“I’m lonely, but I’ve got rechargeable batteries.”
We all laugh, and my phone rings. I pull it out, checking the screen. “Shit, girls, it’s my boss. Says he’s got a rush job for me to complete.”
“How’s he working out, anyway?” Charlotte asks as I finish my drink quickly. “And have you started working for The Golden Child yet?”
“Nope, I’ve never seen him except for the publicity stuff,” I reply honestly. “He’s the penthouse. I’m the basement. Twenty-four floors in between us. Anyway, I gotta jet, so I’ll talk to you girls soon, okay?”
“Yup . . . I’m going to relax for this next ten minutes before I need to clock back in myself,” Izzy says, stretching out. “Gimme a call later?”
I nod, blowing them a kiss, and head back to work.
Thomas
Looking out over Roseboro, I feel like I’m looking over my empire.
Of course, I’m joking . . . but maybe not so much.
Twenty-five years ago, this town was just a suburb of a suburb of Portland. Though it was already up and coming, I’d like to think that over the past six years I’ve added my fair share to this place.
I’d finished my MBA at Stanford and set up shop in the growing town, watching the landscape change and cultivating the business interests that serve me best. Because I haven’t just watched. I’ve worked my ass off to get Goldstone where it is today.
Still, I made sure to keep the competition in sight, literally.
My office faces the Blackwell Building, a one-mile gap separating the two tallest buildings in the city. It helps me keep things in perspective. I came to town because I saw potential, even if Blackwell had already created something big here.
But this place is too fertile for him to fully take advantage of. A rose that, if tended right, can provide more blossoms than any one man could utilize.
I watch the morning sun hit the black tower. I’ll give Blackwell grudging respect. His design might be morbid, but it’s also cutting-edge. All that black is absorbing the solar energy and using it for electricity and heating. The man was environmental before environmental was actually cool.
Too bad you’ll never be that. You’re just a wannabe, another young upstart who’ll never stand the test of time.
I growl, pushing away the voice from inside me, even though I know it’ll be back. It never really goes away, not for long. No matter how much I achieve, that voice of insecurity still resides in my center, ready to cast doubt and shadows on each success.
The soft ding from my computer reminds me that my ten minutes of morning meditation are over, and I turn back around, looking at my desk and office. It’s nothing lavish. I designed this space for maximum efficiency and productivity.
So my Herman Miller chair is not in my office for lapped luxury, or for its black and chrome styling, but for the fact that it’s rated the best chair for productivity. Same with my desk, my computer, everything.
Everything is tuned toward efficient use of my time and my efforts.
I launch into it, going through my morning assignments, answering the emails that my secretary, Kerry, cannot answer for me, and making a flurry of decisions on projects that Goldstone is working on.
Finally, just as the clock on my third screen beeps one o’clock, I send off my final message and stand up. Locking my computer, I transfer everything to my server upstairs in case I need it.
I see Kerry sitting at her desk as I leave my office. She’s well-dressed as usual, her sunkissed skin and black hair gleaming mellowly under the office lighting, the perfect epitome of a professional executive assistant. While she works for me, she has this older sibling protective instinct. It’s not often that I need it, but I appreciate her looking out for me.
“Need something, Mr. Goldstone?” she asks.
“Just headed upstairs,” I tell her.
“Of course,” she replies, her eyes cutting to her computer screen. “Just a reminder, sir, the governor will be hosting his charity event tonight at seven. I’ve already had your tuxedo dry-cleaned, and your car detailer called. Your car will be ready and downstairs by three this afternoon.”
I give her a nod. Three’s plenty of time. “I just sent you a list of other projects to work on, by the way.”
“Of course, Mr. Goldstone. I was looking that over, and I got an email from Hank also, the team leader you assigned the Taiwan shipping contract to. He said that he’s going to have to take a day off Friday, sir. His daughter’s going to college this year, and he promised her that he’d drive her up so she can get settled into the dorm.”
I stop, pursing my lips. “What is her name?”
Kerry taps her desk for a moment, searching her memory. “Erica, sir.”
“Tell Hank that I understand and wish Erica the best, but if he isn’t at work on Friday, don’t bother coming in on Monday.”
My tone has grown serious, and Kerry’s eyes tighten, but she knows Hank is crossing a line. He should’ve given notice, especially when he’s working a contract this important.
He’s usually a good employee. But he knew his daughter was starting classes. No excuse for that.
No excuse for you, you mean. Failure just drips down from the boss’s office down to Hank, that’s all.
Leaving the twenty-fifth floor of the Goldstone building, I take the stairs up a level to stretch my legs. Not many people even know about this floor other than the executives. To everyone else, the Goldstone Building has twenty-five floors.
The twenty-sixth is mine. It’s my penthouse, and while it isn’t quite as large as the other floors, it’s still six thousand square feet of space that’s just for me.
I strip off my dress shirt, tie, and slacks, depositing everything in the laundry chute before pulling on my workout clothes.
Today’s upper body day, and as I go into my home gym, I swing my arms to loosen up my shoulders. They’re going to be punished today. Starting with bench presses, I assault my body, pushing myself to press the bar one more time, to get the fucking dumbbells up despite the pain, despite gravity kicking my ass.
Just like everything kicks your ass.
The finisher for today is brutal, even for me. The 300 . . . 100 burpees, 100 dips, and 100 pullups, in sets of ten, nonstop. By the time I’m finished, sweat pools on the rubberized gym flooring beneath me.
I have to force myself to my feet because I refuse to be broken by anything, even something as meaningless as a workout that’s supposed to do exactly that.
Instead, I jump in for a quick shower and meditate for twenty minutes after. I need to focus because running Goldstone is a mental exercise.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to push all the responsibilities away, to let it all fade into the background.
I push away the flashbacks, the voice in my head, the memories that threaten from time to time, and imagine my perfect world . . . my empire. My perfect Roseboro, deep red petals soft as velvet and eternally blooming, ready to be passed from my generation to the next for tending and care.
I know I can do it.
I must do it.
Changing into my tuxedo, I head downstairs to the freshly cleaned limo waiting to take me to this event. The Roseboro Civic Library is one of the newest public buildings in town, a beautiful hundred-thousand-square-foot building in three wings over two floors. The central wing is named for Horatio Roseboro, who founded the city in memory of his daughter, who died on the Oregon Trail, while the other two wings are named for the main benefactors . . . Goldstone and Blackwell. My only request was that the Goldstone wing contain the children’s section, and they were more than willing to do that.