Chapter 9
The last remnants of perspiration sluice from my overheated skin under the first pulse of tepid water.
Eight positional showerheads, including the multi-functional overhead rain shower, coat my skin in cooling water to rid the evidence of my thrice-weekly martial art sessions.
Silat, an Indonesian form of martial arts, kicked my ass until I applied similar principles from my Brazilian jujitsu days as a teen.
That, like everything else I take on, was mastered with the intricate precision required of a Mercer.
Competency is not an option; it is a failure of character in our family.
Being merely competent is fine for any amateur, excelling beyond all feasible standards is the Mercer way.
As the youngest child of Michael and Alice, my older siblings Mitchel and Monica were already on board that bullet train, even if Nic was riding in coach.
Monica, or Nic as she prefers to be called, bucked the insistence on Ivy League schooling, opting instead for a degree in art.
As my sister, I looked both up to her and down on her with equal measure.
Yes, I was almost a foot taller, and did I think her working in some trendy museum as a collection curator was appropriate?
Well, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about her choices; Nic was her own person.
Oh, how much I longed to have one-tenth of her internal fortitude.
Her ability not to give a single damn about what others may or may not think about her choices, she did them anyway.
She was adamant about shelving our last name and taking Frazer’s name, Klein, until Magnus stepped in and persuaded her to hyphenate at the very least. He’s never as gracious with the males in the family, me especially.
My ass is ridden hard like a colt on a muster.
No concessions are given, and once I turned eight or nine, I stopped asking for them.
From him, or my parents, all three were as strict as British school ma’ams with lofty expectations and intolerance for diversion, deviation, or disappointment.
I felt the glare of their microscope lens more harshly than Mitchel or Nic did.
It could be that, being the youngest, I was expected to learn valuable lessons from my older siblings.
Should they falter or teeter, that was a teachable moment for me alone.
Or perhaps it was because I was the third child.
Mother and Father had a favorite, and no love was left over for me.
Magnus Mercer was a cigar-smoking bastion of industry who had no time for the noisy nature of toddlers and children, so my one comfort came from Marin, my grandmother.
Hers was a tone of soothing clarity, her touch warm but not caring to the point of replacing what should have been maternal devotion.
She despised her daughter-in-law with the burning intensity of a thousand suns and often referred to her as Malice, behind her back, of course.
“Hello, Mason,” Magnus breathes in the raspy tone he adopted after decades of cigars and whiskey. “So good of you to stop by and make time for an old man.”
I turn in a circle, hands thrown out to the sides for his benefit. “Old man, where?”
His answering grin is devoid of humor. At eighty-one, he could pass for a man at least a decade younger, if not one of fresh retirement age.
He worked hard, and if the rumors were true, played even harder, although the hefty sums in his accounts allowed for the best of organic skincare and subtle surgical tweaks.
“Save the bullshit for the boardroom, Mas. Sit down, son.” He gestures to one of the Barcelona chairs that are uncomfortable, but the only option. His office, his rules.
“What’s this about, Pop?” He hates the generalized terminology but blinks it away.
“Do I need a reason to see you?” Um, yes, you do.
And considering the entire family has been summoned for the annual faux family Christmas card shoot tomorrow, whatever he has to say couldn’t wait.
Or could not be discussed around ears that lean toward a dull voice.
That was one of his favorite sayings to describe the way Alice Mercer liked to lurk in doorways and eavesdrop.
“I’m checking in on every Mercer. To see how my legacy companies are improving under tutelage that, for the first time, isn’t mine. Michael was hesitant to appoint you as CEO of Mercer Media.”
“So hesitant in fact that he didn’t. You did by promoting him to Mercer Group.”
“True, true,” he says after a time, nodding to himself. “I’m not sure Michael would ever have offered you that position. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know, Pop. We can’t all pull rocks out of the ground like his favorite son.
” If he’s fishing for the reason my father would rather play a round of golf than attend one of the handful of birthday parties thrown for me, I can’t provide him any.
None that I’m willing to share, anyway. I have the catapult ready in the forecourt, just waiting for me to touch it with a flaming club, and let that shit fly. Soon, but not today.
Time magazine ran a cover two years ago with all four working Mercer men in a pose similar to a Queen album cover, save for Magnus not crossing his arms. Michael did everything possible to ensure the light on my face was the dimmest and darkest. The man is a fucking narcissist, and not my biggest fan.
His opinion of me doesn’t define me, however, and as my own years of experience flick over every fiscal year, my skin grows that bit thicker to the vitriol of the misogynistic, bullish Mercer Group CEO.
Uncrossing and recrossing my legs, my sigh is louder than either of us expect.
“You got some place you need to be?”
“Yes, Magnus. Work! I have a new assistant beginning today, and I’d like to be there for her arrival.”
“Her? What happened to Helen?”
“Nothing, she’s still there.”
“And Trystan? The old Hynd leg,” he chortles, amused at his own joke.
“He’s still there too.” I look beyond his shoulder and out the window, bored.
He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose, studying me further. Go on, you old bastard, say it. I dare you. Why the fuck would I need three assistants when he made do with one, and no computers back then either. Surprisingly, he remains silent, studying a space on his desk with keen regard.
“You’re showered. I assume you had some of that fancy baton fighting this morning, your kung fu stuff. I trust you showered in the privacy of your own quarters and not where roaming eyes could drink you in without your consent?”
