Ash to Steele (8 page)

   “Hello.” Her voice is carefree, the exact opposite of when she’s talking with me, or when she knows that it’s me she’s talking with.

   “Is your lunch always at 1:00?” 

   “Sorry?” Emma asks, the confusion evident in her voice, “Breck?”

   “Already have my voice engrained to memory, huh?  Ah, so, the consumption
has
begun.”

   There’s a soft sigh on the other end, assumingly because she’s trying to calm down before speaking again.  “Yes.  My lunch is always at 1:00.  Why?”

   “We need to meet before the presentation to discuss the design so everything goes smoothly.”

   “I’m busy the rest of the week during my lunch break.  Sorry.”

   “No, you’re not.”

   “Yes, I am!  I have deadlines to meet and projects to finish,” Emma replies with a bit more edge in her voice.

   “I meant that you’re not sorry.”

   Another pause.  “I have to go.”

   “And we have to meet, so it will have to be dinner then.  Thursday night.  Meet me at Dur Acier.” 

   “I-I ca-”

   “I’m on the top floor.  Be there at 6:00,” I demand, closing the phone as a grin spreads across my lips at the thought of Emma staring at her cell, her nose all scrunched with frustration. Whistling, I drive to the restaurant to get things ready before dinner tonight. The air outside is cool, but the sun’s rays shining through the sun roof warm my shoulders on the twenty minute drive. 

   “You have two large parties who want the private room the same night, the new oven arrived, the reporter from the paper called again, pressuring for an interview, and the lady from wherever the hell she’s from is at a table at the bar needing your decision on the new dinnerware.”  Steve, the manager of Kylianna’s, bombards me as I walk through the door.  “Oh, and the ale hasn’t arrived.  Sorry, I’ve called three times.”

   “Shit. Get me the number to the owner of the ale company, not the manager or distributer; I want to talk directly with the owner.  Tell the reporter that my answer is the same as the dozen times he’s asked me before, no interview about the food donations to the center or about the new restaurant opening in New York.  As far as the dueling parties, offer the first party that called to book the private room and tell the other party that we can offer them the heated deck, which we can make private, and throw in a bottle of  Giovanni Chiappini  Guado de’ Gemoli to sweeten the offer.  Put the signed delivery papers for the oven at my desk.  I will meet with Mrs. Stavley about the dinnerware then I’ll call to make sure the ale is delivered before 7:00 p.m..  For now, if a customer asks for ale, give them the best draft at half off with a free appetizer.”

   Steve gives a quick nod before heading to take care of the tasks.  He’s efficient and trustworthy, which is what prompted me to offer him the manager’s position three years ago when I opened Kylianna’s. Now, I just have to teach him to not take no for an answer when negotiating.

   Walking through the main dining area, I’m filled with the same peace and sense of belonging that I only feel when I’m here.  This is my home, my place in the world, what I busted my ass for five years to accomplish.  The ambiance was carefully created by a professional designer, a little over the top for my tastes, but the customers seem to appreciate the details put into the five star restaurant.  The dimly lit atmosphere gives a romantic feel while the high back, plush booths offer privacy. The soft lighting is accented with dark crystal spheres hanging aesthetically throughout the room.  A large rock fireplace sits in the back and a majestic stone fountain boasts the entryway.  The heated deck is constructed out of oak, mosaic tile, and decorative stonework.  The deck is my favorite part of the restaurant. 

   Entering the bar, I can’t help but smirk at what the decorator called ‘enhancement lighting’, but what I call trick lighting, illuminating everyone’s features in the most appealing way, apparently, very similar to candlelight, according to the decorator.  It took every dime I had saved from years of juggling two jobs through high school and college, several lucrative street fights, and a few hefty loans to make my dream a reality.  Blood, sweat, fierce determination, and three years later, Kylianna’s is listed as one of the most prestigious restaurants in the East, giving me the ability to have paid off all the loans and build another restaurant that is due to open on New Year’s Eve.  I keep waiting for everything to come crashing down.  Until it does, it’s mine, the only thing that is mine, and I’ll fight like hell to keep it.

   “Mr. Steele, it’s nice to see you again,” Mrs. Stavley smiles, extending her hand covered in platinum and diamonds. 

   I give it a quick shake instead of the kiss against her knuckles that she expects and is accustomed to from everyone other than me. “Nice to see you again as well, Mrs. Stavley,” I greet the woman standing in front of me who is in her mid thirties, gorgeous, unbelievably rich, and bored to tears with her billionaire husband, which is one of the reasons she chose to take a job traveling the States with designer dinnerware.  The other reason is that it allows her to hook up with her collection of lovers she’s met along her ventures.  If she weren’t married, I would have obliged her advances the first time we met.  There are very few lines that I don’t cross, but fucking a married woman is one of them.  

