Madison Avenue. Monochrome with Lego-coloured accents and furniture that, other than the sizing, looks like it belongs in a kindergarten. The aesthetic is open and modern and the antithesis of my own mausoleum-like space over at Hayes Industries. “I’m just done.”
“But this is your gig—your baby. You’re the baller, man!”
“Not anymore.”
“You’ve known this chick for what? Five goddamned minutes?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. We’re not shutting down. Your position—everyone’s position is safe.”
“But you’re the key here, Car. You’re the glue that keeps this group of fucking misfits together. And the members, don’t forget the members. They’re here because of who you are.”
“They’ll still come.”
“Less pussy will, that’s for sure.”
I ponder the double entendre before deciding I don’t care for his meaning either way. “That’s your one cheap shot,” I say evenly, looking down at the ant-like folks below. “The next one knocks you on your ass.”
“Okay,” he scoffs.
“And loses you a friend.”
“Jeez, okay!” He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re fuckin’ serious?”
“As a heart attack.” I turn to face him to be sure we’re clear.
“You’re in love.”
I begin to chuckle at his tone and the look on his face. “I think the general convention is to be happy for me, not disgusted.”
“Why?” Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, he throws himself back in his chair. “Love is like undergoing a frontal lobotomy,” he says, addressing the ceiling.
“If Ardeo ever fails, you can take your words to Hallmark.”
“I speak the truth,” he says, jack-knifing straight in his seat. “Love, same as having your cranium fucked, robs a man of his ability to function on his own.”
“Isn’t that the point of love? A bond. Of the chance to be selfless rather than selfish?”
“Now who’s interviewing for Hallmark? Love, Car, is nature’s way of avoiding extinction. It’s a trick. A con. A fucking swizz!”
His words make me think of Lulu. He’s not right where she’s concerned. If her biological father wanted nothing to do with either her or her mother, then that wasn’t love. His fucking loss, I think. That kid has enough love in her life without him. And maybe I’ll never fill his shoes, but I’ll give it my all to fill her heart. In fact, we have a date this afternoon at The Russian Tea Room, just the two of us. That’s why I’m wearing a suit and why Lulu is going to wear a pretty dress. It’s what afternoon tea dictates. At least, in her book.
I’m just happy she hasn’t requested I wear the crown. Because I probably would.
“Question.” Tucker’s voice brings my attention back to him. “If you’re really doing this, how are you splitting your shares? Between the team?”
“Fiduciary concerns overcoming fraternal?”
“We’ll always be brothers. That’s why, as your second in command, I think you’ll be giving them to me.” A grin cracks his features, and it echoes on my own face, though for completely different reasons.
“I didn’t say I was giving up the money, Tucker. Just my position and, of course, the salary that goes along with it. My share of the profits will still come to me. It’s all in my letter of resignation.”
“Like you need the money,” he grumbles, picking up a pen from his desk.
“You’ve done okay out of this.”
“I’ve done fucking amazing. But in the words of someone very smart, greed is fucking good. And if I know you, and I do,” he says, waving the pen admonishingly. “You’ll donate your share of the profits to some lame-ass charity.” He knows me so well. “Well, I guess I’d better ask around to see if anyone wants to take over for you.”
“As director?”
“No, in the bedroom. You bring in the fancy crowd, sure. But maybe one or two of the other guys wants in on the same action. Give the ladies what they want,” he says with all the finesse of a snake oil seller. “Or maybe one of the girls wants in on that action.”
“No girls,” I find myself growling immediately. “Ardeo isn’t that kind of operation.”
“That’s kind of sexist, Car. What’s good for the goose has got to be good for the gander.”
“No. Fucking. Girls.” A wash of heat crashes over me, my fist balling by my sides, my skin seared by a million hot pins. Anger rarely gets the better of me these days, but it’s like a black veil when it does. And right now, I don’t feel right. I feel amped, itchy, and uncontrolled. But I can’t step outside of myself. Not