2. Theo Griffin #3
I’ve been compiling a list of men since I was a child, men I intended to take down, a list I began twenty-two years ago while I sat cold and shivering in a filthy alleyway.
The first four names, the names of men who were in that office with my mom on a dreary day, have already been erased, so now my list consists of those who, according to the blood that runs in my veins, are my brothers.
“Sir?”
Caught blindly staring at my computer monitor, I glance up to find my assistant at the door in her tiny skirt suit and long legs.
Maybe I’m not so different from my father…
I appreciate a woman’s body just as much as he did.
I love women, I love their bodies, I love their luscious curves and supple peaks.
I love taking them to bed, and I don’t even mind if they hang out a little longer, so long as they don’t expect pillow talk and chitchat.
I still keep my words mostly to myself. A habit is hard to break, and a habit I don’t want to break is basically impossible.
Instead of verbally answering, I peel my eyes from her legs and lift my chin.
“Rogers is here to discuss that new patent.” She takes another step through the door, as though to tell a secret. “He looks kind of mad.”
“Rogers…? Quad-fold doors with the magnetic lock system?”
She nods.
“Send him in; I’ll take care of it.”
Dipping her chin, she lets her astronomically long lashes kiss her cheeks as she backs out to summon Tasker Rogers. He’s a stubborn man, a young engineer with an innovative brain, but an old-man thought process.
Clicking away from the screen in front of me – Sophia Solomon; an interesting study, and a problem for later – I rest my elbows on my desk and steeple my fingers as the door opens again.
My assistant walks through with confidence, leading a scruffy man almost a whole decade younger than me to the center of my office.
He’s young, but he’s brilliant. If he’d set his ego aside, he’d get a job offer and a salary he could never dream about.
But Griffin Industries has no room for egos.
We have no room for a single man on a mission.
Except, of course, my mission.
Without waiting for me to speak, Tasker thrusts a sheet of paper into my face as Annaliese lets herself out and closes the door.
The paper floats to my desk and leaves a pregnant pause hanging in the air, growing thicker and thicker the longer I stare into his eyes and press the tips of my steepled fingers to my lips.
The most powerful weapon in business is not being good in debate, or being the smartest, the loudest, the wittiest.
Silence… silence will break every man, if you let it hang long enough.
I learned long ago to never be the first to speak. To never be the first to make an offer. To never be the first to utter a dollar amount. Silence is powerful, and the longer it lasts, the faster they crumble.
“You misinterpreted the bill I sent you.” Unable to handle the pressure, he surges forward and snatches up the invoice he expected me to fetch. “I sent this yesterday, but you read it wrong.”
With slow movements, I lift a brow and extend a hand until he places the paper in my palm with some fucking respect. I unfold the abused sheet, scan what I’ve already seen, and let it drop again. “It says you want a hundred and forty-seven thousand dollars for your door patent.”
“Right!” He flattens the paper on my desk with a huff and stabs it with his pointer finger. “You sent an email mentioning two-twenty-two like I’m ripping you off. My invoice clearly says one-forty-seven.”
“You’re partially correct; the invoice says one-forty-seven, but I’ve already deposited seventy-five grand into your account. Seventy-five, plus your outstanding one-four-seven implies a two-twenty-two purchase price. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong! The invoice says one-forty-seven.”
“ Outstanding . One-forty-seven… outstanding. So where the fuck is my seventy-five, Rogers?”
“Where… I…” He swallows when the simplest shit finally clicks in his brilliant brain. “No, I…”
“We discussed this last week. You had your assistant send your banking details to mine.”
“That was Darla,” he blusters. “She’s no longer working for me.”
“Your staffing problems have nothing to do with me. Your assistant provided the banking details, Annaliese sent the deposit over. We’ve had this discussion already, haven’t we?
You couldn’t find the money, I showed you the details Darla provided us with.
You located your money. The problem here lies within your faulty accounting system and inability to look outside of your ass.
