3. Corm
Chapter 3
Corm
A n incoming video call vibrates my phone, and I groan. I’m of half a mind to let it ring out.
Taking out a cup, I fill it with coffee and swipe the green button. “Mom.” I set the phone against a fruit bowl on my kitchen island.
She fidgets with the phone, and I wait while I first see a close-up of her finger, then a glimpse of her library, and then her nose. I take a sip, waiting, my lips quirking up.
Every single time she attempts a video call, we go through this.
Finally, she stretches her arm and angles the phone to show her face. Her blonde hair is styled in a low bun at her nape as usual, and she is wearing her reading glasses on a string around her neck. And a kind expression.
I miss her. Fuck.
She marches down the hallway of her home, a woman on a mission. One would think she is a professional influencer with a selfie stick despite the rocky start of every freaking call.
“Thank you for the flowers, Lovie.”
God, I wish she would drop my childhood endearment.
My mother isn’t the only woman who gets flowers from me, but she is the only woman who gets them truly from me. Not from my assistant, Larissa.
Lately, there have been too many bouquets arriving at her house instead of me. I can hear the sadness in her gratitude.
“Sorry, Mom, I couldn’t make it for lunch today. I had work.” I take a generous gulp of my coffee to hide the lie and almost burn my tongue.
“I know, I know. Declan mentioned you have something.”
At least my brother didn’t skip the family lunch. Thank God his little fiends make Mom happy.
When I say nothing, she adds, “When will I see you, Lovie?”
“I’ve been really busy.”
And fucking upset with you for not telling me the truth. And then for telling me the truth.
I recognize the soft decor of her bedroom. A bedroom where I used to snuggle with my parents when I was a boy.
“I know we all grieve differently—”
“I’m not grieving, Mom. I’m upset. I’m angry. I’m disappointed. I’m…”
She sighs. “Look up grief online and confront your feelings, Corm.” She sits at her vanity and positions the phone against something. “You can pretend you don’t love him all you want.” She takes off an earring. “You miss him. I miss him.” She takes off the other earring. “Almost a year ago I lost my husband, but it feels like I lost my son as well.”
She delivers the last words into the mirror, avoiding my eyes. This is not a guilt trip. My mom doesn’t manipulate, but she is no pushover either. Always honest—bar one significant instance—always supportive, always patient.
I put down my mug and brace against the counter, bowing my head. Fuck. The cocktail of my emotions gets a new potent ingredient. Guilt.
“Why don’t we have lunch this week? I’ll have Larissa schedule something. She can get us a table at Casa Cassi.”
I’m not ready to step into my childhood home. It’s full of memories. Full of him. Full of the lies.
Casa Cassi is Mom’s favorite restaurant, and getting a reservation might be impossible on such short notice, but I suggest it anyway. And ignore the edges of my consciousness that are already canceling that plan. The florist will make more money soon.
“That would be lovely. I love you, Cormac.”
A lump swells in my throat at the genuine affection in those words. The remorse in her voice is like acid on a fresh wound.
Only the wound isn’t fresh anymore. I should have been able to swallow the bitter pill and move on with my life.
And yet… the man I’d looked up to, the man I’d loved all my life, had brought me to my knees. From beyond his fucking grave.
“I love you, too, Mom.”
“Be safe, Lovie.”
I hang up, finish my coffee, and decide to hit the gym.
As soon as I rev up my Lambo, I amend the plan. After my workout, I’m keeping the car in the garage and going out.
As an owner of several clubs, I’ve never partied in them beyond the necessary schmoozing with VIP guests. That has changed in the last several months.
Clubbing is the only way to cope with his betrayal.
“What?” I bark into the phone, after I finally located it under my pillow and answered to stop the offensive ringing. Fuck. My head hurts.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Roxy, my office manager, purrs.
The woman is the bane of my existence. Correction. Everything lately has been the bane of my existence.
Unfortunate. Uninspiring. Un-fucking-bearable.
