I look across the room to where my mom sleeps fitfully, surrounded by a cluster of poles and wires and bags and screens.
I sigh. “My mom’s in the hospital right now. Is there any way it can wait?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask,” Trent says and I hear the electronic piano tones of a Liszt piece as I’m put on hold. Then Trent returns. “Uh, Mr. Bell? I’m really sorry, but Mr. Valdman says he needs to see you right away and that it can’t wait. Should I tell him you’re on your way?”
“Fuck,” I mumble, running a hand over my unshaven face. I look down at my wrinkled tuxedo. “Yes, I’m on my way. I have to swing by home to change, then I’ll be in.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let him know.”
Fuck a damn duck.
I hang up the phone and stand up, reluctant to leave Mom alone. I’d made Dad go to work—he’s a warehouse manager for a small plumbing company, and his boss is not very forgiving of Dad missing work for any reason, even a sick wife—and Ryan’s all the way in Lawrence, getting settled into his new off-campus digs. Aiden’s at work. And obviously Tyler isn’t here.
I drop a kiss onto Mom’s cool forehead and she stirs, but she doesn’t wake up. I find a nurse and explain that I have to go in to work, but to call me at the slightest sign of trouble, and then I leave her every number of every person I can think of in case she can’t reach me, although she’ll be able to reach me. Valdman will understand if I have to dash out of our meeting, I’m certain of it.
Mostly certain.
Like, halfway certain.
Shit, maybe I’m not that certain at all. I chew over this as I get into my car and speed back to my apartment, tapping my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. It’s legitimately the first time taking care of Mom has been a problem with my job, and I have to admit—even knowing that Valdman’s an asshole—I’m surprised he still insisted on me coming in. Trent said it was an emergency—but what fucking investment emergency is more important than my mom’s surgical emergency?
And then I feel like an idiot, because I didn’t get all the money I have now by asking myself those kinds of questions. I’ve always, always put work first, at least until Mom’s illness. And even after, I’ve done my best to give this firm every part of me not locked down by chemo-chauffeur duties and pharmacy runs. If Valdman says it’s an emergency, then I fucking believe him and I need to fix it, whatever it is.
But Jesus, for real. What could it be?
I get to my place, take the world’s fastest shower and jump into a clean suit without bothering to shave. I won’t be seeing any clients anyway, so it’s fine, although the foreign sensation of stubble abrading the fabric of a clean shirt collar is distracting. I feel unkempt, and when I glance up at the mirror to make sure my tie-knot is straight, I barely recognize the grim, scruffy man looking back at me.
Well, it can’t be helped. It was a long fucking night, and not the good kind…except for the part with Mary, because I could have spent a thousand long nights with her.
Which means I’m going straight to hell.
Thirty-six year old men like me have no business wanting to see a college student’s pussy. Wanting to lick and rub her until she’s wet and mewling, wanting to split her legs open and mount her. Wanting to fuck and thrust and grind until she’s come so many times under me that she’s forgotten her name—and her fake name. And now I’m hard, which is great, just fucking great.
I toss all my shit into a leather satchel and run out the door to meet my boss, boner be damned. Lord knows it will shrivel the moment I get to his office anyway.
Rosacea decorates Valdman’s cheeks like red, splotchy spiders, and I find myself staring at the tiny ruptured capillaries and veins as he talks, wondering if all rich white guys end up gouty and drink-ruddy and wondering what I need to do to avoid getting the Henry VIII look myself. Stop drinking probably, although I do eat a lot of kale, and that feels like it should count for something.
He’s been ranting since I came in and sat down a few minutes ago, and I still have no idea what’s wrong.
“—fucked, Sean, we’re fucked, and I’ve already heard from two clients complaining about the bad PR bouncing back onto them. And the news—Jesus, you would not believe those vultures! They’ve been ringing everyone off the hook, even the fucking interns.”
I force myself to tear my eyes from his cheeks. “If you’ll tell me what’s happened, I’ll fix it. I promise.”
Valdman heaves himself into his chair and reaches for the globe bar he keeps next to his desk. “You want a drink?” he asks, already rummaging for a glass and the scotch decanter.
I glance discreetly over at the clock. It’s a little after nine a.m.
“I’m good,” I decline cautiously. “Now, sir, about whatever’s happened—”
“Right, right,” he mumbles, taking a drink and then setting the scotch decanter on the desk between us. “The Keegan deal.”
I’m honestly confused. “The Keegan deal, sir?”
Valdman blinks at me with bloodshot eyes, takes another drink. Waiting for me to say something.
But what is there to say? “Every version of that deal went through legal at least twice,” I offer, racking my brain, trying to think of any potential snags that would have Valdman in such apoplexy. But there were none, seriously. Fucking none. It was a good deal—every contingency prepared for, every clause examined, every city code and sales tax bond painstakingly referenced and braided into the agreement. “And we did have to get special approval from the City Council, but that went better and easier than we ever could have planned for. And then we sent it through our legal a final time, after the Keegan team’s legal went through it. There’s nothing even close to illegal or unethical in there, I promise you, sir.”
Valdman grunts. “Illegal, maybe not. But unethical? You sure about that?”
I stare at him. I know I’m wrecked from no sleep and stress, I know I’m thoroughly wrung dry from the last four weeks of late nights and early mornings trying to get this deal to paper—but my mind has always worked best when pushed like this, and so I know I’m genuinely stumped. I mean, I’ll be the first to admit that in the past I’ve drafted some deals that nudged a few moral boundaries—the best money is made on the frontiers of morality, after all—but there wasn’t even a whiff of that in the Keegan deal. No trace of anything slimy or suspicious. Just some old brick buildings that will be turned into shiny new profit centers. Hell, even as a citizen I think it’s a good deal.
Valdman finally sees that I honestly have no idea what he’s hinting at, and he sets his glass down with an irritated thump. “The man selling the property—Ernest Ealey? Did he ever mention anything about a lease? Tenants?”
Easy question. “Not once,” I say firmly. “And we pulled every agreement logged in those three buildings for the last forty years. No standing leases, no liens, no surprise historical registry shit. It’s clean property, sir, I promise.”
“You’re wrong,” my boss tells me. “Because there is a lease, and there are tenants.”