The Boss's Daughter Read online

Dad looks up. He meets my eyes, and for a few seconds I see the titan that the rest of this town sees inside him. To me, he’s quiet and thoughtful, kind and deadly honest. He’s some of those things to the public, but he’s also a man you’d never cross, because something sleeps beneath the surface.

  “Did you two finish dinner last night?”

  I hope he’s asking because he wants to know his hospitality wasn’t for naught, not because he knows more than he should. I smile and say, “Yes. It was great. Why? What’s going on with Brandon?”

  “He missed our meeting.”

  But that can’t be true. Bridget tried to make excuses for him on our drive. I could tell it hurt her to talk, so I didn’t let her say much. But I know enough. I know how much he needs this job. I know that he didn’t forget about the meeting, and that he told Bridget he had to haul out fast in order to make it home to clean up beforehand.

  I’m still angry that he loved me and left me. But after talking to Bridget, it became so much harder to hate him.

  “Did he show up late or something?”

  “He didn’t show up at all. We waited for a half hour, but I couldn’t keep them waiting. Not after that bullshit last night.”

  “What bull … What from last night?”

  “Oh, you don’t know that gem.” Then he sort of squints. “When did you get in last night?”

  I’m not good at lying to my father. But two and two are too easy to add without some fudging, so I hope he was asleep early and won’t challenge me. He’s early to bed and early to rise, plus I have a separate entrance that he shouldn’t hear open and close. It’s a safe bet that I’m fine, and the one who gets to be annoyed if he’s still waiting up for me now that I’m in my twenties.

  “Like midnight?”

  He watches me for a second then sighs. “Well, it turns out the message that sent me to the Hunt Club? That was a prank. A very specific prank. The idea that someone who knew about the deal would call Margo and joke like that — or would even think to — is really strange. We talked about it a bit today. I hate to think one of my competitors is that underhanded and petty, not to mention stupid. But who else would it be?”

  I have an idea who it might have been, like maybe somebody who overheard certain things at dinner while barely saying a word. Things are starting to come together, and I’m not sure if I’m delighted or annoyed by what I see.

  “I had to work hard to smooth things over. He was going on and on about a breach of confidentiality. So I bought him a lot of expensive scotch, and we smoked cigars. And do you know how I won the evening? How I turned that negative into a positive?”

  “How?”

  “I told him all about ‘my new vice president.’ And what a ‘prodigy’ he is.”

  The air quotes in Dad’s voice are so loud they’re almost visible. I find myself thinking back to what Bridget said. I know more of their history now, and more than Brandon would ever want me to know about how desperately he needs this job. But it’s not just need. It’s also ambition. I had no idea who he truly was. What he’s been through. How hard he’s clawed. And what a tragedy it’d be if it all fell apart because of me. Because of what we did.

  “I talked that son of a bitch up like you wouldn’t believe, Ri. And how does he thank me? He doesn’t even bother to show up!” He finally sits, taps his fingers on the end table, and asks, “What happened last night, Princess?”

  I swallow. “What do you mean?”

  “After you were done with dinner. Did you stay with him afterward?”

  I lock eyes with my father. Did he just ask what I think he did? Or does he mean it sideways, in a less than literal way, or one that’s dead literal and innocent?

  “Did you go anywhere else?”

  “We stayed for coffee.”

  “Because if you got back at midnight … ” He looks like he’s calculating.

  “Don’t, Dad,” I say.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t check up on me.”

  “I’m not checking up on you.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re figuring out when dinner probably ended, how long a ride here would take, and trying to fill in the gaps. But it’s my business what I do, and with whom.”

  His eyes narrow. “So you did stay with him.”

  “No.”

  “Did he go to a bar afterward?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I’ve heard some things. You know how people are in this town. I didn’t think Brandon is a drunk, but now I’m starting to wonder.”

  “It was just one meeting.”

  “He’d finally shown up by the time I got back. After the way I’d built him up to the investors, I wasn’t happy to see him.”

  “He was just waiting at the office?”

  “Yes. And he seemed … off somehow. Like he’d had a long night. Maybe drinking.”

  “Dad!”

  “I’ve been warned. More than one person has told me Brandon seems like a straight and narrow guy, but he’s got a history. Goes on benders. Gets into fights.”

  “That’s not true!”

  Dad looks at me, and I wonder why I’m defending him. I try to remind myself how mad I was. I try to dismiss all that Bridget told me. I try to remember that no matter what she said, Brandon still took, then left, me. There’s no excuse for that. I’m not meat. I’m a person. And I’d never be with someone who’d do something like that, whether I think he deserves my father’s wrath or not.

  I can only imagine what must have happened when they met after the meeting. My father is fearsome when truly angry, and his office is soundproofed to muffle his rage.

  Now, sitting in his chair and tapping his fingers on the end table, he shakes his head slowly. Regretfully.

  “I can’t have someone untrustworthy in my company. Not in such an important position.” He sighs. “I thought this was going to work out.”

  “It was just one meeting, Daddy.”

  “It’s not the meeting. It’s why he missed it.”

