Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Now
Wyatt
I sensed we might be in for some trouble when Howard kicked the bathroom door open and stepped into the room like he was entering the O.K. Corral.
Now that he’s struggled free of the surge of performers, he’s taken refuge in the back of the room near the kitchens, regrouping before making his final stand.
His hair stands on end, his jacket and bow tie are missing, and shirt is stained, wet, and unbuttoned down to his sternum, presumably from vigorous face scrubbing in the sink.
He’s a man poised to self-destruct, and I’d like to be there when it happens.
“Shall we go put an end to this?” I asks CJ.
“Yes,” she says with a supervillain hair flip. “I think we shall.”
As Howard again starts to make his way to the AV booth, we’re making our way to Howard. Halfway through the tangle of musicians, queens, birds, and strippers, CJ pulls us to a stop to talk to a familiar freckle-faced girl.
“Hey there.“ CJ points to the girls’s phone. “Are you recording only, or are you live right now?”
“Live, and I’ve got more viewers than I’ve ever had.” She looks around gleefully. “What a train wreck.”
“Absolutely brutal,” CJ agrees. “First, tell me where so I can send it to everybody I know. Second, do you want some really good stuff?”
The girl nods eagerly, and CJ inclines her head to have her follow us. Before we do, I realize how I know her.
“Celeste, right? You’re doing the social media internship with us.”
She nods. “Howard never should have told me that my MLK Day post was ‘too woke.’”
“Excellent,” I say. “You’ll be perfect.”
So now there are three of us dodging drumsticks, oiled-up ass cheeks, and continent-sized wigs to reach Howard, who’s ranting to Elaine as we approach.
“—been a setup from the beginning,” he’s saying. Or screaming, actually; the music’s still going full force, so he has to bellow his complaints. “Why would Maxine hire people who have some kind of grudge against me? What did I do to that chef? Who hates me enough to let those geese loose?”
When Howard spots us, CJ squeezes my hand with a murmured, “I’ll let you handle this” and melts backward with our wannabe-influencer camerawoman.
“Wyatt! You’ve gotta do something!” Howard screams when he spots me.
“We’re losing the investors. Go and…” He waves his arms toward their table.
“Go and do something! Get them back!” Then he turns on his wife, who’s standing behind him, holding out his discarded tux jacket.
“Did you screw over somebody who might be out to bring us down?” he asks her as he angrily jams his arms into the sweaty, wrinkled tux coat.
Elaine shouts back, “You’re being paranoid, Howard!”
CJ, who’s moved to the AV booth, catches my eye over Howard’s shoulder, and I can read what she’s thinking: You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you.
“Howard,” I shout. “I’m sure Elaine’s got nothing to do with this!”
“Then who?” He gestures around the room.
“Someone out to tank the IPO? Someone poisoning my food and bringing out filth entertainment?” He sneers as one of Hollis’s buddies approaches him arm in arm with a drag queen in sparkly fishnets.
“Do not!” Howard barks at them. They dramatically roll their eyes and veer off toward greener pastures at a nearby table.
The next person to approach us is Reese, who’s clearly alarmed by our CEO’s extremely public meltdown.
“Howard, we need to take this someplace less public!”
She sets a hand on his arm to guide him toward the service entrance, but he shakes her off with a hiss.
“No, what we need is for you to do your fucking job and figure out which competitor is trying to destroy me!” When she opens her mouth to try to make him see sense, he screams, “Goddammit, woman! Go figure it out!”
Reese and I exchange a look, and for the first time in at least two years, there’s no anger or accusation in our silent exchange, just mutual acknowledgment of what a horrible man our boss is. Then she catches sight of CJ standing with Celeste and her phone, and the moment’s over.
“You want to make this all up to me?” She waves a hand between me, her, and CJ. “Fix this shit so I don’t lose my job!” Message delivered, she spins away and walks to the investor table, and good luck to her if she’s going to try to bring Franklin and Gerry around after all of this.
Howard’s spinning in literal circles now, flinching at each cymbal crash and trumpet blare.
“I need to go someplace private to talk this through!” he yells over yet another round of “Carol of the Bells,” courtesy of the Second City Drum and Bugle Corps.
“Gee, where’d you get that idea?” I ask.
He misses my sarcasm, but instead of guiding him to the service hallway as Reese suggested two seconds ago, I steer him toward the nook in the trees where my girls and I watched the jugglers.
