Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Thinking about it ignites my blood, and I gnash my teeth together.
“That jackass at The Tea never plays fair, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen his articles. He tweaked a few videos to make me look drunker than I was. Hell, I was almost sober by the time we were dancing, remember?”
“No comment,” a soft feminine voice trills with a sigh.
Whoa. Hold up.
It’s almost...musical.
I glance into the passenger seat and lean forward to see if Halle’s chauffeuring some secret little honey today.
Nah, it’s just us. I look at him closer, trying to figure out what’s going on.
It can’t be him. It’s me.
It has to be the stress.
Shit, I need to get my ears checked. I’m either hearing things or losing my mind or both.
I laugh it off, raking my fingers through my wavy hair.
“You’re a wise man, keeping a low profile. You don’t end up on trashy rumor blogs that way. I should start dressing like a sea captain too. Great disguise. I’d get a cool hat like yours, too.”
Halle goes quiet again, his pale-blue eyes fixed on the road.
“Ah, who’m I kidding? Call me depraved, but I like the attention,” I say coldly. “The spotlight’s as drawn to me as I am to it. Nothing like an earthquake or two to shake things up in this cold-ass city. Don’t you ever want to shake things up, man?”
I lean forward, waiting for his answer.
He gives me nothing.
Fucking Bat-man.
I bite back an amused grin.
Before I can throw any more crap at him, great sport that he is, my phone pings with the day’s twentieth email. I scan over Ward’s latest threat to string me up by my balls if I don’t have a supplier by the end of the day for the glass palace Jorge wants to plop in downtown Chicago, and start typing furiously.
By the time I look up, Halle’s pulling up to Brandt Ideas, and I rush off to my next meeting.
* * *
Move your ass. I hate these things as much as you do, but I’m here.
I’m sitting in my penthouse, trying to unwind and thinking how much I want to get laid tonight, when the text from my big brother hits me.
Oh, shit. I forgot. I grab my phone and reply, I’m there in spirit.
Ward: You’re not here, Nick. I am. Like always.
Bull. He gives himself too much credit.
My grandmother always loved these things more than anyone else. “For our greatest assets—our employees,” she says.
Which actually means a little quarterly dog-and-pony show where we show up and gush about how much we love our team. The people are great. Don’t get me wrong.
It’s a morale booster, but I wonder how much more folks would like it if we just sent them home early with tequila? If the goddamned legal department would let us.
I hate these stupid company-wide socials just as much as you. Why does Grandma make us do them again? I text back.
Ward: The employees like them. Get over here. How is it I’m the office snob and you’re the fun one when you skip everything you can?
I snort and send back, Because I’m better looking, Wart.
Ha. The next text doesn’t come immediately so that must have shut him up for a while.
He’s right. I do need to get to the office. My brother doesn’t scare me, but Grandma will have my ass on a silver platter if I don’t show up to her tea party.
Whatever. At least the food’s usually good when we spend a small fortune pampering the people who keep our creations rising like pyramids.
I text Halle. I need a ride to the office.
I’m putting on my tie when his reply comes. Sorry. No can do. I’m already at the office and Mrs. Brandt doesn’t want me to leave.
Damn it, Grandma. She ordered me there, then told the driver not to pick me up?
My options are drive myself and waste an hour in traffic or walk. I glance out the window. A late winter storm whistles, sending white flakes cascading from the sky, turning the cityscape into a shaken snow globe.
Walking is out, and that’s fine.
I’ll just drive, which means, after looking for a parking spot, I’ll get there later. Probably much later.
Yeah, I’m going to get hell for this, but I might as well be prepared for it.
I don’t like hanging out with random strangers. I know the people who work on my floor but not very well really beyond that. Most of the folks outside the executive team who think they know me get their impressions from the usual gossip blogs and clucking online tabloids.
Hanging around people who expect me to bomb the party gets awkward, and unlike my grandmother, I don’t see what it accomplishes.
Besides, I’ve been on Grandma’s shitlist so many times, my name might as well be etched on her toilet paper.