such requests
of each other in the past. He will need this favor reciprocated in the near
future, and I’ll step up, no questions asked.
We make sure to
keep our sheets balanced. Imbalance doesn’t suit either of us.
Once I’m sure the
obstacles I need removed are on their way to being dismantled, I email my
executive assistant with my second request. I watch her through the glass partition
of my corner office.
She looks up,
nods, and picks up her phone.
Satisfied, I
frost the glass and stare at the email sitting in my inbox.
Maxwell.
I click on it
without disabling the notification button. The summons is pretty much the same
as it’s been all week. Dinner at the Upper West Side mansion I grew up in.
I reply with my
agreement. He opens it immediately and I can almost see the smug look on his
face as he reads it.
It takes me a
minute to work through the need to succumb to the void inside me. That is what
he does to me. For as long as I’ve known him, my father has had this effect on
me. Even long before Ma died. Even before I knew where and when my end would
be, I knew he was partly responsible for the blackness of my soul.
The passage of
time has merely confirmed and cemented that belief. Sure, I could’ve stopped
myself from feeding it. The head shrinking and pills would’ve possibly stood a
chance if I’d allowed it. If I hadn’t let Adriana Nathanson offer me her
version of extra credit therapy
by getting on her knees and sucking my cock when she should’ve been tending my
mental health.
But I am Quinn
Blackwood. Rich. Entitled. Unapologetic asshole with a death wish. I accepted
that a long time ago. I don’t intend to change. For myself. For anyone.
I exhale and pick
up the first file on my desk—a condominium deal on a revamped Miami
beachfront that’s almost at completion. Once it’s done, it’s going to sell for
at least three and a half mil apiece. More money to add to the overflowing
Blackwood pile.
I pick up the
phone and hit ten on my speed dial.
“Quinn, I was
just about to head up.”
“I need to cancel
lunch, Ash,” I say to the head of my contracts and planning team.
“Oh, okay. But we
need to get the Denver deal done and dusted. The consortium is getting angsty
that we keep postponing.”
“Blackwood is
backing the project seventy-thirty. Let them wait.”
He sighs. “You
pay me to give you advice so here it is: if there’s no legitimate reason for
stalling on this deal, let’s just get it done. Fostering bad blood just for the
hell of it may give you a momentary high, but it’s not worth the aggro we’ll
garner down the line. If your father were here, he’d say the same thing.”
I hit the speaker
button and set the phone back in its cradle. I don’t answer until I hear him
fidget. “Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re fired.” I
kill the connection.
The knock comes
ten minutes later. Five minutes later than anticipated. Perhaps he made a
detour to the bathroom to change his soiled pants.
“Come in,” I say
without raising my voice.
A pale-looking
Ash Langston enters, palms already outstretched. “Look, Quinn, I know you don’t
make idle threats or…” he takes a deep breath, “or fire people just for laughs.
I was just trying to smooth things along, do what you hired me to do.”
“And you think
I’m being irrational for stalling on the Denver deal.” I eye him as he paces
the front of my desk.
“Not irrational,
no. Just…look, I’m sorry. You want to wait, we wait. You’re the boss.”
I don’t reply. My
gaze drifts to the silver antique clock on my desk, silently willing the time
away.
I want to see her
again. I want to confirm if that spark is real.
Before me, Ash
tries to keep his composure, but the man is unraveling. I bet he can see his
quarter of a million gambling debt rushing at full speed toward him. Or perhaps
it’s the potential loss of the SoHo loft where he stashes his mistress that’s
making him sweat.
“Do you know
of each other in the past. He will need this favor reciprocated in the near
future, and I’ll step up, no questions asked.
We make sure to
keep our sheets balanced. Imbalance doesn’t suit either of us.
Once I’m sure the
obstacles I need removed are on their way to being dismantled, I email my
executive assistant with my second request. I watch her through the glass partition
of my corner office.
She looks up,
nods, and picks up her phone.
Satisfied, I
frost the glass and stare at the email sitting in my inbox.
Maxwell.
I click on it
without disabling the notification button. The summons is pretty much the same
as it’s been all week. Dinner at the Upper West Side mansion I grew up in.
I reply with my
agreement. He opens it immediately and I can almost see the smug look on his
face as he reads it.
It takes me a
minute to work through the need to succumb to the void inside me. That is what
he does to me. For as long as I’ve known him, my father has had this effect on
me. Even long before Ma died. Even before I knew where and when my end would
be, I knew he was partly responsible for the blackness of my soul.
The passage of
time has merely confirmed and cemented that belief. Sure, I could’ve stopped
myself from feeding it. The head shrinking and pills would’ve possibly stood a
chance if I’d allowed it. If I hadn’t let Adriana Nathanson offer me her
version of extra credit therapy
by getting on her knees and sucking my cock when she should’ve been tending my
mental health.
But I am Quinn
Blackwood. Rich. Entitled. Unapologetic asshole with a death wish. I accepted
that a long time ago. I don’t intend to change. For myself. For anyone.
I exhale and pick
up the first file on my desk—a condominium deal on a revamped Miami
beachfront that’s almost at completion. Once it’s done, it’s going to sell for
at least three and a half mil apiece. More money to add to the overflowing
Blackwood pile.
I pick up the
phone and hit ten on my speed dial.
“Quinn, I was
just about to head up.”
“I need to cancel
lunch, Ash,” I say to the head of my contracts and planning team.
“Oh, okay. But we
need to get the Denver deal done and dusted. The consortium is getting angsty
that we keep postponing.”
“Blackwood is
backing the project seventy-thirty. Let them wait.”
He sighs. “You
pay me to give you advice so here it is: if there’s no legitimate reason for
stalling on this deal, let’s just get it done. Fostering bad blood just for the
hell of it may give you a momentary high, but it’s not worth the aggro we’ll
garner down the line. If your father were here, he’d say the same thing.”
I hit the speaker
button and set the phone back in its cradle. I don’t answer until I hear him
fidget. “Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re fired.” I
kill the connection.
The knock comes
ten minutes later. Five minutes later than anticipated. Perhaps he made a
detour to the bathroom to change his soiled pants.
“Come in,” I say
without raising my voice.
A pale-looking
Ash Langston enters, palms already outstretched. “Look, Quinn, I know you don’t
make idle threats or…” he takes a deep breath, “or fire people just for laughs.
I was just trying to smooth things along, do what you hired me to do.”
“And you think
I’m being irrational for stalling on the Denver deal.” I eye him as he paces
the front of my desk.
“Not irrational,
no. Just…look, I’m sorry. You want to wait, we wait. You’re the boss.”
I don’t reply. My
gaze drifts to the silver antique clock on my desk, silently willing the time
away.
I want to see her
again. I want to confirm if that spark is real.
Before me, Ash
tries to keep his composure, but the man is unraveling. I bet he can see his
quarter of a million gambling debt rushing at full speed toward him. Or perhaps
it’s the potential loss of the SoHo loft where he stashes his mistress that’s
making him sweat.
“Do you know
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