Grounded (Out of the Box Book 4) (2 page)

“Trying to catch lightning in a bottle,” I said, “that’s the one I was thinking of.”

Her concern died, replaced by a settled look, one of disappointment but not surprise. “That’s what it’s like, isn’t it? Trying to talk about something you don’t want to—”

“See you later, Ariadne,” I said, and walked out. Blood, water—who cared which, really? Either one would drown you if you let it pull you down. I took flight the minute I was out the door, ignored the sudden grey skies and rain, and went supersonic as I turned south, clutching Reed’s file tight in my hand, knowing I’d figure everything else out as I went.

My name is Augustus. Yeah, like the Caesar. I could make a rhyme about that, and I have, going with “squeeze her,” “seizure,” and “cheeser” for the next line. See, you gotta make the joke before anyone else does. That’s how you survive coming from where I’ve come from.

Nah, I’m just kidding.

Well, I’m kidding a little.

Nah, I’m not kidding that much.

But it all worked out! Sure, I still live in a rough area—but it’s my neighborhood. It’s where I grew up. That basketball court where some guys threw down and had a shoot-out? That’s where my dad taught me how to ride a bike. My family lives there. It’s where my roots are. That’s home.

And you don’t gotta leave home to be somebody.

See, that’s what I’m all about. Being somebody. At six feet tall and a little under two hundred pounds, I was just shy of being able to play well enough to get the college scholarship. And that’s okay. And my grades? Hey, they were good. Just not quite good enough for the academic scholarship. But like I said, it all works out.

Because straight out of high school, I got hired on by Cavanagh Technologies when they opened their new, super-modern factory outside Vine City, and I’ve been there almost two years now. Assistant line supervisor, that’s my job title. That’s right. Not even twenty years old, and I was management, baby! I strolled down the line and the workers saw Augustus Coleman, rising star. One more promotion and I was getting college paid for by the corporation. It was all in the cards, and they were getting turned over this autumn.

Or at least they were supposed to.

But life’s funny, and it takes its little turns.

I’ll show you what I mean.

It started off like any other day and went off the track faster than you could smack an emergency shutdown switch. But that’s okay! Like I said, life does that. But this wasn’t an actual emergency shutdown switch-flip situation. That would have been bad. This looked good when it showed up. Real good.

Edward Cavanagh made Elon Musk look lazy and unambitious by comparison. That morning, Cavanagh came wandering down the factory floor in a storm of activity. Guy like him makes noise everywhere he goes—paparazzi, girlfriends, hangers-on, bodyguards, yes-men—yeah, he’s got an entourage. If you were a billionaire-genius-playboy-philanthropist in the mold of Tony Stark, you’d have one, too. He was a medium-height, medium-build, heading-toward-middle-age white guy.

“Oh, damn,” Lawton Evers said. Lawton was one of the guys on my line. I’d known him forever. Dude was three years ahead of me in school. “Big boss is here.”

“Look who he’s got with him,” said Eduardo Tomas. I didn’t know much about Tomas; he was new to my little fiefdom. (Yes, I think of my team as a fiefdom. Not like they’re serfs or anything, but like … you know, there isn’t really any favorable way to slice this. Carry on.)

I saw who Cavanagh had with him. Cordell Weldon, a.k.a the reason the press hadn’t so much as whispered the word “gentrification” when Cavanagh announced that he was opening a new, clean, ultra-modern factory right in the middle of a heavily minority area. Weldon was City Council, a big wheel in the community, in tight with all the right pastors, in deep with the community leaders—the man was revered. He’d delivered more for people in the area than the USPS. (No, really, our service was terrible. Like they couldn’t read street names or something, I don’t know.)

“Man, the three full rings of the circus are moving this way,” Lawton said, his voice in a drawl. “You think we’re about to get a photo opportunity?”

I could see the camera flashes going off around Edward Cavanagh and Cordell Weldon. There wasn’t any paper, news blog, website or Twitter feed in the city that wouldn’t love to have an interview with pictures from those two titans of Atlanta. If the mayor had been present, I think the political universe of Hotlanta would have imploded right there from all the damned gravity in the room. Like the trifecta between money, influence and … uhh … more money and influence. I guess it’s like a difecta.

