Chapter -19- #2
Denz nearly slips off the bed trying to sit up.
Vista de Atlas is the retirement party venue.
Ten thousand square feet of pure luxury.
Atlas has hosted movie premiere after-parties, the governor’s birthday, Audrey Hudson’s wedding reception.
Tomorrow is a full-circle moment in Kenneth Carter’s career.
“They’ve been conducting routine maintenance around the facility in preparation,” Kenneth explains. “Minor things, I was promised. But the room above ours sprung a leak during repairs.” Another annoyed breath comes through the phone. “It’s flooded.”
Denz’s stomach freefalls into his ass.
“Flooded,” he repeats. Shit. Fuck shit fuck . He looks around his bedroom as if some magical answer is going to appear on his bedside table or underneath his wrinkled boxers on the floor. “Should we move to another location?”
“Less than thirty-six hours before the party?”
“Um.”
“What’s your plan? Email all two hundred guests? Inform everyone in a Facebook post?”
Denz was leaning more toward a less corrupt social media platform, actually.
“No, no,” he rushes out, rubbing one eye. His hangover is mutating into a migraine. “Maybe I can—”
“Don’t bother,” Kenneth says, cutting him off. “I’ve been on the phone with management all morning.”
It’s another blunt reminder that his dad, the CEO, starts his mornings at 7:00 A.M. like a motivated executive while Denz sleeps off bad alcohol choices, naked.
“They’re offering us the rooftop,” Kenneth informs him.
Denz has only been to Vista de Atlas a handful of times.
Once for a party hosted by a hot Netflix star who slid into his DMs with a personal invite to tour the VIP lounge.
Privately . He vaguely remembers the rooftop space with its panoramic views of the Atlanta skyline.
It’s smaller than the space they reserved, but just as breathtaking.
A car door opens in Kenneth’s background. Words are exchanged with the driver. The whoosh of a morning breeze comes and goes, replaced by more voices, urgent greetings and apologies.
“Dad?”
“I’m at Atlas to meet with vendors. We’ll need to rearrange the layout and alter the menus…” His dad goes on like he’s not upending months of work in a single breath. “You need to get down here. Now.”
“Me?”
Denz struggles to keep up. His brain’s a PC from the Stone Age still running Windows Vista, but Kenneth’s communicating with him like he’s a MacBook. It’s too much.
“What about Kami?”
“Tied up,” his dad answers. “She’ll be here later. In the meantime, she’s sending Jordan.”
“Should I send Eric?”
“He’s working on another project for me.” Kenneth’s next breath comes out agitated, bordering on dismissive. “This is what a real CEO does, Denzel. Drops everything. Ensures every event detail goes off without a hitch. He manages from the front line, not from his Peloton. Or his bedroom.”
Denz winces. His dad always knows. He squeezes the bridge of his nose, the pressure building quicker than he can react.
“You need to be here,” Kenneth reiterates, as if he needed it.
Denz rubs his goatee, which is in serious need of a trim. Vista de Atlas is on the other side of downtown. Traffic on a Friday is going to be hell, even at this hour.
“Give me, like, forty minutes?”
“Make it less. Time’s essential, Denzel.”
Kenneth hangs up.
Denz allows himself ten seconds to sag against his headboard. Ten seconds to scream into a pillow. Then, he’s up.
He skips reading the other notifications, including the three texts from Braylon he’s more than happy to avoid.
He rolls out of bed. He stubs his big toe twice while brushing his teeth and searching for clean clothes.
In the shower, he whispers a prayer to whatever god is listening.
He desperately needs to sober up before seeing his dad.
Chaos greets Denz at Atlas’s doors. The staff and vendors collide left and right.
Jordan scrambles past him. Wild tendrils slip from the manager’s messy bun, her cheeks flushed.
At the heart of it all, Denz’s dad has the sleeves of his Stefano Ricci shirt rolled to his elbows, a tablet in one hand, his phone in the other.
He’s in boss mode. Denz approaches accordingly.
Within seconds, he’s given a checklist and a small group of employees, plus Jordan. Denz sends Kami a Where the hell are you? text, and promptly hides his phone in the pocket of his jacket, leaving both at the front desk. He can only handle one shitshow at a time.