“You better have a good reason for calling me,” I snap, the words rolling from my tongue with unwarranted harshness.
Roxy chuckles. “Does saving your ass count as a good reason in your book, asshole? I mean, boss.”
Fucking Roxy.
I turn to lie on my back and run my hand over my face as if that would wake me up. Or sober me up. I pull the phone away from my ear to check the time. Shit. I slept for two hours.
“What are you saving me from, Ro?”
She hates when people call her Ro. I hate to be rudely awakened. On a Saturday, no less. I guess we’re even.
“Why do I even bother?” Her eye roll is obvious even through the line.
My silky sheets rustle, drawing my attention. My gaze lands on a pale ass. Fuck. The last thing I need is the whole dance of sending someone on their walk of shame.
Leaning forward slightly, I check my companion’s hair color, hoping that would help me remember her name. It doesn’t. The movement, however, sets off the agonizing pain in my temples.
I stumble from my bed and pad to my bathroom in search of a painkiller.
“Roxy, since you already inconvenienced yourself with this call, why don’t you tell me the reason?”
I might be a dick to her, but I respect the shit out of this woman. She wouldn’t have called unless it was pressing.
Roxy Moretti possesses the best combination of capable, professional, and just enough unhinged to enjoy working with four men—her bosses—who are demanding, selfish, and extremely busy.
And occasionally real assholes like me this morning.
If she ever tries to leave us, I’d pay her my salary and destroy the fucker who dared offer her another opportunity.
“Again, why do I even bother?” she quips.
“Hold on.” I put the phone on the vanity, grab two Advils, and chase them down with water. I wince at my reflection. I aged ten years in the last few months. Thank you very much, Dad.
Returning to my room, I fall back into my bed and put the phone to my ear. The pills are not working yet, but the glass of water humanized me enough to deal with Roxy.
The woman in my bed groans and pulls the pillow over her head.
Roxy tuts. “Sorry to interrupt the main program, but you’re to play golf with Donovan Hale in ninety minutes.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you call me sooner?” I bark, and hang up on the background of her laughter as she says ‘you’re welcome’.
I shake my head and playfully slap the woman beside me. She groans again.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but I have to go to work. Get moving.” I jump out of the bed and pull the covers from her body.
“Hey.” She peeks from under the pillow. “It’s Saturday.”
“Sorry.” I shrug. “I’ll call you tonight.” My smile is more honest than my words. But the combo seems to appease her enough to rise.
“Can I at least shower?”
“No time for that. I’m really sorry. I’ll have my driver drop you off and pick you up again tonight at seven.”
She pouts, but starts collecting her clothes.
“I need to get ready. Just close the door on your way out.”
She pouts even more, but I disappear to the bathroom.
I desperately need to shave and shower, but grooming doesn’t seem as important as decreasing my rude lateness. I splash my face and brush my teeth before I dash to my closet.
My last-night companion intercepts me on her way out of my bedroom. At least she finally understands the urgency, and only sends me an air kiss. “See you tonight.”
Fuck, I hope she won’t steal anything on her way out. It would serve me right for bringing her here. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. I’ve been numbing the pain of my father’s betrayal with copious amounts of alcohol, and some recreational drugs. The fucking numbing is fleeting. The consequences are lasting, and keep piling up.
I get dressed in record time, but a quick check of my Rolex makes me dial Roxy again.
“The helicopter will be there in five,” Roxy says before I can speak.
I sigh, hanging my head. “Thank you.”
“I expect a bonus with my next paycheck.” This time, she hangs up.
I don’t have time to contemplate her behavior, or mine, because the rhythmic thumping of the helicopter blades chopping through the air propels me to action.
During the hour-long flight to the Fishers Island Club, I text my assistant. Luckily, Roxy hired Larissa and trained her well, so I don’t have to bother with explanations.
Send a gift to the same address my car drove this morning.
Larissa
Flowers or jewelry?
Flowers only.
The card should apologize for not making it tonight.
