me.
“Morning, Jolie, how was your weekend?”
3… 2… 1…
“Great, I sat around crying over my fuckwit boyfriend, or should I say ex-boyfriend, I pigged out on junk food all weekend so I gained like ten pounds at least, and then I decided to watch Beaches several times over because my life and entire existence isn’t punishment enough, add to that the fact that I didn’t sleep like at all, hence why I’ve enough concealer under my eyes to rival a cement truck… other than that, my weekend was just marvelous.”
I’m so glad I asked.
You just never know which way it’s going to swing with Jolie.
“I love what you’ve done with your hair,” I say brightly. I really don’t need drama today; I’ve enough of my own crap going on right now. Jolie is like a little hummingbird; she just needs any kind of distraction and she’ll forget all about what she was buzzing on about and go on to something else.
She brightens momentarily. Her long hair and blunt fringe is usually a bright, brassy blonde but she’s dyed the tips hot pink, which matches her reading glasses.
“Thanks, I did it myself.”
“You know you won’t meet a nice guy in any of the places you hang out, nice boys don’t bump and grind at the Zoo nightclub on Saturday nights,” I tell her.
Not that I’m any big expert. I think about my ex-boyfriend, Ethan, and suppress the sudden need to throw my stapler across the room and into the doubled glazed windows. Sure, I’d feel a whole lot better, but I like this stapler. At least a stapler does its job and doesn’t cheat on you and lie about it. Ethan was a big-time freaking idiot, like most men in New York on the dating scene. I can’t believe I wasted a year of my life thinking I could tame him. More fool me for trying.
“Where are all the nice guys?” Jolie cries. “I’ve been dating since I was fifteen. I’m done, where the hell is he?”
I pull out the top drawer of my desk and plonk down my stash of chocolate truffles and toffee bombs that are just what the doctor ordered for this wonderful Monday that’s about to unfold. Maybe I should have stayed in bed? I contemplate that as I sit back in my chair.
“I seriously don’t know, but if I do find out, I’ll definitely send all the nice ones your way,” I say with a kind smile knowing that’s not possible. For one, I’m eight years older than her, the guys she goes for look like Harry Styles and act like Justin Bieber, they probably still live at home with their moms doing their laundry and cooking their meals, bumming off free rent so they have the money to party all weekend.
“Don’t bother, I’m sworn off men for life,” she says adamantly while taking a handful of truffles. Why stop at one? She shoves two at once into her mouth. Good for her.
We both know she’ll be out clubbing again this weekend looking for Mr. Right in all the wrong places. Ah, the wonders of New York City.
We spend the next fifteen minutes going over today’s meetings and agenda. One thing Jolie is good at is her job; that is when she’s not crying in the toilets over her latest loser boyfriend.
I run a marketing company that specializes in website and graphic design; we cover all bases, including cover art, photoshoots and layouts, e-commerce stores, and distribution via adverts and media. Despite being known as John James’ spoiled rich daughter, I’ve done this without the help of my father’s money.
I’m one of the few people I know aside from Dixie who loves my job, which is why I practically live here. I don’t want to live off my father’s coattails for the rest of my life, not that it matters when you’re New York high society to begin with, nobody really cares, but it matters to me. I want to make it on my own and achieve something I can be proud of, not something that’s just been handed to me.
I throw myself into my Monday like a woman possessed, stopping for sushi over the kitchen sink in the lunchroom before I go into my next meeting. I don’t leave my office until after eight.
I greet my driver, Marcy, and instruct her to drop me at 5th Avenue, at my dad’s place. I sit in the back of the dark Mercedes and reply to some emails on my phone that I didn’t get the chance to look at earlier.
“Traffic is backed up,” Marcy says with a sigh. “Hope you weren’t planning on going anywhere fast.”
“Trust me when I say I’ve got all night,” I grumble. “You’ve most likely heard that dad has not only gone and hired more freaking security, but now I’m on full-time watch!”
“I know, I met him earlier today,” she says with a smile.
I look up at her and our eyes meet in the rear vision mirror as I sit up, intrigued.
“You did?” I splutter.
“Yes, he seems very thorough.” She nods. “Very professional, he has a military background, he’s an ex-green beret, that’s why your fathers hired him, he’s the best of the best.”
“What’s one of those, a green beret?” I wonder.