And it’s not like those guys were bad! They were good guys, who did good things. Cavanagh had scholarships all through the community now. (I missed them by six months when I was in school. But it’s all good! He was going to pay for my college anyhow, now.) Honestly, I kinda wanted to be Cavanagh. Except for being white. Not really a trade-off I was prepared to make—home, family, all that. Not worth giving up, especially when I was convinced that I could make my own money. Maybe not billions like him, but enough that I’d be happy. That my family would be happy.

Yes, Mary, I was gonna make it after all.

What? TV Land played reruns at night, and when I couldn’t sleep, I’d watch them. Mary Tyler Moore was cute, okay?

Cavanagh walked with a swagger, like you’d expect a billionaire to. I’ll admit it: I watched YouTube videos, and sometimes, I might have practiced walking like he did. Maybe a little bit. Cordell Weldon walked slower, more measured. He was older than Cavanagh by a little, dark skin and all serious. Dude had a bald head, too, and rocked it like Samuel L. Jackson. He smiled for the cameras, but it was a serious smile. Cordell Weldon was all business, man with a mission.

And I just about crapped myself when they made their way to my line.

“Right this way,” Lawton said under his breath. The whole line was watching. “They’re coming right over here.”

“Then you ought to be working,” I said, surprising Lawton right out of his knuckleheaded rubbernecking. I mean, he wasn’t doing anything different than anyone else, but the line was going. Things needed to happen. We’d pretty much halted production, and last I checked we were still drawing pay while gawking.

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. High-and-Mighty,” Lawton Evers said, deadpan. He did get back to work, though. Eduardo did the same, and the rest of my line picked it up as things started to move again, and just in time. The first crush of photographers and reporters got to us right then, and they found Augustus Coleman’s line humming along, everyone paying attention to their jobs. Yeah, I can’t really take credit for that one. No one wants to look like they’re slacking off on camera.

I went to stand ready to greet Mr. Cavanagh and Mr. Weldon, fairly certain they were going to pass us right on by but not willing to risk snubbing them in case they didn’t. I wiped my sweaty hands on my navy overall. Then again. You try and meet a community leader and your billionaire boss without showing some nerves. Yeah, I wiped my hands again and actually let out a quick prayer that they would pass me by because the moisture situation was not improving. Damned non-absorbent overalls.

I was almost convinced I was going to be safe when Cavanagh and Weldon turned to look at the line across from mine, but then I caught sight of him. Laverne Dobbins. He was about ten years ahead of me in school, but he left some serious noise behind him. University of Georgia, full-ride football scholarship. Six-foot-six, built like a brick shithouse. Made good, didn’t turn pro, went corporate instead, and now he was one of the top VPs at Cavanagh. He was the advance man for Edward Cavanagh, the sweeping usher of doom—no, that’s not right. He was the hammer; Cavanagh was the velvet glove.

Oh, and you knew he was tough because he went by his given name. Yeah. Laverne. And nobody ever said it to him like it was maybe more commonly a girl’s name, I promise you that.

Laverne Dobbins came out of the crowd like he was breaking a thousand tackles from those fawning, mostly-white photographers and reporters. He wasn’t, of course, because a) he would have crushed them all and b) they would have been too scared to cross him, but he came right out like he was walking out of the tide.

I felt my stomach drop, but my natural optimism picked me up. This could be good! A chance to press the flesh with my ultimate boss, hero, a local legend and man of no small influence.

“You,” Laverne Dobbins said, and I swallowed hard, “Augustus.” Holy damn, he knew my name. It was on my overalls, but … still! He took the time to read it. “Mr. Cavanagh would like a word, and a picture.”

“Well … of course,” I said, like billionaires and community leaders took pictures with me all the time. Sure thing, gentlemen, step right on over to my line and let’s make this look good.

Laverne raised an eyebrow at me, like he was looking over every word of my sentence for sarcasm. “You just hold tight right there. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

I decided to just nod rather than fawn or add what could probably have been a considerable bit of drooling stupidity to the floor. Quit while you’re way ahead, that’s what I say. Except I wasn’t actually saying anything right now.