” I wait and let the pause build. “Did I misinterpret your invoice, Tasker? Or did you misallocate my money, and you’re too weak to admit fault? ”
“It was the wrong account,” he blunders. “I forgot…”
“I don’t care which account it’s in. Do you or do you not have access to that money?”
“I do,” he chokes.
“And was it your company representative that provided mine with those details, or did I pull them out of my fuckin’ asshole?”
“D-D-Darla sent them over.”
“Right. So walk back out my door, knock again, come back with an updated invoice for the remaining seventy-two grand and an apology for being an arrogant prick. I’ll be waiting.”
He turns on his heels and darts across the room. I stop him again when his hand wraps around the door handle.
“Our contract stipulates that you’ll make delivery this coming Wednesday with the full drawings and DWGs. You on time, Tasker?”
“Well… uh… I…”
“Our contract states an 11:59 pm delivery time. A single minute past midnight, and you forfeit fifty percent of the sale price. That means you’d actually owe me three grand. And you’d still have to deliver. Do you think coming here today was a good use of your time?”
No. It wasn’t.
He dashes out without another word and makes my double doors rattle on the hinges when he slams them shut. Shaking my head, I sit back and push a long exhale out through my nose. Tasker Rogers is smart as hell, but his bad attitude means he’ll never be offered a position within Griffin.
Remembering the job application that slid across my desk a few days ago from Darla Kline, I dig through the pile and tug it out. Scanning the information on the front, I shake my head a second time, scrunch it into a ball, and toss it into the trash.
If Tasker’s assistant is handing out the wrong banking details, I don’t want her.
My staff is expected to perform with accuracy.
If you’re employed by Griffin Industries, you’re regarded as one of the best, you’re considered elite, you’re expected to pay a-fucking-ttention to detail, and when you perform, you’re rewarded.
I don’t consider my expectations unreasonable. If they were, people would stop tossing their résumés onto my desk every single day.
I close my eyes for a moment when the doors stop vibrating, pull a long breath through my nose until my chest expands, then I let it out again and reopen my eyes.
Okay. Time to work.
I don’t know who the fuck Sophia Solomon is, but her name popped up in a search last week. Not a big deal – names are always sliding across my screen – but when that same name pops up twice, and then a third time in less than a week, it’s time for me to take another look.
Twenty-six years old, classically trained ballerina turned dance instructor at a dance academy that is mere months old. I lift a brow at that and begin searching deeper.
It could be as it looks on the outside; she’s young, maybe she blew out her knee in rehearsals and fucked her chances of becoming a pro dancer, so now she’s opened a new studio with hopes to train a new prima ballerina.
But a new studio, a twenty-six-year-old, and five-year-old students – why has Miss Solomon got bank accounts overflowing with cash?
Why has the Ellie Solomon Dance Academy listed themselves as a not-for profit, but their accounts are bursting at the seams?
Looks like a damn profit to me.
And who is Ellie Solomon?
I spend hours sliding through the start-up files for this baby business, and the deeper I go, the larger my smile grows. Whoever set her up pays attention to details the way I expect of my employees. Her tax files are beyond reproach, her reporting is spotless, her legal team well established.
The only smear is the profit. No small-town dance school earns millions in their first year. No fucking chance. Had it not been for her bank balance, and the fact that her dance studio is set up in the same small town that Colum Bishop was executed in, I would have walked away already.
It all looks exactly as it should, except that it doesn’t.
Day turns to night while I scroll and file information away in the back of my mind. I sip cold coffee and frown at the grumbles coming from my stomach. I’m hungry, and it’s long past dinnertime.
But then I sit taller when a name flashes across my screen.
Two names.
Three names.
“Well, shit.” I lean closer to aid my straining eyes as familiar names blink at me like flashing neon signs.
Some are familiar. Some are new, to be added to my list. And one blast from the past nearly flattens me. I bring her driver’s license up to fill my screen, and simply… stare.
“Elizabeth fucking Tate…” I shake my head. “Is a cop.”