Rebel North

by JB Salsbury

  “You’re late,” he growls without lifting his head from his work.

  “Am I?” I say sarcastically. He should be happy I showed up at all. “I don’t see what the big deal is. We all know I have nothing to offer this place outside of my impeccable style. All I’m required to do is show up and look pretty to stay on August’s payroll.” I drop my six-hundred-pound aching head to the cushion. A quick nap might help—

  “Where did you disappear to last night?”

  I don’t open my eyes. “Good question.”

  I started off happy hour drinking with Alex’s wife Jordan at her restaurant. I was celebrating my last day of freedom from North Industries, but that party turned into a fog somewhere around a twenty-five-year-old single malt.

  “Jordan was worried.”

  I feel his eyes on me, so I open mine, and yep, he’s looking at me like I stole his favorite pen, which, for him, is an egregious offense.

  “She tried calling you.”

  “My phone died.” I don’t tell him I got mugged or that I spent all morning canceling credit cards and ordering a new phone.

  “I don’t like it when my wife worries.”

  We share a few seconds of uncomfortable eye contact, and I wonder if I’m about to get my ass kicked.

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to her.”

  I chuckle cautiously. “Um… last I checked, I have a mom. I love my sister-in-law, but I don’t owe Jordan shit.”

  I watch the storm clouds of his temper darken his hazel eyes and the muscles in his jaw tick. I hold my breath and wait.

  He eyes his new punching bag in the corner of his office—the heavy bag Jordan insisted he pound rather than ripping people’s heads off. He blinks, exhales, and nods once. “I’ll apologize for you.”

  “I appreciate that.” I drop my head back and thank the gods of temperamental brothers that my face is still intact. Six months ago, he’d have been in my face, insulted me with a barrage of dirty words, and physically thrown me out of his office. He may have even punched a wall or broken something. But not anymore. Not since Jordan. She’s been the best kind of therapy for my atypical brother. Calmed his inner beast the way meds and counseling never could.

  “Now, my first project as a member of the family business is a little thing I like to call cranial rejuvenation. You get back to whatever you were doing, and I’m going to quietly crash out for a bit. Wake me up if you see August—”

  “You’re not assigned to my department.”

  I crack an eyelid. “I’m not?”

  He shakes his head slowly.

  I sit up too quickly and close one eye until my head stops swimming. “What department am I assigned to?”

  “You’ll have to ask your supervisor.”

  Is it just me, or does he look like he’s trying not to smile?

  “Who’s my supervisor?

  Oh yeah, he’s definitely fighting laughter.

  “No,” I whisper. “Don’t tell me…” I hold up a hand as if I could rewrite whatever he’s about to say with the force of my palm. “Hudson, right? Just tell me it’s Hudson.”

  He rolls his lips between his teeth.

  “Fuck… fuck!” I glare at the smug son-of-a-bitch.

  “He’s been waiting for you all day.” He flicks his fingers. “Better get going.”

  “I hate you,” I mumble as I stand. I flip the asshole off over my shoulder as I walk out of his office, leaving him chuckling in my wake.

  My brother Hayes waves me into his office, even though he has the phone pressed to his ear as he barks out a nasty reprimand to whoever is on the other side. His laser-sighted glare follows me inside, and he jabs a finger toward a leather chair.

  “A minute late is still late, Gillingham, and I won’t have that kind of incompetence in my department. Is that understood?”

  “Dickhead,” I mutter to myself, earning a fierce middle finger salute from the tight ass.

  I sink into the fine Italian leather and ignore Hayes by looking at everything but him. Whereas Alexander’s office is modest and only filled with the bare minimum necessities, Hayes’ space is a gigantic brag about how big his wallet and his brain are. Only the finest handcrafted furniture, made with polished steel and hand-carved exotic woods. The shelves are filled with books, the drawers with files, and the bar with Lalique crystal glassware. And a television the size of an SUV adorns the far wall.

  “No more excuses. If I don’t see that contract in the next few minutes—fine.” He hangs up the phone, and all that nasty Hayes energy gets directed right at me. “You’re late.” He checks his Rolex. “Seven hours late.”