   “Congratulations on Kylianna’s being featured in the top five restaurants in America last month,” she purrs, running her finger down my wrist and over the top of my hand before strategically playing with the diamond that hangs just at the top of her exposed ample chest.

   “Thank you,” I smile politely, ready to get on with selecting the dinnerware so she will leave.

   “I was hoping to see your picture with the article, like the other featured owners of the restaurants listed.”  Stepping closer, she runs her tongue across her top lip, “You don’t seem like the shy type to me.”

   “Shy, no.  Private, yes.”  Giving a vague compliment about her sweater, I manage to make her attention sway to the cashmere that is a size too small as I take the opportunity to step back from her and closer to the display of overpriced plates arranged on the dark-stained Oak bar top. 

   “I’ve brought the newest designs from Italy, France, and Japan.  The one from Italy hasn’t even been put on the market yet.”  Adjusting her sweater a little lower, her lust filled green eyes lock on mine, “If I may suggest that you go a bit bolder than last time, it would certainly be worth your investment.”

   Understanding her meaning, my gaze turns cold, detached, “I choose boldly when the offer satisfies my desires.  In this case, Mrs. Stavley, I’ll take the Italian design.  I prefer pieces that haven’t yet been purchased.”

   “Very well, Mr. Steele, if that’s your decision,” she hisses.  “They will arrive within a week’s time.” Mrs. Stavley snatches her products, stopping directly in front of me before leaving, “If you rethink your decision, you know where to find me.”

   Choosing not to engage, I take a step to the side, leaving her a clear path to the door.

Chapter Four

   The pounding in my head matches the tempo of the vein pulsating furiously on my forehead.  Many challenges have presented themselves since Granddad’s illness got to the point to where he is bed ridden.  He’s notorious for his business deals.  Harrison Steele did not make his millions by playing nice, which has left him with very few friends.  He’s a tough bastard, but he’s honest and fair, rare qualities in this cut throat world. 

   Being the new kid, quite literally at twenty-four, in a business realm led by men who reached the status I have only after years of climbing the ladder, is like a fresh wound oozing blood into a pool of frenzied sharks.  Granddad’s business partners have been out for the kill since I was appointed his replacement until he is back on his feet, and they seem hell-bent to maim and torture before the kill shot.  The first in line has been Fraiser, who is currently doing his best to eliminate me, but I don’t play nice, either, and I’m sure as hell not anybody’s bait.

   “You’ll agree to the amount I gave and have the papers signed and delivered directly to my hand by 8:30 a.m. Thursday morning or your share in Dur Acier will be stripped from your greedy hands, including your new side business.”

   “You have no authority to touch my share of Dur Acier, or the means to threaten anything of mine that is not affiliated with your grandfather’s business,” Frasier shouts, increasing the sharp pain stabbing my temple.

   “Your agreement was to complete the manufacturing merger between Frasier & Cole and Dur Acier by the end of the business day on today’s date.  If it’s not completed, I have full authority to terminate all business transactions with you due to the disclaimer agreed and signed by you one year ago yesterday.  My grandfather is the only reason you can afford to have three homes and multiple out of country vacations.  It is out of respect for him that I’m giving you until Thursday morning to honor your word.  If it were up to me, I would cease the partnership immediately, taking your side venture down along with your over-indulgent lifestyle, which I don’t have the authority to touch, but don’t assume that I don’t have the means,” I warn.

   “Your partner is good friends with Mr. Alcott, who happens to be the father-in-law of my grandfather’s closest friend’s daughter, who owns fifty-three percent of your partner’s business.  One word to him about how you planned to cheat my grandfather out of an additional three million on top of what he already generously agreed to pay for the merger, and you will be left with nothing.” 

   The silence on the other end is deafening.  I give him a few seconds to process before continuing, “You can underestimate me all you want; in fact, I find it quite amusing, but if you screw with my grandfather’s business while he is recovering, it will be you who is fucked in more ways than one.”

   There’s another pause before Frasier’s enraged voice radiates through the live feed, “I will give you your dues, you have done your homework, but no wet behind the ears punk ass kid like you has the clout, not to mention the balls, to follow through on a threat that will leave Dur Acier in the lurch.  You need me!”

   “Yes, Mr. Frasier, Dur Acier does need the merger, but not nearly as much as you do.  We can afford to cut our losses and move on with another company, but you, now that’s a different story.  You will be left bankrupt without us.  And I never threaten.  You have no idea what I’m capable of.  If you need further encouragement, just watch.”

