Chapter 13
Thirteen
Now
Wyatt
I can’t put it off any longer. I need face time with Howard.
As I enter the ballroom— walking briskly and in no way running—I assure myself that stopping by his table is entirely fueled by my desire to keep the night on track.
If I can’t sink this IPO tonight, my department’s likely to be out on our asses as investor demands for profits lead to cuts to “nice-to-have” departments like mine, particularly ones Howard’s had in his crosshairs for years.
In no way is my hasty exit from the Oakwood kitchens motivated by my need to avoid hearing CJ call me brave or selfless or whatever other well-meaning cliché she was about to bust out.
I’ve heard it all, and pity’s the last thing I want from her and her shocked, luminous eyes that threaten to pick me apart, undo my stitches, and expose every weak and vulnerable part of me.
So Howard it is. But first the bar.
“Can I please get a Rumpleshaker?” Then, remembering what CJ said, I add, “And a glass of ice water.”
I have to shout to be heard above the four calling birds, which have spent the evening in cages mere feet from the bartender’s head.
The man’s haunted expression as he mixes my drink tells me he’s endured things tonight at the beaks of these preternaturally loud cockatoos that no bartender should have to suffer.
I stuff all the cash in my wallet into his tip jar as an apology since technically, I am responsible.
Then with a deep breath, I head toward the VIP table.
“There he is!” Howard leaps from his chair and meets me halfway across the ballroom, giving me a hearty back slap that sloshes my drinks onto the carpet, where I assume the Rumpleshaker will eventually eat a hole in the fibers.
Before leading me to the table, he leans into me, giving me a startling up-close look at his flushed skin, bloodshot eyes, and sweaty upper lip.
“You, uh, doing okay, boss?”
“No I’m fucking not,” he snaps, although he keeps his voice low. “The food is awful, the birds are upsetting Bethany Worth’s husband, and why does it smell like the plumbing burst?”
I’m so focused on not inhaling my boss’s boozy hot-pepper breath that my brain hasn’t processed any other aromas yet, but the instant he mentions it, a sewage smell invades my nostrils.
“Whew, yeah.” It’s faint, but it’s definitely there underneath the aroma of evergreens and passed appetizers, and it’s definitely coming from the direction of the VIP table. “What is that?”
I know what it is—CJ—but I’m glad she didn’t spill the details of whatever’s turning this end of the ballroom into an old diaper. It keeps my disgust and confusion authentic.
Howard’s eyes scan the room and snag on a passing server. He steps into the guy’s path, and despite being a head shorter than the server, me, and pretty much every other guy here, Howard’s bowling-ball physique manages to knock several appetizers off the server’s tray.
“You,” he barks. “Call somebody. Figure out what the fuck is happening with this”—he gestures around, showing off the biggest pit stain I’ve ever seen—“smell.”
While Howard smooths the sparse hair clinging to his forehead, I set my drinks down and kneel to help the man pick up his spilled appetizers, taking the chance to apologize and say, “Don’t worry about the smell. It’s being handled.” The man nods gratefully and scurries off.
“Jones!” Howard barks. “Come be charming. Act like your job depends on it.”
Ha fucking ha. But I paste a smile on my face and let him lead me to the VIP section.
“Friends,” he says to the seated investors, “this ugly mug is Wyatt Jones with the Financial Wellness Division. One of our feel-good initiatives. Makes us look good to the regulators and all that jazz.”
Not loving that introduction, but I swallow my irritation and slide into a vacant chair as Howard rattles off the investor names.
“Wyatt, this is Franklin Knight with Vanguard, Bethany Worth with Goldman, Gerry Lowenstein with the Ohio Municipal Employees Retirement Fund, and our private equity angels, Dale Dillman and Dillon Dalton.”
There’s a pause while we wait for him to introduce the spouses as well, but Howard falls silent with a self-satisfied smile.
“Hello, everyone. Hello, Elaine.” I greet Howard’s wife. Like most times that I’ve seen her at social occasions, she’s on her way to being pleasantly sauced. I next offer my hand to Franklin’s wife. “You must be Joanne?”
“I am.” She dimples and places her fingers in mine for a half-hearted shake. “A pleasure.”
I turn down the line and say, “That makes you Bethany’s husband, Kent?”
Kent and Bethany are as lean and angular as Franklin and Joanne are soft and well-fed. I shake his hand carefully, not wanting to accidentally mash his fingers. He says a quick hello, then returns his nervous gaze to the pen where the three french hens are happily clucking away.
“He hates poultry,” Bethany explains with a trace of annoyance.
“Oh, that’s… unfortunate.” None of my research revealed a chicken phobia among Howard’s guests. “Should we see if someone can relocate them?”
