4. Vaughn
FOUR
VAUGHN
It was dark outside, and the building was quiet.
I tried not to work late on weeks that I had Charlotte, but these days I couldn’t seem to get away before her bedtime.
Guilt tightened my throat as I checked the time.
She’d be asleep by the time I got home. Again.
I walked out of my office and pulled on my jacket, then called the elevator.
I watched the little screens above the elevators and stood next to the one most likely to arrive first. While the far car zoomed up from the lobby, the doors in front of me opened.
The stress of the business was getting to me. I’d actually gone back to Carmine’s like some sort of desperate stalker, wanting a hit of snark from my favorite waitress. Verbally sparring with her always made me feel better.
But she hadn’t been there today, so my stress had only wound itself tighter.
I made it to the lobby, and my phone rang. It was Jim, and he delivered news I’d already predicted: “The Midtown job is hemorrhaging money,” he told me. “Unless we turn it around, and quickly, nobody’s going to touch us.”
I grimaced. I could inject some cash into the company myself to get us through a rough patch, but that would be a red flag for any investor. I had to present a healthy company if I wanted access to bigger jobs.
“The subcontractor with the faulty equipment?” I asked.
“Legal has just sent them a breach of contract notice.”
My grimace tightened. Just what every investor wanted—legal troubles. “Can we paper over the Midtown problems with some of the other jobs?”
“I’ll find out. It isn’t guaranteed to stand up to scrutiny, though. Especially not the people you’re courting.”
“All right. Thanks, Jim.”
If I didn’t fix these problems—and quickly—there would be no access to back rooms and politicians’ ears. There would be no security. The company would stagnate, maybe even crumble. No one would want to hire us—we’d be radioactive after such a big and public failure.
Charlotte’s future would hang in the balance, and I’d be the deadbeat who ruined it all.
Just like my own dad. The pattern I’d sworn I’d never repeat. I’d watch him gamble our family’s money like a man with his eyes glued to the roulette wheel.
And here I was, repeating his mistakes. Promising my daughter the world and unable to deliver. Letting her nanny take care of her while I spent my evenings locked in my office. Maybe my ex-wife was right about me, after all.
As I reached the lobby doors and flipped the collar of my jacket up against the blast of cold wind, my driver jumped out of the car and moved to open the back door for me. I nodded to him and slipped inside.
The future seemed bleak, apart from three things:
First and most significant would be the sight of my daughter, safe and sleeping, when I got home this evening. That would heal almost everything.
Second, the cutting remarks that Alba would have for me when we next saw each other. I could fling harsh words back at her and watch the gratifying way her eyes would narrow. The perfect pressure release valve.
And third, the anticipation of whatever my snarky cleaning woman would do when she entered my office tonight and saw what I’d left for her.