  “I am so sick of people telling me that.”

  “Not only do you show up late,” he eyes my suit with distaste, “but you’re dressed like a funeral bouquet.”

  I gasp and struggle to recover from the insult of my suit. “This is Dolce and Gabbana.” My jaw hangs open, waiting for the realization of his mistake to hit him.

  It doesn’t.

  “You’re working in the legal department of North Industries, not the VIP section of the Boom Boom Room. Dress like an adult.”

  “Dolce and Gabbana!” I point to my jacket. My vest. My pants. I wait for his apology. None comes. “You’re a monster.”

  “Why weren’t you here this morning like every other employee?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  He rocks back in his chair. “I’m all fuckin’ ears.”

  “I drank too much last night and…” I shrug. “I don’t know. I blacked out.” I don’t tell him about getting mugged or about the woman. Some stories are better left untold. “I’m here now.”

  “You blacked out.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And woke up in your bed at home.”

  I cringe. “Not exactly at home.”

  “Jesus, Kingston.” He cringes. “Do you have any idea the trouble you’re bringing onto yourself, onto this family, if you get some random chick pregnant or contract a flesh-eating dick virus?”

  “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t have sex with anyone.” Or, at least, she says I didn’t. I’ll admit, I was surprised.

  “How do you know you didn’t have sex with her if you blacked out?” Hayes uses his most parental tone. He’d be a horrible dad, and that’s saying something coming from a guy who is sired by the worst kind of human being.

  “Can we please get off the subject of my night and move on to what the hell I’m going to be doing here for forty hours a week?”

  His eyes take on an evil glint. One I recognize from adolescence. Hayes was the ultimate torturer. Cherry Kool-Aid in the showerhead so I thought I was bleeding to death. Wrapped my car in cellophane in my school parking lot. Got me pulled out of class by the police on a tip that I had plans to shoot up the school. I had to meet with a therapist for months before they trusted me enough to let me back on campus. He never did confess to that, but I know it was him.

  “Yes.” He rocks forward and puts his elbows on his desk. “I have stacks of backlogged paperwork that need to be put in alphabetical order by name and sorted by date.”

  Dread settles in my gut. “Alphabetical order.”

  He smirks, mistaking my tone for irritation rather than what it really is—full-blown panic. “That’s right, Romeo. Some real preschool shit. You think you can handle that?” He nods to some unseen spot behind me. “I set up an office for you.”

  I slowly turn around to the open door that leads to a room. “What the fuck?” I turn back around. “That’s a closet.”

  “A walk-in closet.”

  “Hayes—”

  “It’s bigger than most New York apartments, so quit bitching.”

  The weight of my paper-pushing future sends my head into my hands and a groan from my throat. “This sucks.”

  The door to his office flies open. A woman races inside and stumbles into his desk, panting. Her blonde hair looks like it started in a Fr
ench braid days ago, and her shirttail is wrinkled and pulled free from her pencil skirt.

  “The contract, Mr. North,” she says breathlessly while offering Hayes a file folder. When he takes it, she tucks in the back of her shirt, buttons up her cuffs, and tries without success to smooth her hair.

  Hayes tosses the contract into the garbage bin at her feet. Ouch. “I drafted the contract myself an hour ago.”

  The woman’s face pales, all the blood in her head vacating instantly. “I worked all night on that contract.”

  “Your deadline was nearly two hours ago.”

  Her delicate jaw tightens. “I told you it was coming—”

  “Too late.” He dismisses her with a flick of his wrist. “Get busy on the Seymore bid. It’s due tomorrow at ten o’clock. But after what you pulled today, Gillingham, I expect it at nine.”

  Her shoulders deflate, and when she turns her back on him, I see her swipe at her cheeks. I applaud her for not letting the prick see her cry. “Thank you, Mr. North.”

  He doesn’t say a word as she slumps out of the office, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Why do you insist on being such a cock?”

  “It’s business.” He spins his gold pen in his fingers. “Not personal.”

