He’s selling himself short.
“I don’t need to tell any of you that this situation is unsustainable. Enter Eric.” He glances down at the man sitting at his right. “Eric Kane went to school with me. He has an undergraduate degree in finance and a graduate degree in business. He worked for six years with Sterns, Baker & Cox before leaving to start his own company. He’s the best at what he does. I’m exceedingly lucky he’s here.” His lips tilt up in another, more genuine smile. “I didn’t really give him much of an out, to be honest. I might have imposed on our friendship.”
“You did,” Eric quips.
Xavier grins. “I have no regrets.” He picks up his mug from the table and takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. “While Eric’s title is the acting VP of Mergers & Acquisitions, he’ll be playing a much broader role. He’s going to help us get back on track while I search for Pierre’s replacement. I expect he’ll be working closely with everyone here.” His eyes sweep the room. “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves.”
John leans forward eagerly. Of course. “My name is John Stone,” he says. “I’m the VP of Finance. I’ve worked here for over ten years.” He gives Eric a condescending smile. “I know Leforte’s finances inside and out. If you have any questions, I can help you out.”
I inwardly shake my head. John is trying to dominate Eric, and from the blandness of Eric’s smile, he’s perfectly aware of what the other man is trying to do.
Kevin clears his throat, ready to go next. I go back to moping. First Pierre, and now Eric. I can’t seem to grab a break.
Eric Kane had been actively hostile in our first meeting, but to be fair, he has good reason to dislike me. As much as I want to stew in my indignation, I can’t deny that I was in the wrong that fateful afternoon. Had there been any cell phone reception in that room, I would have called the police.
And it would have been a complete train wreck. Word would have gotten around about how the Congresswoman had been seen in a BDSM club. That she’d been in a scene with two men. Her career would have been ruined.
Because I jumped to conclusions.
All things considered, Eric’s reaction was perfectly justified.
I really wanted the job though. I’ve spent the past three weeks researching it. I’ve talked to former colleagues. Refreshed the finance skills I haven’t used in forever. I’ve stayed at work even later than normal, pouring over Xavier’s various businesses, making sure I understand each and every company that’s part of Leforte Enterprises.
Now, it’s all for nothing. After witnessing my catastrophic error in judgment, Eric will not recommend me for the COO position. Sigh.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize that Hira has introduced herself, and it’s my turn, not until she nudges me. The entire room is staring at me. “Dixie?” Xavier prompts.
Wonderful. I’m making a stellar second impression. Every time I think this day can’t get any worse, the universe laughs at me and cranks up the dial.
“Hi,” I say, pasting a fake smile on my face. “I’m Dixie Ketcham. I’m the General Counsel. I’ve been with Leforte Enterprises since February.” I gulp down some of my now lukewarm coffee. “I provide legal advice to the corporation, both for routine contracts as well as during mergers and acquisitions.”
Eric looks like he’s trying not to laugh at me. “Good to see you again, Dixie.”
John’s head snaps up at that, and his eyes narrow. He’s trying to assess what me knowing Eric means for his chances at the COO role.
I’m pretty sure I’m out of the running, John. You have nothing to worry about.
John’s not the only one looking curious. Kevin Hughes is giving me an assessing glance. Even Hira glances over at me.
But that’s not the worst thing. The worst thing happens when I catch sight of Xavier’s face.
He’s smiling.
Oh, God. He knows everything.
Hot embarrassment sweeps through me, anger swiftly on its heels. Yes, I interrupted Eric and Hunter’s scene. Yes, I screwed up. But I hadn’t succeeded in calling the cops, Congresswoman Cordero’s privacy wasn’t violated, and most importantly, none of it had been deliberate. I’d made a mistake. I’d apologized for it. Camila Cordero had accepted my apology.
Eric Kane couldn’t have let it go? He had to tell Xavier? No doubt, the two of them had a nice laugh at me. Poor Dixie. So sheltered and uptight that she mistook the BDSM scene for assault. Hardy har har.
I’m seething as the meeting winds down. Eric announces that he’ll be meeting with all of us individually this week. Then it’s over. Everyone files out of the room. Hira looks at my blouse with a rueful shake of her head. “I think the stain has set,” she says. “But why don’t you come to my office? Let’s try to rescue it if we can.”
I make a sudden decision. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Xavier is in a low-voiced conversation with Eric. I wait for them to finish, and thankfully for me, Elisa pats her boss on the arm, reminding him he needs to be elsewhere.
Eric turns to leave as well, his attention on his phone. “Mr. Kane,” I speak up, my voice vibrating with rage. “Can I have a word with you?”
He glances up. Surprise flashes on his face when he catches sight of me. “I didn’t realize you were still here,” he says. “Of course, Ms. Ketcham. What can I do for you?”
I close the distance between us. “You know what,” I hiss between clenched teeth. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your scene, but even though I did the wrong thing, it was for the right reasons. I really thought I heard someone scream for help.” I grip the edge of my notepad. “You had a choice. You could have let it go. You didn’t have to tell Xavier about it.”