You’re a douchebag, Quinn. The thought surprises me, because when have I ever felt any remorse for my actions?
Be hard on the issue but soft on people, son. My father’s words sneak up on me. I’ve been hard on the issue all right, Dad. But I can’t be soft on you. I can’t forgive you.
The now very familiar taste of his duplicity triggers my impulse to drown it, and I pull a flask from my jacket’s inner pocket to medicate the feeling that has been eating me up.
I’ve been so fucking angry, I almost lost my company after I got arrested a few months back. Merged isn’t my only venture, but it is the most important one.
It used to be.
And now… Fuck if I know.
Dad suggested the concept to me. Even though I already had a very healthy income from my silent partnerships in several nightclubs, a gold mine, a pleasure resort, and a healthy stock portfolio to grow my trust fund, my father felt I needed something to hone my talent for business.
He shared his vision, one that his disease stopped him from bringing to fruition, and like a good boy, I lapped it up and slaved to make it happen. For him.
And now? I wish I could drop it. Just sell it to someone he hated and laugh. But the old man knew me. He got me involved, and hooked.
And now I’m stuck between hating my firm because it was his idea, and loving it because it’s my baby.
Merged might be my only legacy. The only company with my name attached to it.
The helicopter touches the ground, and I take another swig, regretting the late night.
“You’re late,” Donovan Hale huffs, patting his round stomach when I enter the club’s restaurant.
“Don, nice to see you.” I smile and shake his hand. “My apologies. The wind in Manhattan delayed my take off.”
I pull the chair to sit, but the president of Atlas Ventures, a global investment firm and our biggest client, stands up and moves toward the exit.
My stomach churns at the sight of the breakfast spread. I could use some solids along with my liquid reinforcement. Salivating, I sigh and grab a bottle of water before I follow my client.
The longest fucking day of my life keeps stretching on. My mouth is dry, my stomach is protesting my poor lifestyle choices, and my head is throbbing.
The sun beats with unforgiving enthusiasm, especially for early April.
I curse whoever picked today for a game to appease the man whose current business interest would elevate Merged in the financial world. We would become the go-to firm for future high-profile deals in the technology sector.
It takes an inhuman amount of effort to maintain a smile as I use the last remnants of my charm to appease the douche who makes the decisions. It’s good form to let him win, but the man is so bad at golf.
Even in my current state, swinging my club without aiming, we’re at the last hole with the same handicap.
“You look like shit, and if I’m to be honest, the recent media coverage of your behavior…” Donovan glares at me, stroking his silver goatee.
My shoes sink into the soft, trimmed grass of the green. The end to this ordeal of the day is only one hole away.
Donovan closes one eye, measuring the angle of the possible trajectory of his ball. It’s ten inches away—just fucking sink it in.
He turns this way and that way, like the task at hand requires real preparation. A blind person could get this hole. This is his best position yet.
“My personal life has nothing to do with my business.”
Unfortunately, he straightens as if abandoning the task. He swings his club like a pendulum beside his leg. “Doesn’t it? Look, we were all patient after your father passed, but it’s been months… My board doesn’t want to be associated with scandals.”
The mere mention of my father’s death in connection with my recent PR nightmare boils my blood. As if his death triggered my behavior. But, of course, everyone assumes that.
I don’t know if that makes me a good son or an emotional loser in everyone’s eyes. And frankly, I’m too tired to revisit that angle.
Ignoring the anger cruising through my veins, I smile at Donovan. “Your board will be kissing your ass once we help you sign the AetherTech merger.”
“There, there, Corm…” Fuck, I hate his condescending tone.
Donovan Hale is closer in age to my father than to me, which makes his patronizing spiel worse in my eyes for some outlandish reason.
“While AetherTech is a cutting-edge tech company,” he continues, “it’s not one of those hipster startups. The company is controlled by people with more traditional values.”
I smirk. “And they’re still driven by profits.”