Before I could really do anything else, Edward Cavanagh broke away from the crowd and walked right up to me. Full head of slightly curly hair, a five o’clock shadow that looked more like it was ten o’clock at night, and he took my hand in a grip so commanding I almost made a very girly giggle as he shook it. “Augustus. I’ve heard a lot about you. How are you doing today?”

“Ah, very good, sir,” I said, taking great care not to stammer. Okay, I mostly was lucky on that. Clean living. That’s what I’m chalking it up to. Clean living and optimism.

“Good to hear,” Cavanagh said, breaking eye contact with me. I followed where he was looking and got blasted by a thousand flashbulbs. I wondered how he saw through things like this. “Smile through the searing pain on your eyeballs, Augustus. You’re doing great.”

I spent a moment trying to decode that remark. Was he talking about my job performance? Or my ability to smile wide while the cameras were snapping away? Because I’d been waiting for this moment my whole life. I always dreamed it was gonna come in a football locker room when I was younger, and when that passed, I thought maybe by me inventing something, and finally settled on the day I stood before a bunch of cameras to announce all the amazing things I was going to do for my town, to make my city proud through my own business—

“Keep smiling, son.” The low, deep voice of Cordell Weldon was unmistakable. I’d heard the man speak at dedications to parks, at school events, at my high school graduation—I’d shaken hands with him that day, waving my diploma up at my mom up in the bleachers. “You’re a natural.” The man breathed inspiration and encouragement. He and Cavanagh were like my binary universe—black and white inspiration all in one.

I realized at this point they were talking so low the cameras and reporters couldn’t hear them. “This is Augustus Coleman,” Cavanagh said, raising his voice and surprising the hell out of me. I’d thought this was a photo op, something to make him and Weldon look good in the papers, taking pictures with nameless line workers. “He’s one of our success stories since opening the plant here—a young man with a bright future, on track for management. Without people like him, and the countless workers we’ve hired, we couldn’t be doing what we’re doing here—plowing ahead with projects that will reshape the country, the world, and revitalize the area.” Cavanagh pumped up. “And if weren’t for my friend Cordell and his efforts,” he reached across and punched Mr. Weldon in the shoulder, leaning across my body to do so—oh, dear Jesus, “I think we would have ended up setting up in Florida or Texas instead. Which goes to show you how much of an impact one man of real influence can have on a community.”

There was applause from the press, and it was more than polite, it was nearly deafening. I was just standing there in the middle of it all, swept up by the feeling in the epicenter. It was like a nuclear blast went off, and I was a feather blowing on the currents above, untouched by the fire and heat. I knew I had a grin on my face because I saw it in the paper the next day.

“Keep up the great work,” Cavanagh said as he smiled at me one last time and gave my hand one last pump.

“I’m expecting big things from you, son,” Cordell Weldon said as he grabbed my shoulder with strong fingers and squeezed it again, his face letting just a hint of smile through his normal mask of seriousness.

And I just stood there as they moved on, the flashing lights of the cameras trailing behind them, the crowd like a mob moving with them in lockstep. I felt like I’d been swept up in a tornado and set back down gentle as could be. Like I needed to look down and make sure my clothes were all still intact. I did. They were.

As the noise subsided, I felt like my heart was glowing in my chest, like it was about to explode. Not in a painful way, but from pride. Pride that all the work I put in that I thought would go unnoticed except by my immediate bosses didn’t. I showed up early, I stayed late, I outworked any other person in that factory as best I could.

And they
noticed
.

The noise of the line came back to me as Cavanagh, Weldon, and the whole media frenzy surrounding them headed off through massive steel doors to another part of the factory. I just stood there like I could see them through the wall, though, just watching like they’d come back and give me another moment in the spotlight.

“Look at Augustus,” Lawton said from behind me, drawing me back into the moment, “looks like he been touched by God or something. Yo, Edward Cavanagh is a man. He’s your boss. Get your head out of your ass.”

“You sound a little jealous, Lawton,” I said, turning to him with a smile. That was the problem with a man like Lawton Evers, see—he’s not a bad guy, he’s just determined to find the cloud around every silver lining, especially the ones that aren’t directed at him.