I imagine the two of them laughing about it—poor, naïve Dixie, stupidly blundering into things, clueless and confused—and my jaw tightens. I feel a stress headache gathering in the margins. “I made an honest mistake. You didn’t have to badmouth me to my new boss.”
Eric’s looking at me with a very strange expression on his face. “What?” I snap.
He tilts his head to one side. “You seem to be making a habit of jumping to conclusions,” he says mildly. “I haven’t told Xavier anything, and neither has Hunter. As far as I know, he doesn’t know the circumstances of our first meeting.”
He didn’t? Okay, this is the point where I’d like the ground to open up underneath my feet, please.
“Umm, I—”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish. Can’t say I blame him. “I look forward to working with you, Dixie,” he says. “Elisa is going to book a meeting on your schedule. You’re new here, and so you have a fresh eye. I’d like to discuss what’s working well at Leforte and what isn’t.”
He nods politely at me and leaves the conference room. I stay frozen in place. What is wrong with me? Do I have some kind of subconscious self-sabotaging urge?
I can’t believe I screwed up. Again.
As much as I hate to admit it, I need to loosen up. I leaped to conclusions about Camila Cordero. I did the same about Eric. I’m still not sure what my girlfriends get out of BDSM.
I used to pride myself on keeping an open mind, but somewhere along the way, I’ve lost that. I’m not as live-and-let-live as I think I am.
That stings.
I need to do something big to shake myself out of this rut, and I think I know what it is.
5
Hunter
Eventually, a few weeks after my mother’s death, there is a formal reading of the will. There are no surprises there. I’m an only child, and aside from the generous bequests she’s made to three local charities, I’ve inherited everything she owned. Her house, her small retirement account, and the remainder of her investments.
The representatives of the charities linger after the reading to talk to me. Sonia Marsh heads up a no-kill pet shelter. “Breanna volunteered with us often,” she says. “She loved animals, and they loved her. They sensed a friend in her, I think.”
Sonia Marsh is a lovely woman, and if she doesn’t stop talking, I’m going to tear up. So many times, I told my mom to get another dog, but she hadn’t been willing to. “After Butterscotch died, I made myself a promise,” she’d said. “No more. I can’t take the heartbreak, Hunter.”
My mom could be stubborn, but I genuinely thought I’d have time to convince her otherwise.
Amana Kuti is next. She’s the director of the first domestic violence shelter in the area and a long-time family friend. “Hunter,” she says, enveloping me in a warm hug. “How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there. Thank you for the flowers.”
“It was nothing.” She looks sad. “I still can’t believe Breanna is gone. I want to wake up and have this all be a horrible nightmare.”
Oh God, I can’t take very much of this. I extricate myself from the conversation as quickly as I can without offending Amana. I shake hands with the third woman, who introduces herself as Sophia Thorsen, accept her condolences, and flee the room.
Brian Holland, my mother’s lawyer, catches up with me at the exit. “Couldn’t take it anymore?” he guesses astutely.
“How could you tell?”
“For starters, you look terrible,” he replies frankly. “But also, I’ve been in your shoes. My wife died six years ago. I remember how overwhelming everything was. For the first six months, I couldn’t even open her closet. It hurt too much. It took me a long time to make my peace with it.”
“I haven’t been in my mother’s bedroom. Not since I found…” The body. My mother’s dead body. I don’t know why I’m telling Holland this. It isn’t as if I know the man.
“I’m so sorry, Hunter. I know it seems like a mindless platitude right now, but it does get better.” He clears his throat. “On a different note, I wanted to bring something to your attention. My office has received almost a dozen calls from Mitch Donahue.”
“The real estate developer?” I stare at Holland. “Why the hell is he calling you?”
“He wanted to know if the estate had been settled. My assistant told him that we are not in a position to comment on the private affairs of our clients, but the message didn’t seem to sink in.” He shakes his head. “Typical of the man.”
“You know him?”
“We belong to the same golf club.”
From his tone, Donahue is no friend of his. “He showed up at my mother’s funeral,” I tell the other man. “He made a verbal offer for my mother’s house. A generous one.”
“Did he tell you what he wants to do?” Holland shakes his head. “I don’t want to gossip, but—”
When people say they don't want to gossip, what they really mean is that they want to be persuaded into imparting the information. I paste a neutral yet encouraging expression on my face. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but—”
Holland doesn’t need much persuasion. “This is an open secret,” he says. “Donahue is trying to get into the high-end market. It’s my understanding that he’s planning to build a luxury subdivision. Very exclusive. Only six homes, each more than ten thousand square feet. He wants to install a helipad and pitch it as a neighborhood that’s commuting distance to Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and even Pittsburgh.”
“Surely he’s not going to be able to get anything like that through the town council.”
“You’ll be surprised,” Holland says gloomily. “Donahue wants to buy your mother’s house because it’s sitting on acreage. He’ll tear the house down and build his subdivision in its place.”
My shoulders stiffen. My grandparents left my mother the house when they died. It used to be a farm. Once upon a time, when my mother was a teenager, it was one of many in the neighborhood, but in the last fifty or so years, most of them have been sold, green fields giving way to cookie-cutter subdivisions.