He leans forward, tapping the ball gently with his club and, thank fucking God, doesn’t miss. “All I’m saying is that while I appreciate you were the first to warm up the deal, there are others who can see it through.”
The first, or the only? They were after AetherTech for months, and only got their first meeting thanks to me and my partner, Xander, and his connections. Donovan fucking Hale dares to threaten to steal the negotiations away from my firm?
But I know when to choose my battles, so I miss the hole. Twice. Smiling, I shrug at my opponent. “Congratulations, Don. You play a mean game.”
I extend my hand, and he shakes it.
“I promise to be on my best behavior.” I wink at him.
“I don’t trust you, Corm.”
“But you need me to get significantly richer.”
I doze off on the way back home, which makes me feel even shittier because a brief shut-eye only messes with my head and my body.
The helicopter drops me off on the roof of my house, and as much as I want to go straight to my bed, I need to eat something first.
I pull out one of the foil-covered dishes. My chef comes twice a week and leaves meals for me. I eat out so often that my housekeeper ends up feeding her family with most of them.
Without registering what I’m warming up, I shove the dish into the oven and pour myself a tall glass of water.
I consider getting a glass of whiskey but drop the idea. I might have been reckless lately, but I’m not stupid.
Movement behind my window catches my attention. The oven dings, and my stomach growls. Chicken masala aromas permeate the air. Fuck, I’m hungry.
I sit on the kitchen island stool and don’t bother serving myself a portion, but dig into the baking dish. I open my security app.
A few spoonfuls and clicks later, and I drop the cutlery and run outside.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, opening the service door at the side of my house.
The man going through my garbage, a long lens hanging from his shoulder, startles and, unfortunately for him, freezes.
While the paps love my pictures when I’m out, my house has been spared. I hit my personal low when I brought a woman here last night. In fact, I vowed to clean my act because of that.
But seeing a stranger trying to make a quick buck trespassing on my property ignites the rage that has been simmering inside me all day. All month. Several months.
And I forget my vow to clean my act, or my promise to Donovan, and before I think better of it, my fist connects with the intruder’s jaw.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Xander storms into my office on Monday morning.
The youngest of the four partners at Merged, Xander is our Chief Strategy Officer. He is highly intelligent, and annoyingly passionate.
This is the problem with having partners. They fucking butt into your business. All. The. Time.
I open and close my sore fist, but I don’t move otherwise. Seated at my desk, I let him have his tantrum.
He marches across my bright, large office toward my desk. “I called all the favors to get you a golfing Saturday with Hale, to make sure this goddamn deal is still ours, and you fucking hit the headlines as soon as you shelved the clubs.”
He throws down printouts detailing and exaggerating the unfortunate events of Saturday evening. Was I right to break that asshole’s nose? Of course. Should I have done it? Probably not.
Reckless billionaire CEO assaults an innocent citizen. An innocent citizen swiping through my garbage and trespassing to profit.
Money can buy everything: charges dropped after Cormac Quinn assaults a journalist. Thank God for good lawyers. Not that I can digest that I had to pay off the loser. He was no journalist. He was a paparazzo.
Cormac Quinn leaves a high-end club with a stripper. Shit, that’s who she was.
“I thought the idea of online media is to save paper.” I toss the printouts across the desk, back to him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He throws his arms up in exasperation. “Hale called me—didn’t even bother to call you—to say that they are pulling out.”
“Bullshit.”
My confident comeback is a feeble attempt to stay in control while my life is spiraling down.
I can’t even blame this on my old man. He might have triggered me, but I’ve indulged in the anger like a spoiled brat. Goddammit.
“I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you,” Xander continues. “But I didn’t sign up to have the CEO arrested a month after we founded this business, or have all our associates questioning his sanity every single day.”
“My personal life is nobody’s business.” I stand up, my chair rolling and hitting the glass wall behind my desk with a thud.
“Screw your life, Corm. Your personal image is this company’s business. Fuck whoever you want, drink, party, get high, but do it discreetly.”