It’ll feel a little less exposed, but there’s a better chance that someone important will hear him if he says something incriminating.
“Did you do this?” he asks me once we’re tucked into the trees.
I’ve turned us so he’s facing me and the wall while remaining partially visible to the people at the closest tables, which now includes Celeste and her phone.
As a bonus, I can see CJ in the gap between the trees and the wall now that she’s standing with Patty in the AV booth.
“Me?” I shout back. “Why would I?”
“How the fuck should I know! Maybe you finally figured out that I want to gut your whole division of bleeding heart pussies. Trying to help morons ask inconvenient questions, thinking they can make better decisions on their own. You people are a menace!”
Oh, he’s really saying things now, and I’m annoyed at myself for making this grand finale so grand.
The whole party really ought to be hearing this.
As casually as I can, I thumb my own phone’s camera on and flip to video, hoping to capture at least some of what he’s saying over the thunderous music.
“Wow,” I say loudly. “You really wanted to cut my unit to make sure our clients don’t know when you’re steering them toward bad investments?”
I risk a peek around the decorated branches toward CJ, who’s waving and pointing to her soundboard. I twitch my brows together in a question, so she points to the neckline of her dress, then toward me.
Wait, not toward me. Toward Howard and the lapel mic still attached to his jacket.
She can tell when it clicks in my brain and makes a knob-twirling gesture before disappearing from sight. A moment later, Howard’s amplified voice adds to the wall of sound.
“—the only one smart enough to work the system!” he’s saying.
Unfortunately, not only is the live music still reverberating through the room, but if anything, it’s crescendoing.
Still, the people seated nearest to our hiding spot are starting to turn their heads our way, likely out of curiosity about what Celeste is so interested in filming.
“That Minnesota fund, that was legitimate! They were thrilled with their returns until somebody started asking questions!”
I have no idea what he’s referring to, but it doesn’t sound great—or legal.
And Howard’s so into his own pity party that he doesn’t notice when the entertainment portion of the night comes to an end with a bombastic clash and audience applause for the scores of performers bowing and starting to disperse.
“I’m the only one in this company who thinks big!
” he yells as the applause starts to quiet, leaving his voice the only thing fills the ballroom “You think you’re so goddamn righteous, but the truth is, you don’t have the brains or the balls to steer client investments toward high-fee funds and pocket the difference!
That municipal deal alone netted me half a millio… ”
It’s almost funny how slow Howard is to realize how very much he’s just fucked himself.
As his voice trails off, his wild, bloodshot eyes meet mine with a desperate plea for help.
I respond by wrapping my arm around his shoulders and walking us out of the hidden spot between the Christmas trees, where we’re met by a sea of aghast faces.
The first person to break this standoff is Franklin, who calmly folds his napkin and sets it next to his plate before turning to offer his hand to his wife.
He and Joanne walk to the nearest exit without a word, the scuff of their steps the only sound in the suddenly silent room.
The instant the door closes behind them, the room breaks into a frenzy buzz of conversations.
“Looks like you lost one of your whales,” I tell Howard as the sound of his labored breaths echo through the ballroom speakers.
Then he does the most surprising thing of the night. In a blind rage, he whips around, pulls back his arm, and punches me in the face.
Well. Punches oversells it. If getting slapped by CJ last year didn’t slow me down, Howard’s wet-paper-towel physique doesn’t even make a dent. The only part of me that moves after impact is my hand to the spot on my jaw where his knuckles grazed me.
“Wow,” Celeste says loudly, turning the phone around so the camera’s facing her. “Did the seven thousand eight hundred and forty-two people watching my livestream see that assault? Drop a thumbs up if you just witnessed a crime!”
“Somebody call the police!” shouts a voice from the back.
But CJ’s already walking over with her phone pressed to her ear.
“On it.” She turns to Howard and wiggles her fingers. “Hi, Howie. Remember me?”
“Forget the degradation kink,” CJ says two hours later. “I have a Howard-getting-hauled-off-in-handcuffs kink.”
I groan and yank on my bow tie until it unravels.
“Please never bring Howard into our sex life again,” I say.
Her eyes immediately heat. “Okay, but let’s circle back to the fact that we have a sex life.”
“Not as much of one as I’d like,” I grumble.