  Again, I try to steady my gaze. He’s looking right at me, and I wonder what he knows.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know Room With a Cue?”

  I nod. We passed it last night. “The pool hall.”

  “There was a big fight there last night. I’m sure you read about it in the paper.”

  He glances at the newspaper, which he brought in from the stoop himself and is still in its plastic bag. I don’t read the paper and never have, but Dad does it so religiously that he assumes everyone knows everything, including me.

  “I called Chief Wood this morning,” he says, apparently deciding the point of my reading is moot. “They’re still sorting it out, but the problem was a guy with a beard.”

  “And you think it was Brandon?”

  “He had a few drinks while we were at dinner. He doesn’t live far from there. He looked tired as hell, Princess. And he had a big welt on his neck.”

  A welt, I think. Or maybe a bite.

  “It wasn’t him.”

  “Honey … ”

  “It wasn’t him, Dad.”

  “How could you know?”

  “I was with him.”

  “It happened at 2 a.m., after you were gone.”

  I’m considering my reply when he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. You know how I am with these weekend meetings. I’d never expect my people to be as devoted as I am, but I do expect them to be devoted when it matters. And this, today, mattered. I even reminded him last night. I don’t normally do that, Ri. If someone is going to be my VP, he should be responsible enough to know on his own.”

  I watch my father. His 7 a.m. weekend meetings are his gauntlets. Fail one, and you fail across the board — especially if you’re a drunk who gets into bar fights.

  I could tell my father the truth.

  But something tells me that being the kind of guy who sleeps with the boss’s daughter isn’t much better.

  “Forget it,” he say
s, trying on an ill-fitting smile. “I’ll deal with it Monday. How was your morning?”

  “Are you going to fire him?” I ask, ignoring the question.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you still considering him for the vice presidency?” In my head, I hear two conflicting voices. The first is Bridget, telling me all I now know. The second is my dignity, insisting that if Brandon is kicked to the curb, it’s what he deserves.

  I thought I liked him. He seemed smart and funny. I was drawn to him like ocean to shore. But looking back, I can’t decide if it was all a lie — if that’s his standard playbook for charming his way into women’s panties. Because although Bridget only meant to speak well of her brother, she did confirm much of what Dad said just now: he has a rough past, he’s prone to benders, and he’s been known to get into fights.

  “I don’t know,” Dad says. “But I doubt it.”

  “You were so sure he was your guy.”

  “Not if he’s like this. Not if I can’t trust him.”

  And there’s no way to rebut that. Not any way that works, and doesn’t anger him further.

  He sighs yet again, this time leaning back in the chair. “He did have some nice things to say about you, though.”

  I was looking down at my PJ pants. My head flicks up.

  “What about me?”

  “He said you two talked about the business after I left. Said you knew more about our operations than he’d ever even heard of.” Dad’s head turns to look at me, and for the first time in my life it’s not my father staring back. He’s looking at me as if I were a peer. “He told me you knew the rough acreage of all of our properties and about the solution Brent came up with to solve the drainage issue at Rycroft Estates. How did you know about that?”

  I shrug. He knows how I know because I’ve told him the answer in various forms many, many times. I know because I study. I know because I want this to be my company some day, and in order for that to happen, I can’t see it as rows of pretty houses. I know because I’m interested, because I’m smart, and because I spent the last four years, as I earned my degree, thinking of how any acquired knowledge might apply to Life of Riley.

  I know, but Dad has never believed it.

  But now, it almost looks as if he’s willing to.

  “I pay attention, Dad.”

  “He said he’s never met someone who understands long-game strategy so well. He even said that if missing the meeting cost him the promotion … ” He pauses, as if unsure whether to proceed, and I can tell that he’s meant to say this since he came in — once his anger passed, if he could find the guts. “ … that I should give you the vice presidency.”

  I don’t know how to respond. Dad watches me, then the serious moment passes, and he smiles a proud father’s smile.

  “I’d settle for a seat at your next finance meeting,” I say, turning to the request he’s always, always denied.

  “Okay,” he says. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Brandon

  Because I have no better idea of what to do, I show up for work on Monday. There’s no word from Mason one way or the other, but in my imagination I picture a river of ice running through the airspace between his phone and mine.

  We left on an indecisive point. I barely remember the conversation. I was just trying to run my mouth in any direction I could imagine, but the encounter felt like a cross between being drunk and being punched. Mason’s marvelous at yelling, especially at those who disappoint him. I’d heard it, and I’d imagined it. I just never figured I’d be one of those people.

  Once it was over, I stumbled back to my truck and drove home, growing increasingly annoyed.

  I was so weak, there in his office.

  In a negotiation, you’re not supposed to make your needs obvious. I hadn’t realized it was a negotiation, after I’d waited for his return, but it was. I was negotiating to keep my job; he was arguing that I should be fired.

  And so I basically got down on my knees to lick his shoes.

  I talked about how much I respect this company. I even talked about Riley, though maybe that might have been my self-sabotage streak (the same one that makes me drink hard when things get particularly bad) at work. I barely remember what I said. I only remember the tone, and the taste in my mouth that slowly dawned as I drove home, still exhausted, now coming down from adrenaline and shame.