“Someone who does very bad shit in foreign countries,” she tells me. “He worked for the Special Forces for a number of years, it’s heavy shit, he comes highly recommended which goes without saying.”
Now I’m definitely intrigued. He sounds bad ass. Ding-dong, maybe Dixie got it right? Maybe my new security is a babe.
Of course, everyone’s met the new guy except me! I’m always the last to know anything around here, how typical of the one and only John James. He does nothing by halves and he also does nothing without cause; that in itself has me a little worried.
I slump back in my chair, instantly annoyed that he’s kept this from me.
What if I don’t like him? Not that any of that stuff matters, of course. My father has decided my fate and that’s that, and the truth is, it won’t matter, they’re not hired to be liked, they’re hired to do a job.
I scoot forward on the seat, sudden inspiration hitting me, though really, I can’t sit still.
“So? What’s he like? Will I like him?” I ask Marcy, wondering who the hell this mystery man is. “Is he like normal?”
She looks back at the road. “He’s the best money can buy, kid.”
Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good.
I rest my arms on the partition as she drives. “That doesn’t fill me with hope, Marcy.”
She chuckles, she knows me. We’ve been working together for the last three years and she’s seen and heard a lot and dried my tears on more than one occasion.
“Don’t look so worried, you know how Mr. James gets and he cares about you, what happened with Bill Chapple has him spooked.”
Bill Chapple was one of my father’s business associates, he died recently in a home robbery gone wrong, and ever since then, he’s lost his mind with conspiracy theories.
This is what immense wealth brings you. Yes, it brings you all the riches in the world, anything money can buy, but you can’t even take a pee without someone standing over you. I’ve grown up rich, it’s all I’ve known, and I’ve never had to want for anything, but sometimes I just long for a normal life. One where I don’t have security people following me around or wondering if I’m going to get kidnapped and held to ransom.
I just keep getting this sinking feeling and I can’t shake it.
“It’s very sad about Bill,” I concede. “But it was a robbery, not a conspiracy. In a city of over eight million people, bad things happen, that doesn’t mean Mr. James has to put a security guard on me at home, the gym, and now my workplace. It’s inconceivable.”
“Or it proves just how much he loves you,” Marcy replies, always the voice of reason. “How much he wants to protect you from any potential threats, he’s a good man, Morgan, he just wants what’s best for you.”
Marcy is always the peacemaker but she’s also on my father’s payroll.
I roll my eyes. “How am I supposed to explain this to my work colleagues as well, nothing like a buzz kill having some secret service dude hanging around all day like a weirdo, it’ll make the staff feel uncomfortable.” I know I sound whiney but I’m past the point of no return.
My phone rings suddenly, saving Marcy from having to answer me.
Speak of the devil.
“Pumpkin, how was your day?”
I roll my eyes. As if he cares. “Hi, Dad, we were just discussing you actually.”
“Don’t bring me into this,” I hear Marcy mutter from the front seat.
“Come on now, sweetheart, I know that tone and this is just a precaution, the increase in security may only be for a couple of months and it won’t encroach onto your normal working life.”
Was he actually for real right now? A couple of months?
I tap my other hand on my knee nervously because I know not to trust anything that comes out of this man’s mouth. He’s a wheeler and dealer from way back, I should know, he taught me well.
“And besides,” he goes on before I can answer. “You already know him, so it shouldn’t be awkward in the slightest.”
He actually sounds quite proud of himself, like he’s done some good deed for the day.
This does nothing at all for my nerves as I quickly rack my brain to think of anybody I would know in the security business. I come up blank. I don’t know any freaking green berets. The only berets I’m aware of are the ones you wear in Paris when buying French bread. How I wish I were there now instead of dealing with this crap.
“Dad, what are you talking about? Does Mac have a twin brother I don’t know about?”
I hear rustling and I know he’s doing paperwork in between ruining my life. “Very funny. You went to school with him, Daniel Westbrook’s kid.”
My whole entire body freezes.
He has to be absolutely kidding me. Did I even hear that right?
Jack Westbrook?
“W-what?” I stammer, hardly able to believe the words he’s just spouted at me.
“You remember Jack, though he’s changed quite a lot since high school. He goes by Jaxon now too, great guy, ex-green beret.”
So I’ve heard.
I cannot believe it.