   Dialing Tracy Alcott, I stare outside the twenty-third story window of Dur Acier, at the majestic buildings jutting high into Boston’s painted sunset skyline.  The cold brick and sleek metal bleed an air of superiority that I despise.  Dur Acier can hold its own, reigning lucratively in this city, but it has never been portrayed as pretentious.  Granddad made sure the reputation is as strong as the product. He told me that reputation means everything.  I don’t hold that belief as tightly as he does as far as my personal life goes, but I’ll do anything to keep his name, and Dur Acier’s name, from becoming tainted. 

   “Hello, Breck, I was just talking about you.”

   “Hi, Tracy.  All good, I hope.”

   “Always is,” she laughs.

   “I just wanted to confirm our lunch date Thursday with your husband and his father.”

“Of course.  We are looking forward to it.”

   “Splendid.  Tell Mr. Alcott that I have some important business matters to discuss with the three of you.”

   “As interesting as all of your conversations are, I’ll only relay the news if you promise to finish the business talk before the main course arrives.  I find your other stories much more entertaining,” Tracy teases. 

   “You have my word.  What I have to say won’t take long, and I guarantee it will directly affect you.”

   “Thursday, then,” Tracy confirms.  “Looking forward to seeing you again.  Please tell your grandfather that we will visit him on Friday.”

   Ending the call with Tracy, I place my hands on the polished cherry table top, staring at the man who looks like he would love to have me in front of a firing squad.  Smiling at the computer screen, I spell out Mr. Fraiser’s options, “The discussion Thursday can go either way for you.  The interesting news can be how your merger with Dur Acier will benefit Mrs. Alcott as well, since you will be donating 5% of the profit to the anti-trafficking organization she supports, or the news can be of how you planned to line your own pocket by cheating someone she loves, and Mrs. Alcott will pull her shares in your company, which will jumpstart its fatal plummet before our dessert arrives.” 

    Mr. Frasier’s cheeks become redder by the second, “You sonofabitch.”

    Patiently, I ignore his slur and wait for his decision.  Besides, he’s right; I am.

   A long sigh precedes what I expected. “You will have your documents by 8:30,” Frasier growls.

   “Not one minute later,” I warn, closing the laptop before looking around the empty conference room.  This company was built on personal interactions; Granddad has never warmed to the idea of transactions being completed via the web or on the phone.  Dealing with these people face to face is the last thing I want to do, but I have to make sure his other partners are still on our side and not following Frasier’s traitorous ways.  The pulsating throb deepens as I call Prayton, telling him to have the partners, minus Frasier, meet in my grandfather’s office at 5:00 p.m. Thursday.  I’ll put up with one hour of having to deal with the corporate shit to ensure their loyalty still lies where it should.  Meeting with Emma directly after the meeting Thursday soothes me, calming the pain searing my brain and leaving me shocked by the comforting reaction thoughts of her provoke.

   The jackhammer in my head was finally easing but now it continues its punishing rhythm, strengthening in intensity when I step out of the elevator to find Jason leaning against the wall with that glazed, overwhelmed look in his eyes that only Jess is capable of reducing him to. 

   “I don’t have time to smooth over whatever you did this time to piss Jess off.  You’re her boyfriend,” I state, not in the mood to do anything else but throw back a few shots of whiskey, “man up and handle her shit on your own.”

   “Her mom called,” Jason blurts, dragging his hand down his stress-haggard face.

   “When?”  The jackhammer morphs into a wrecking ball.

   “About an hour ago.  Damn, Jess went ballistic and took off.  I’ve been calling her non-stop, but she won’t answer the phone and, I don’t know where she is,” Jason’s voice is laced with undiluted panic, and for good reason.

   “Calm down, we’ll find her.  Have you checked to see if Emma knows where she’s at?”

   “Em’s at work.  I stopped by the gallery, but she was doing a tour, so I didn’t get to talk with her. I left a message, but she can’t have her phone until her shift is done.” 

   Focusing on the most likely places Jess would go, memories distract me, flooding my mind, taking me back to the first time I met her; we were both four and alone.  Even at my young age, I knew that she shouldn’t be by herself.  She was just sitting there in the sand, underneath the swing set on the old playground.  Tears glistened on her cheeks and her hair was so blonde it was almost white, and it was dirty, hanging in disheveled curls down her back.  The air was cold, but she wore no jacket or shoes.