My grandfather had been too stubborn to sell. My mother wasn’t as obstinate, but she was sentimental. This was the house she’d grown up in, and she wanted to stay where she was. Here, she felt in touch with her roots.
“He offered me six million dollars.”
“Hmm. That is a lot of money, but if I were you, I’d tread carefully.”
Brian Holland is the soul of caution. He rarely volunteers his opinion on anything. This is as explicit as he’s going to get.
A luxury subdivision. Donahue’s offer makes more sense now. He’s not paying six million dollars for an old, drafty farmhouse. He’s planning on splitting the property into half-a-dozen lots, and he’s going to put six obnoxiously oversized McMansions on it. And a helipad, for fuck’s sake.
“Thank you for your help,” I tell the lawyer. “I really appreciate it.”
I make my way to my car. I roll down the windows and turn on my phone, and wince at the dozens of notifications.
So many emails. So many text messages and voicemails. From my friends. From Eric. From Xavier. From Annette Reeves, repeating the offer of lunch. So many people reaching out to me. I should feel lucky.
The phone rings. It’s Mitch Donahue again. The man has called me four times in the last four days. I’ve swiped each and every one of his calls to voicemail, and he refuses to get the message.
Everything is overwhelming, and I want to hide from it all. I’m not ready to deal with the world, not when I’m still struggling to accept that my mother is gone. I feel unfocused and out of control.
At some point, I know I have to sort out the house. I can’t keep avoiding Donahue forever. I can’t keep ignoring the emails, voicemails, and text messages. My friends are concerned. My mother’s friends are grieving in their own right, and I must respond to their heartfelt messages with something equally thoughtful. I just don’t have the emotional wherewithal for it. It’s so tempting to delete everything instead.
Will that make you feel better?
Stupid voice of reason. Sometimes, it sucks to be a therapist. Sometimes it sucks to realize that nothing I’m describing is unusual. Being overwhelmed is part of the process. Being in denial is normal. Billions of people before me have felt exactly the same way, and billions of people after me will face the same complex tangle of emotions. I’m not unique in my grief.
But I can’t help feeling that I’m failing. I should be doing better at this. I’m a therapist, damn it. I shouldn’t be struggling as badly as I am. I should know what to do to feel right again.
Brian Holland thought I looked terrible. I pull down the visor mirror and regard myself, and he’s not wrong. I look dreadful. I haven’t been sleeping. My eyes are bloodshot, my clothes are wrinkled, and my hair is an overgrown mess.
My mother took great pride in her appearance. My grandparents had instilled it in her. They came to America with nothing but the clothes on their back, but they were very clear about some things. It didn’t matter how poor you were. You made sure your clothes were clean and ironed. Dressing decently was an act of self-respect, something that said to the world that you were more than your bank balance and your circumstances.
This isn’t good, Hunter.
I reach for my phone again to see if my barber can fit me in today. My display is open to my emails, and one message catches my eye.
It’s Open Night at Club M tomorrow.
That’s it. That’s the solution to my problems. A scene where I have to be focused and completely in control of myself is exactly what I need. An experienced submissive, maybe even a new one, someone wide-eyed and eager, someone with whom I’ll have to be careful and attentive, making sure she gets what she needs out of the encounter.
You’re lying to yourself, you do realize that, don’t you? A scene isn’t the solution to your problems. You’re hiding from reality, but you can’t escape it forever.
Maybe so. But it’s going to take more energy than I possess to tackle my messages, call Donahue, and figure out what I’m going to do about my mother’s house.
A casual scene is all I have the capacity for right now.
6
Eric
I don't know what instinct drives me to go to the club's open night on Saturday. Maybe it's because it's been a long week. Maybe it's because I can't shake off the feeling that something is wrong at Leforte Enterprises. Maybe it's that I could use a drink or two, anything to get the distraction that is Dixie Ketcham out of my head.
Whatever it is, when I get there, I see someone there that I didn't expect to see. Hunter.
I walk over to him. "You're alive," I quip. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I curse myself. Idiot. "You're the last person I thought I'd see here."
"I’ve been ignoring your messages,” he responds sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” I glance at him. I’d like to say he looks better than he did the last time I saw him, but I’m not sure I’d be right. Hunter looks drained. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Let’s talk about something else. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Xavier got me to work for him.”
“He did?” Hunter looks like he’s holding back a laugh. “He’s been trying for a very long time. How did he manage to convince you to finally take him up on his offer?”
“He appealed to my better nature.”
“You have one?”
I grin wryly. “Touché.” I glance over at the bar, but it’s crowded. I’m going to wait for it to thin out. “Do you know Pierre Valade?”
“Not really, no. Why?”
“Because the guy’s left the place in shocking shape. They’re behind on everything. This is years of neglect. I have no idea why Xavier kept him on as long as he did.”
“You know Xavier,” Hunter says. “As much as he likes to play the ruthless billionaire, he’s deeply loyal to his friends. If he considered Pierre Valade among them, he would have done everything in his power to avoid firing him.”
Daring Dixie Page 4