  Why should I have to work so hard to keep my job? I had to keep reminding myself: Mason didn’t know what happened between me and Riley, as much as I think I talked about her in that meeting for some reason. So he wouldn’t fire me, would he? I only blew my promotion.

  But thinking that mitigating thought just worked me up even more.

  I gripped the steering wheel.

  I gritted my teeth beneath my lips.

  I drove faster than I should have.

  How dare he berate me. How dare he make me feel like a slacker, like the other asshole slackers we’ve all heard rumors of the great Mason James taking to school? When we heard about those reprimands, they always made sense. Some guy who never showed up for work. Someone who stole. Someone who harassed coworkers or yelled racist epithets from job sites. Someone with sticky fingers, skimming off the top and thinking the company wouldn’t notice.

  And now I’m in with them?

  It doesn’t matter that I may have kept my job. I deserve my job. And the promotion.

  I’ve always come to work on time. This was literally the only time I’ve ever been late, and it was just a little late, on a weekend. And it wasn’t my fault. I tried to tell that to Mason — about the truck’s failure, hoping Riley didn’t share something similar, with a nonsexual twist, when she got home — but he wasn’t willing to hear a word. I don’t remember everything he said because I was too busy staring at my navel and playing shamefaced, but there was something about how a real man doesn’t make excuses. About how a real man always has contingencies for the things that are important.

  But interestingly, I don’t even think he was rebutting my truck defense. It sounded like he didn’t believe me. Like the moment I started to explain, he was waving his hand to waft my bullshit away from his sensitive nose.

  Insulting.

  Condescending.

  By the time I got home, I’d almost decided to quit.

  Fuck Mason James. Fuck his company. Let’s see what happens if I quit. Not only will the Stonegate project fall apart; he’ll see how much crap I was holding together. Stuff I wasn’t even responsible for. Stuff I handled because it was wrong and needed to be right, and no one would fix it but me. I should do it just to make him beg. I should stalk off and let everything come crumbling down, then see if his opinion of me changes.

  Let’s see what kind of deal he gets on the land he’s considering without my insights. Sure, the survey and zoning specialists nailed their assessments, but there’s one thing I meant to bring up in that meeting as a gotcha that I’m sure nobody’s mentioned: The city is planning to repaint the water tower visible at the east end of the land’s view. Everyone with a north-facing window, looking into the beautiful valley, is about to get an eyeful of garish yellow blight once the paint job is finished. It’s not front and center, but people who pay what Mason wants them to don’t want something like that even in the peripheral vision of their luxury home.

  I figure it’ll cost him $10,000 per unit in resale value, on ambiance alone.

  Given the planned three hundred or so units, that’s $3 million. If they’re capitalizing the land at 10 percent, which they may or may not be, that’s at least $300K, maybe a half million less that Mason should be paying. And knowing Mason, he’ll get it to at least a million. Everyone knows Life of Riley is staking out the land on the hill near the creek, and if they mysteriously pass, every other developer will think twice.

  The financiers won’t hurt as much as the seller, but it’s not exactly a lending boom right now. The banks act like they have all the power, that they’re not will
ing to lend their precious money and that therefore everyone should beg. But the truth is that banks have to lend or they die, and that it’s them in desperate need — for someone like Mason James, who’s a safe credit risk and willing to assume massive loans.

  Let’s see how this deal goes without me.

  Let’s see how the Stonegate project would do without me.

  Let’s see how any of what I touch at Life of Riley will fare if I walk out, calling Mason’s high-goddamn-handed bluff.

  By the time I got home, I was about ready to hit the bar despite the hour. I had women I could call, too, and I almost did. I don’t need any James. None of them. They want to pile atop me, make me feel like crap? They want to tell me I’m useless and unwanted? I’m used to it. I’ve grown immune.

  But then Bridget texted me. And after I deflected some questions and apologies about the whole stupid, botched incident, I managed to ask about her business, and if she thought she was on track to start again after her vocal cords recovered.

  I managed to ask what I really wanted to know without seeming too obvious, I think.

  But of course, it looks like Bridget’s check will be delayed again, and she won’t be paid for another week or two beyond what she’d last heard. Because that’s just my luck. And I’m bone fucking dry.

  So much for the repayment I’m sure Bridget would insist on making right away.

  So much, accordingly, for my sense of pride.

  I didn’t go to the bar.

  I didn’t call any of the women I know would love to make me feel better, and I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’d have to pay them. It’s not even like I’d need to buy them dinner. That’s free sex, and it’d let me get lost for a while in the press of warm flesh.

  But I must be seriously bummed out because I called no one.

  I didn’t call Mason to tell him to fuck off. Or leave a message for him to fuck off when he got back to the office, at his convenience.

  I watched TV. For now, TV is free.

  On every station, it seemed, there was a woman to remind me of Riley. Even on the skin channels. Especially on the skin channels. Someone has her legs. Someone has her tits. Someone has blonde hair. Someone looks nothing like her, but she’s on a beach, and I’m sure for some reason that Riley loves the feel of warm sand on her skin.