It sucks to be scolded by a man who’s four years younger than me. At twenty-seven, he already hit the 30 under 30 list twice, the fucker.
“It might be too late for that.” Declan walks in, followed by Cal van den Linden who closes the door.
Well, look at the impromptu partners’ meeting.
“I talked to three board members at Atlas Ventures, and they gave Hale an ultimatum: either you’re out or he is. Guess which option he is rooting for?” Cal smirks and sits down on my white leather sofa on the other side of the room, casually, as if he is enjoying this. He probably is.
While we found some resemblance of decent professional behavior, there is no love lost between us.
I glare at the men in front of me, and for the first time in… well, ever, I don’t have a quip on my tongue. While I don’t give a shit about my personal reputation, I give a shit about losing money, or my business rep.
Fuck. I press the button of my internal line.
“Yes, Mr. Quinn,” Larissa says in her soft Russian accent.
“Get me AetherTech on the phone.” I rein in the poison in my voice.
While Larissa is more than capable of shaking off my verbal assaults and even returns them, I need to exude calm in front of the three people glowering at me right now.
My brother, Declan, knows nothing about the betrayal from the man we called Father. He has enough on his plate with two small children whose mother is MIA, and a major pain in his ass.
And who, unlike me, despite his personal turmoil, acts as our Chief Financial Officer with integrity and the utmost work ethic.
While I run to nightclubs to drown my issues, he escapes his at work.
Xander joined our quartet with enthusiasm and probably regretted it ever since. From what I know, his antics are probably even more scandalous than mine, but the fucker manages the discretion he’s just demanded from me.
And then there is Cal, who is married and settled, and so fucking happy I want to claw his eyes out.
I am failing all of them, but I won’t admit it.
“Mr. Cherynowski is on line one.” Larissa’s voice interrupts our silent glaring contest.
“Vladislav, how are you?” I pick up the receiver and widen my eyes, but none of my partners move to leave.
Fuck them. I reach for my chair and sit, turning it. The skyline of Manhattan spreads in front of me, giving me a false sense of privacy.
“Better than you, I guess,” the AetherTech’s CEO chuckles.
“Listen, you know how the media is. The fucker was going through my garbage,” I admit.
I never comment on any of my recent indiscretions, but I did my homework, and I know Vladislav Cherynowski values his privacy above all.
“Fucking vultures,” he murmurs.
“But I admit I acted on impulse.” I take a bite from the humble pie and sigh. “Donovan Hale’s board is not happy.”
He remains silent, so I continue, “You know that we have the expertise in-house to help you with the best transition post-merger…” I launch into my pitch, knowing I haven’t lost him yet since he took my call.
“Look, Cormac.” He sighs when I’m done. “I know you’d be our best option to move forward, but you’re not the only one. Atlas wants this merger; I want it, too. To be honest, it’s taking too long to iron out all the details, and my time is too precious to brief and start over with another intermediary.”
It’s a weak endorsement, but beggars can’t be choosers. “I appreciate that.”
“Don’t be cute with me. Your reputation is an ongoing concern. I’ll not answer calls from Atlas unless you’re at the table because you will get me a good deal. That being said, you have two months to clean up your act. That’s how long I’m willing to stall them. One more media coverage—”
“There will be none. You have my word.” I feel like a kid sent into detention, and I hate it. I loathe myself for this situation.
“Oh, you misunderstood. I want coverage portraying you as an upstanding citizen. A pillar of the community.”
I snort. “In two months? No one will believe that.”
“You better make it believable.”
“Vladislav, you want me to stage PR photo ops in shelters?”
“That wouldn’t hurt, but something more wholesome would sell your story of a tamed daredevil.”
“I’m listening.”
His next words shake the ground under me. Fuck. My. Life.
I turn slowly and hang up the receiver, before I lift my gaze to meet the expecting eyes of my partners.
“So?” Xander prompts.
“He is out of his fucking mind.”