  “Yeah? Tell that to poor Gillingham. Looked pretty personal to her.”

  He tilts his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember reading on your resume that you had managerial experience or that you were looking for an executive position. Oh, wait, that’s right. That’s because you don’t have a resume because you’ve never had a fucking job.”

  I hold up a finger. “That’s not entirely true—”

  “So stop telling me how to do mine.”

  “—I was a pool boy at Paloma Beach in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.”

  His thick brows pinch together. “Seducing older women on the beaches of Southern France isn’t a job.” He uses air quotes.

  So says he. Two summers at Paloma Beach taught me the most valuable life lessons—seduction, manipulation, and betrayal.

  I learned that if I smile in a certain way, use my body and my charm, I’m able to create an image that works like a smokescreen. Attractive enough that people befriend me at face value and have no interest in digging deeper.

  And thank goodness for that.

  Because if they look beyond my designer clothes and pretty face, they’d see me for the royal fuck-up that I am.

  Gabriella

  “You probably think I’m exaggerating.” I slump back in my chair and rip the seal off a cup of vanilla pudding. “I’m not. He was by far the prettiest man I’d ever seen.” I spoon a bite into my mouth and swallow. “And yes, I do mean pretty.”

  I’ve been sitting with Walter for the last few hours, knowing that his time was quickly approaching. Without any family—or even a single visitor—I didn’t want him to feel alone, so I read to him, played an old Hank Williams album, and confided in him about my handsome visitor. Dying people are the best listeners.

  “Ask him for his number? No, I didn’t even ask his name. He didn’t ask mine either.” I swirl the plastic spoon through the creamy sweet custard. “I told him he’s not my type. I wasn’t lying. Fate? No, I don’t believe in that. Do you?” I take another bite of pudding.

  Soft footsteps sound behind me, and I turn to see Evan slip into the dark room.

  “How’s he doing?” he asks as he draws closer to the bed.

  “He’s close.”

  He presses two fingers into Walter’s wrist. “You ate a dying man’s pudding?” he says playfully.

  “No.” I lick the spoon and toss it into the trash. “Okay, technically, yes, but he hated pudding and always gave them to me, so I felt like he’d want me to have it.”

  “You’re something else.” He smiles in a way that reaches his eyes, softening his tough-guy appearance. He’s a decent-looking guy, tall, strong, built like a bouncer rather than an RN. “You’re the only person I know who can stomach food while watching people die.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  His smile is sweet and safe, nothing like the dangerous smirk of the stranger from the other night. “Not bad, just different.”

  Different. Synonym for: Separate from. Bizarre. Peculiar. And he’s not even referring to my face.

  He pops his stethoscope into his ears and presses the metal disc to Walter’s chest. I watch in silence. One minute. Two. No movement. His mouth is slack. The tension of a long, hard life has slipped from his face.

  Evan checks his watch and pulls the stethoscope from his ears. “Three thirty-seven.”

  I fold Walter’s tepid hands on his chest, then pull up his blanket and fold it at his neck. “Thanks for everything, Walter. I’ll see you on the flip side.” I finger comb his unruly white hair. I know he plans to be cremated, but I want whoever is doing the job to know he was cared for enough that his hair was put in place.

  “You’re good to him,” Evan says.

  I don’t cry. In all honesty, I’m not sad. Death comes for us all.

  Death came for me once already.

  I was lucky enough to outrun it.

  Three

  Kingston

  My first official week at North Industries has been the equivalent of corporate waterboarding.

  Hayes, that fuckface, makes me work all day! I’m his file bitch. And he torments me with a million tiny irritants. Like paper. At the bottom of every mile-high stack is just another mile-high stack—a never-ending hell. He also sends me on pointless gopher runs. Like this morning, when he sent me to the second floor to find a man named Jeremy to get a single silver paperclip. I’d be pissed about his little fake errands if I weren’t so relieved to get out of the closet for even a few minutes.