Jordan hands him a coffee. “What’s the plan, cuz?”
Denz goes full Eric Tran, pushing up his own sleeves. He didn’t come dressed for manual labor but fuck it. If his dad’s doing it, he is too.
“Let’s head upstairs.”
Their “stage” is now a glass balcony ten feet above the main rooftop.
After surveying the area, Denz decides to nix the “History of 24 Carter Gold” video they were going to show.
He cancels the ice sculpture in the shape of the company’s logo.
Atlanta in March might as well be summer in hell. It’s too humid outside.
He sits crisscrossed on the tiled stone floor to condense the seating charts. If he’s lucky, they can fit all two hundred guests up here.
“We can overflow to the banquet area,” Jordan shouts from the balcony.
“Good idea.”
Denz makes a note. In all his reorganizing and overcommunication, he realizes something: he’s calm, in control. Panic can kiss his future CEO ass.
“Mr. Carter,” one of the staff says, startling him. “The other Mr. Carter’s meeting with the head chef. Would you like to join them?”
Denz leaps to his feet. “Lead the way.”
He misses lunch, making sure all the employees eat first. Without them, none of this is possible.
When his dad sends up a turkey club from a local deli, Denz hands it to Jordan.
He’s too focused on mapping out where the live band will set up to stop.
Around 4:00 P.M., he pauses for a handful of M&M’s and a bag of spicy Cheetos, half a Coke bottle.
Then, it’s all adrenaline until past dinnertime.
“Damn,” Jordan says, impressed. “You might be as good as Kami.”
Denz flips him off, smiling.
It’s not true. Through every step, he feels like he’s missed an item. A detail Kami wouldn’t forget.
At 6:30 P.M ., as the staff files out, Kenneth thanks each of them by name. This is why he is who he is. People respect the eye contact, his genuineness.
Once everyone’s gone, Denz watches his dad’s shoulders drop. He sluggishly fixes his shirt. He can’t hide his exhaustion anymore.
He stares at Denz: “Are you okay?”
The transformation is always a little jarring. How he goes from Kenneth Carter, million-dollar face of a company, to Dad, the man who raised Denz. From the person he looks up to career-wise to the man who taught him how to ride a bike.
“Y-yeah.”
“Today was a lot.”
Denz chuckles. “Understatement.”
Kenneth grins. “I haven’t had to put in that much work since I was your age.” He stretches, wincing when his back cracks. But there’s a light behind his eyes. “Felt damn good.”
“Are you gonna miss it?”
“Hell no.” Kenneth laughs, loud and shameless. “My body can’t take it.” He gives Denz another long look. “Are you good for dinner? You can join me and your mom—”
Denz waves him off. “I’m fine. I need a night in.”
Kenneth tugs out his phone to call a car. On his way to the doors, he says, “Really impressive job today, son.”
Denz blinks. He can’t think of a single word that’ll match the sincerity in his dad’s tone. So, he says, “Thanks, Dad.”
When Denz turns on his phone, dozens of notifications pour in. Texts and missed calls and social media alerts. He sighs, fatigue wrenching his bones as he prepares to swipe through.
“You look like shit.”
He glances up.
Kami stands near the lobby doors. She’s wearing sneakers, yoga pants, an old Emory University T-shirt, curls pulled up into a lopsided bun. Meanwhile, Denz’s button-up and slacks are sticking to his skin.
“You’re late.”
She ignores his flat tone. “I’m here now. Wanted to make sure y’all had everything handled.”
“You mean, you wanted to make sure I didn’t fuck it up?”
The lobby’s fairly empty. A handful of evening staff linger, making last-minute calls for tomorrow. But it’s just the two of them standing on the bronze Vista de Atlas logo carved into the marble floor.
“No,” Kami says, jaw tight. The irritation in her eyes reminds Denz of their childhood. When “allergies” was to blame for the rare occasions they turned on each other.
He hated those days. He’s not fond of this moment either.
“We’re fine,” he says, dismissive. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Kami arches an eyebrow. “Really? You sound like you need a nap.”
“Where were you?”