She shakes her head firmly, her chin brushing against the huge bow perched on the shoulder of her dress. “He’ll be fine.”
One of the chickens bawks, and a short scream bursts from Ken’s mouth.
“I wasn’t expecting… this.” His terrified eyes sweep the room, and I experience a moment’s regret for torturing the wrong person.
“Are you kidding? This fucking rocks,” chortles Dillon, or possibly Dale. The pair is indistinguishably young, dark-haired, and dead-eyed, and Howard introduced them so quickly it’s possible he’s not sure which one is which, either.
“Takes me right back to my college days,” Dale, or possibly Dillon, says. “In fact, Jones, you should join us afterward. Once we’ve put in our firm-mandated time, we’re hitting up the Crimson Lounge.”
“No!” I say a little too loudly, horrified by the thought of a strip club with these two. In a more sedate voice, I add, “Thanks, though.”
“The Crimson Lounge! Best spot in town,” says Howard, forever a try-hard. He hoists his Rumpleshaker, clearly angling for an invite that isn’t forthcoming. “I’ll drink to bad decisions!”
Franklin harrumphs. “I prefer responsibility and thirty-year-old scotch.”
This wipes the fratty grin off Howard’s face as he scrambles to agree with the most powerful investor at the table. “Of course, of course. The good news is, investing in our IPO is nothing but smart. By next year, we’ll be toasting our successful venture with scotch!”
I let his heavy-handed course correction hang in the air before turning to the last members of our group.
“Wyatt,” Gerry says, “this is Radha Singh.”
“A pleasure,” I say, shaking her hand. “You’re in pediatric oncology, correct?”
“Indeed.” Radha’s pleased smile rewards every bit of time I spent reading up on the partners of Howard’s target investors. “My wife’s been hoping to pick your brain about the range of workshops your division offers.”
“I’ll share anything that would be helpful,” I reply, meaning it.
The women both have stylish short haircuts, funky glasses, and kind smiles.
I like them immediately and hope neither of them accidentally get one of CJ’s specialty appetizers.
“Gerry, I followed the work you did with the Englewood merger last year. Most funds wouldn’t have the bandwidth to fight for their members like that.
Your people were lucky to have someone paying attention. ”
I force myself to leave it there so my genuine fanboying doesn’t come across as Howard-level desperate.
Thankfully, Gerry dips her head in quiet acknowledgment, and Radha beams at me like I’m her new best friend.
“Her people are lucky. I tell her so all the time.” The women’s pinkies brush on the tabletop.
“Maybe she’ll believe it when she hears it from a handsome young man and not boring old me. ”
The two laugh at this private joke, making me wish I’d taken the open chair next to them instead of wedging myself between Bethany and either Dillon or Dale.
“I believe everything Radha says, but I appreciate you agreeing with her,” Gerry tells me.
Howard chooses this moment to barge back into the conversation, apparently sick of not being the focus of the table. “So tell me, folks, are you all enjoying Sounder’s hospitality?”
Bethany drops her gaze to the untouched Rumpleshaker in front of her. “Welllllll…”
“The food is wonderful,” Gerry says diplomatically. “But the alcohol is a bit of a surprise.”
Storm clouds pass over Howard’s face.
“Yes, my assistant got a little fanciful with some of the menu. But it’s, er, always good to try new things, right?” He hoists his glass, screws up his face, and forces down the rest of his cocktail, swallowing with flamboyant gusto, then immediately erupting into a coughing fit.
“Speaking of the menu,” he says, dabbing his lips with his napkin, “we should be expecting another round of hors d’oeuvres any minute now.”
He glances at his watch, a thirty-thousand-dollar name-brand monstrosity that could deflect bullets if need be, then glances up in relief.
“Ah, here we are. Another beauty with a tray!” He leans toward either Dale or Dillon and says in a lewd, overly loud whisper, “A shame this one’s not at the Crimson Lounge, am I right?”
I snap my head up, expecting to see CJ, the hottest server here tonight by miles. Instead, I see Becks, her smile frozen on her face and the tray clutched close to her midsection.
“Um,” she says hesitantly. “Meatball in tarragon tomato sauce?”
I shoot to my feet, my whole body primed to leap across the table. “That is my sixteen-year-old sister, Howard.”
“N-no, that can’t be right.” Howard whips his glasses off his face, squints, and swipes at the lenses with his napkin. “Oh, I-I see that now. Apologies, Wyatt. I didn’t know you’d asked your family to help out tonight.”
“Don’t apologize to him.” His wife pinches Howard so hard that he yelps. “Apologize to the girl.”