  He only allows one hour for lunch, not nearly enough time for a post-lunch power nap, and he kicks me when he catches me sleeping. When I try to defend my nap, he spouts some bullshit about a power nap being fifteen minutes, not two hours. What kind of injustice is this? And is it going on all over the country?

  The only thought that gets me out of bed every morning is the intent to march into August’s office and yell, “I quit!” right in his face, followed by a powerful double birdie. And every morning, I pull up to the all-glass high rise with the words North Industries emblazoned on the side, and I lose every ounce of my nerve.

  I push through the double glass lobby doors with a little too much force, sending a gust of wind in behind me. Everyone takes an instinctive step back. Everyone except for Kim, who is in a perpetually good mood, day after day. With. Out. Fail.

  She hops up from her chair as I pass by. “Good morning, Mr. Nor—”

  “Ugh, fuck off already.” I groan, stop, and turn around. She’s still smiling. WTF? “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” Her smile brightens. I frown. “Do you snort coke, Miss Kim?”

  Finally, her expression falls, and her face pales. “What? No! Of course not, I—”

  I hold up one hand to quiet her and plug my ear with the other. “Shhh… too many words.” I drag my feet to the elevators and use my foot to slam the button to the executive level.

  I feel gross inside, like spending all this time with Hayes has left his shit-stain on my soul.

  With my back to the wall, I close my eyes. The elevator dings, and I hear the shuffling footsteps of someone climbing in at the last minute. I keep my eyes closed because, fuck ‘em, I’m not here to make friends, I’m only here for my paycheck.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your nap, princess.”

  My insides sour at the sound of my father’s voice. His Tom Ford cologne fills the small space and makes my stomach twist with revulsion.

  “Your brother tells me you’re doing some solid grunt work,” he says with a smile in his voice.

  My brother is lying. I’ve fucked up every job Hayes has given me. I’m slow, it takes me hours to do what another person could do in ten minutes, and when I ask questions, I never remember th
e answers.

  I turn my head, crack an eye, and thank my mom for her outstanding genetics, which are responsible for the few inches of height I have on the man. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”

  He shoves his diamond-pinkie-ring-wearing hand into his slacks and smirks. “This should be enlightening.”

  I push up off the wall and face him head-on. “You’re trying to make my life suck so I’ll quit and confirm that I really am the slacker loser you think I am.”

  “Leopard can’t change its spots.”

  “Huh…” I scratch my jaw. “If that were true, you’d still be a whoring old man sticking his dick into anything with a pulse.”

  His cheeks flush red, and his jaw pulses. “Watch your mouth.”

  Now it’s my turn to smirk.

  “You’ll quit eventually, and when you do, you won’t see another penny from me.”

  “If you want to get rid of me so badly, why even hire me? Why not just cut me off? Send me back to France?”

  The elevator stops and pings as the doors slide open. “Because I promised your mother that I’d get you out of her house and keep you out.”

  His parting words leave a nasty sting that I refuse to dwell on. This game of passive-aggressive jabs has been going on since I became aware of him as my biological father.

  We find new ways to hurt each other. New ways to insult and inflict pain.

  Our mutual contempt is our only father–son connection. Baseball and fishing trips be damned.

  Gabriella

  I don’t know if it’s something in the air or if Mercury’s in retrograde, but the last twenty-four hours at work have been nonstop. A wave of patient intakes would’ve been an issue if we hadn’t also had a wave of patients passing as if they all agreed to give up the ghost at the same time. We were turning rooms quicker than a motel that rents by the hour. And to make matters worse, we had a nursing assistant call in sick, so I stayed and helped out, with only an hour-long nap in the breakroom to sustain me.

  Exhausted to the point of deliriousness, I’m finally free to go home. As I drag the last bag of trash into the alley to toss it into the dumpster, the afternoon warmth ripens the scent. I hold my breath and fling the bag as hard as I can up and over, only to have it snag on a rust-eaten corner. Paper cups, plastic utensils, and uneaten food spill onto my feet. I manage to push the rest of the bag in and then drop to a squat and use my fingers like pinchers to clean up the mess.