   I walked her home that night, asking if her mom knew that she was gone.  The fact that mine didn’t wasn’t important to me; I was bigger and a boy.  Jess was small, fragile, and it was dangerous for a little girl to be playing alone.  My mom was at work, thinking I was at home with my father.  Jess’ mom was asleep on the couch, oblivious to where she was or wasn’t. I remember thinking that she looked as if she were dead, but Jess assured me she wasn’t as she covered her up with a blanket.  It would’ve been better for Jess if she were.

   “I’ve gone everywhere I can think of checking,” Jason states, pulling me from unwanted flashbacks.  He rakes his hand through his hair, and I place my hand on his shoulder.

   It doesn’t take me long to realize where she’s gone.  “Go home, Jason.  You need to be there for her if she returns,” I tell him, knowing she’s not going home anytime soon, “I’ll look for her.”

   “Yeah, alright,” he concedes, appearing utterly exhausted as he gives me a look I can’t fully place.

   Jason’s from a different world than Jess and, for the most part, he doesn’t even know it.  I have to give him credit, though, he’s been there for her since the day they met two years ago, even when Jess has been in full-fledged bitch mode.

   His shoulders sag as he rubs his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose before turning towards me, his stance rigid, “I know you two have a past.  I’m not sure exactly what it involves, but for some reason she trusts you.  Tell her I’m trustworthy, too.”  His jaw tightens.  “I don’t give a damn about whatever secrets you share, I just want Jess.”  His voice is raw and he looks away, taking a second to gather himself before facing me again,  “I know you are going to her now.  Do whatever it is that you do to help her overcome whatever in the hell it is that happens inside her head when her mom calls, but, then, you send her home to me.”

   “I always do,” I reply, feeling sorry for him and his suffering from something he doesn’t understand. 

   Jason’s jaw twitches. 

   I notice his clenched fists, doubting he’s even aware he’s doing it.  “She’s trustworthy as well, Jason,” I try to assure him, knowing it’s not her he’s worried about. “So am I,” I add truthfully.

   I see the doubt in his eyes.  I don’t blame him; I know how this looks.  Not wasting any more time, I leave him standing there as I rush to my vehicle, speeding towards the public garden.  The air is brutal when I leave the heated comfort of the Hummer and take the path towards the bridge.  The thirty-four degree weather wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the 18 degree wind chill. 

   The bridge is empty.  I pass no one as I walk towards the weeping willows, spotting Jess sitting underneath one, her knees pulled tightly to her chest.  Her arms are wrapped around her knees to shield herself from the cold, or for comfort, I’m not sure which, probably both.  

   “Waiting for Prince Charming?” I ask, keeping my voice light until I can gauge where her head is at right now.

   Jess doesn’t move, doesn’t even look my way.  She knew I would come.  It’s several seconds before she speaks, “I gave up on that a long time ago.”

   “Really?” I wrap my jacket around her shoulders and sit down next to her, “because I’ve never known you to give up on anything.”

   Jess leans her head against my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer.  “Mom’s in Charleston,” she says quietly.

   “How long has she been there?”

   “I don’t know,” Jess whispers, pulling her knees closer to her chest.

   Placing my hand over hers, I take them and rub her hands in mine, trying to warm them.  “Just out of rehab?”

   She nods, swallowing hard. 

   I give Jess a few seconds, knowing she’s doing her best not to cry.

   “Eighth rehab facility, that I know of.”

   “Was she clean?”

   “For now.  I’ll give her less than a week.”

   Jess is being generous. My guess is she’ll be using within two days. “When is she wanting to see you?” I ask, hoping Jess doesn’t go, not again.  I can’t stand seeing her hurting.  Especially after the last time.

   “Now.”

   “What are you going to do?”

   “I told her no, to lose my number, to forget about me,” Jess states, her voice cracking as a tear slides down her cheek. “I can’t, Breck. I can’t do it anymore.” Jess drops her head on top of her knees and sobs. 

   Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her closer to me and hold her, not doing well with the tears. She cries until her body is spent, leaning exhaustedly against mine.  Tucking her hair behind her ear, I kiss the top of her head, wishing her mother were a man so I could beat the shit out him.  “You made the right decision,” I finally say.

   “I know,” she nods, wiping her nose with the sleeve of my jacket. 

   My brow furrows but I don’t say anything, it’s not the first time Jess’ tears or snotty nose have soaked my jacket or shoulder before.  The only time she cries now is when her mom calls.  When her eyes misted the other day talking about Emma, it knocked me off guard.  Emma invades my thoughts and I try to push them away.  I don’t want or need to think about her right now, or the way I seem to get lost in her eyes.