“This isn’t just about you,” she replies, deflecting. “I know we’re not exactly Dad’s number-one and number-two picks. Auntie Cheryl told me.”
Denz wonders if he’s “number two” in that scenario. “Then you should’ve been here,” he reminds her.
“I sent Jordan. I did what I could.”
“So did I!” He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, to startle Atlas’s manager as she passes. He can’t help it. “I got here. Put in the work. I impressed Dad. You’re not the only one who can do this job.”
“I never said I was.”
“You did,” Denz argues. “In my office. When this all started. Remember?”
“Denz,” she says with a sigh. “I don’t want to—”
“Where. Were. You?” he repeats.
“In case you forgot, I have a son, ” Kami snaps. “Sorry I had to pick him up early from school because he was sick. Or that I had to find someone to watch him because our mom’s on a campus tour with Nic. Because my brother is acting like a dick while doing the job he signed up for.”
Denz stumbles a little. “Mikah’s sick?”
Kami shakes her head, frowning. “It’s nothing serious. He was fine when I left.”
“I didn’t need you to do all that to get here. I got this.”
“Do you?” She cocks her head. “Like you handled the menu drama on Valentine’s? Or how about something simple, like muffins for the staff meeting? Signing a venue contract?”
“You heard about that?”
“I’m not so focused on me that I don’t notice what’s happening with you.” She bites her lip. “Your track record in high-pressure situations isn’t—”
“God.” Denz drags a hand over his face. “You sound like the aunties.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, you obviously did,” he interrupts again. “Clearly, it’s something you’ve thought for a while. Please, continue.”
Outside, waves of pink melt the blue from the sky. Denz just wants to go home and shower. Destroy some Thai takeout while rewatching The Best Man . But he chooses to wait for his sister to elaborate.
“Fine,” she huffs. “You’re always late. You constantly forget things. At every opportunity, you either run from a problem or lie. How is anyone supposed to think that this —” She waves her hand at his disheveled appearance. “—isn’t too much for you?”
A beat. He asks, “Is that everything?”
Gently, Kami says, “I want you to succeed. But you need to stop avoiding reality.”
“Which is?”
“You’re doing this for them. Not you.”
It stings. Her words, her genuine expression. The way it sounds like what their dad said last month.
She’s right. Denz wants to run. Or lie.
Instead, he laughs, short and joyless, then says, “Thanks, but I don’t need advice from someone who can’t admit she’s too scared to share her personal life with her own family.”
Kami steps away, blinking hard.
Fuck. He wants to take it back.
“Wow.” The lobby’s pendant lighting catches on the tears brimming in her eyes. She swallows. “Who sounds like the aunties now?”
“Wait, Kam—”
“What’s going on here?”
Denz jolts at Kenneth’s voice. He’s in the lobby again, trading looks between them.
“Are you two really arguing,” he says, low and steely, “right here, right now? In public?”
Denz tries to speak, but his throat tightens.
“No, Dad,” Kami says, her voice steadier than Denz expects. “We’re not.”
“Then why do you look so upset?”
Kami fixes her gaze on Denz. “Allergies,” she says, and walks away.
Kenneth follows her. Denz thinks to do the same. He should apologize, talk rationally to Kami instead of with emotions not meant for her.
But he can’t. His phone vibrates in his palm with a notification.
Formerly Known As Bray
I can’t believe you didn’t show up.
Above the last text are several more. A thread of messages that starts with I can’t wait to see you and Thanks for doing this before shifting to please be on time because Whit is restless today.
Questions about where Denz is, how long he will be.
Is your battery dead? It ends with the most recent text.
Shit, shit, shitty forgetful idiot .
It’s the missing detail that’s been haunting him all day. He was supposed to meet with Braylon’s coworkers two hours ago. To work on social media content.
Denz calls Braylon’s phone. There’s no answer. He tries again. Nothing. Not even a read notification when he texts.
“Denzel,” Kenneth starts as Denz double-times outside.
“Can’t talk now, Dad!”
“You need to—”
“ Braylon needs me,” is the last thing he shouts while running to his car. He knocks into a potted shrub outside Atlas. His left loafer is barely hanging on, but Denz never stops.
There’s only time for one thing. One person.
He hopes he’s not too late.