The Jack Westbrook I remember was a pimply, overweight, unpopular kid who got bullied the shit out of for most of middle school and then high school in the worst of ways. I had befriended him in class because I felt sorry for him, but ultimately, I’d ended up being his biggest enemy through my betrayal. It’s a shame I remember very vividly as my cheeks color at what I’d done and the friendship I’d turned my back on.
I mean, it was stupid. It was high school. He probably doesn’t even remember it now.
“Dad… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh, and why’s that?” he asks. “He comes highly recommended and is superbly qualified, I couldn’t ask for better, truth be told.”
I wonder suddenly if he has the wrong dude. I mean, it could happen. A case of mistaken identity?
“Because it’s not even necessary,” I bark down the phone. “None of this is, I’m okay with security part-time but not all day, every day.”
He sighs loudly. “That’s not really any of my concern what you’re okay with,” he says without tact, using the authoritative voice that he usually reserves for his business meetings. “So, I hope that when you arrive, you have a serious attitude adjustment Morgan, that way, this can go as smoothly or as difficult as you want it to be. The choice is yours, but I’ll be sourly disappointed if you choose the latter. Message me when you’re downstairs.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else. This is what my father does. He Pumpkin pies you one minute and then bitch slaps you the next.
I sit there in shock as my mind flicks back to high school and the horror that all of it brings to the surface. I was a different person then, I was a kid, I didn’t know any better.
Guilt floods me even after all these years.
I just hope to God that Jaxon, aka Jack Westbrook, doesn’t have a long memory; it would be best for the both of us.
2
Morgan
The ride up to my father’s apartment feels painfully longer than usual. I almost contemplated asking Marcy to take the scenic route and circle around for a little bit to give me more time to think. I’m a chicken, that’s all I know.
The whole trip across town, all I can think about is Jack Westbrook and the torture he endured during his teenage years. I’d like to think it got better after high school and beyond but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Kids can be the cruelest kind of monsters, especially to those less fortunate or, heaven forbid, slightly different. Jack had definitely been different; being smart didn’t help as that wasn’t cool, he was also severely overweight and unpopular. Nobody liked different in that kind of way. I never saw him get the shit beaten out of him but I saw the repercussions the next day on his face and body and in his demeanor when he kept to himself and never talked to anyone. Even when I’d tried to help, I’d done more harm than good.
Back then, I didn’t hang with nice people. I was in with the wrong crowd.
They were all stuck-up rich bitches, including me. The mean girls.
While thinking about it now, I realize I haven’t relived it for more than ten years, I�
�d actually put it completely out of my mind. Everything about back then was too much. Even being rich and sheltered by all that wealth can bring you, I’d never really fit in or found my place.
I went along with what Carly, our fearless leader, and the other girls in the group like Helen and Melinda wanted. If they wanted blood, they got it, and they all made sure if you were in then you were in, if you were out, then forget it. Go hide for the rest of your life in the library or face the gauntlet of terror should you choose to frequent the cafeteria.
I feel myself starting to sweat as the memories come flooding back.
The elevator pings, alerting me to my stop.
The Penthouse of my father’s apartment has its own private elevator that leads me right into the expansive foyer. He’s recently divorced from wife number four and this new apartment was a present to himself, along with the promise of bachelorhood, again. I hope it stays that way.
I seriously do not want him marrying for the fifth time. I think after four failed attempts, it’s time to just play it cool and not embarrass one’s self over and over, skirt-chasing like he’s half his age. My father is handsome in a Don Johnson lady-killer kind of way—oh yeah, he could switch on the charm with the ladies when he wanted to and turn any woman’s head in the room at whim. Puke.
Thank God for expensive lawyers, that’s all I can say.
I waltz through the doors into the main living area and Louis, the butler, greets me and immediately asks to take my coat. I shrug off my camel trench and hand it to him.
“Thanks, Louis.”
“Would you care for anything to drink, Ms. James?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, wondering if a shot of vodka would probably be a good idea. “Very well, your father and Mr. Westbrook are in his office,” he says, then retreats with my coat in hand.
It’s a tad bit ridiculous that he has staff on hand to do everything for him, not that any of his past wives, except my mother, could be considered domesticated in any way, shape, or form. The blame can’t be entirely on him though, he seems to be good at finding gold-digging bimbos.