“Jesus Christ, Mag.” Magnus Mercer is the epitome of old-money and family values.
He’s homophobic to his core. Sutton Ridge Preparatory Estate, an ultra-private boarding school for snotty rich boys, was attended by both me, Mitchel, and Michael.
We’d also had the conversation about it being a playground for blatant homosexuality, which, in Magnus’s eyes, was a sin punishable by death.
You could be shifty in business, but if you were gay, that’s a no-go zone.
With time, you could learn sound business practices.
You can’t teach the gay out of people though; that came from their cores.
“Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” My index finger taps my knee. I’m irritated, but uncovering it in front of this man won’t help matters.
“No, Mas. That was all. If I think of anything else, I can bring it up at your mother’s bloody Christmas bullshit tomorrow.”
“Where is she?”
It’s almost nine and there’s no sign of Sabrina at her allocated desk, Helen’s area, or Trystan’s office. If she’d been late on her first day, she would not have worked out.
“Relax, Drill Sergeant, sir, she’s on a tour of the facility with Sean and Hope.
” Sean is the executive receptionist, and Hope heads up the HR department.
A department Sabrina will have little to do with because she has an executive contract HR is not privy to.
It is customary for every new employee to take a tour of the building, starting with the functioning studios on the lower floors where our network morning shows are filmed.
Further up in elevation, we have a graphics department for all our print media, the magazines and press releases, with two floors dedicated to printing presses alone.
Not that magazines are printed here; that would be a terrible waste of prime high-rise real estate.
It’s more the vintage machines Magnus used when he started his global media empire.
His roots were in mining, his millions were made in media, and his legacy is a disjointed family of fraudsters and filthy liars, not that the public would ever find out.
It’s hard for a bad word to be spoken about you when you own most of the media on the East and West Coast. The shit in the middle, he never bothered about for fear a tornado would tear it all down the following week.
There’s a marketing department, three radio studios, seven recording studios, nine dedicated sound booths for blog spots and audiobook recording, and the list goes on and on.
And on. If they started in the foyer as is customary, they should be back here in around half an hour.
That’s enough time for me to sit at my desk and contemplate how I wish to be better acquainted with the new EPA.
Shall I bend her over the desk and take her from behind during the fifteen-minute hiatus I have between a Houston call and an investor meeting on level thirty-eight?
Decisions, decisions. All of them divine, depraved, and debaucherous.
“Here he is,” Trystan announces, holding the door open for Sabrina while Helen leaves through the doorway, having just confirmed my attendance at a fine arts gala the following week.
As a rule, I try to keep evening galas to a maximum of one, perhaps two per month, depending on the cause and coverage.
My sister’s pediatric leukemia fundraiser is an automatic lock in, the rest are on a yes, no, or maybe sliding scale.
“Hello, Mr. Mercer. I was wondering if we’d get the chance to catch up today.
” Her hair is pulled up in an elegant, coiled mass at her crown, make up minimal and business typical.
She wears a pale azure shift dress, a shade darker than those eyes of fjord aqua blue, and nude pumps, a style choice no doubt clinging to the last vestiges of mild weather.
“Sabrina, Helen and I have had a brief roles meeting,” Trystan begins, holding out a chair for Bri when I make no move from the protection of the heavy desk.
“Excellent,” I add, fingers steepled. The Houston call will come through in under ten minutes. Whatever this impromptu dalliance requires, had best be to the point.
“Bri was asking about evening arrangements. I feel it’s best to discuss this with you in the privacy of your office. She can catch the news straight from the source, so to speak.” His widening grin is cinctured by his vibrating cell. “Excuse me, won’t you?”
The moment Trystan removes himself and Bri and I are alone, the air in the room shifts. “What evening arrangements, Ms. Broe?”
Clearing her throat, she stares me in the eyes. “Helen said there would be a range of evening activities you’re required to attend.”
Activities? The way she speaks makes it sound like a playdate with pottery lessons. She’s going to have to do better than that. I tilt my chin to defer to her continuance. It’s a bone she picks up.
“A gala next week that as EPA I am expected to attend with you. I’m just after some clarity on what capacity I will be attending with you. I mean, how many executives bring their support staff to these kinds of things…”
“Is there a question coming after this lengthy preamble?”
“Yes, sorry. I was wondering if I would be on your arm as your assistant, or your date?”
It’s a fair question; one I fear she’s worried over for some time today.
“You won’t be on my arm, so let’s get that out of the way before anything else.
Some evenings, I’m required to attend functions such as premieres, galas, openings of something,” I continue, my hand waving forward to convey my building exasperation.
“If the nature is more business, then you will attend as my assistant. You will be expected to stay sober and pay attention. A lot can be learned from peers and adversaries who have consumed more alcohol than their body weight can cope with.”
She nods along, content with the explanation.
“Other events, such as a wedding I am invited to in October, you would attend as my partner. I still demand that you behave, so there will be no displays of public affection, no hand-holding whatsoever. Both scenarios, assistant or date, demand your highest level of professionalism. As long as that is clear to you from the outset, I can assist you with some advice at each function if the need arises. Does that sound workable?”
“Yes, sir,” she agrees without hesitation.
“Good. Now, I know you had the contraceptive shot on Friday, so condoms will be needed for around seven days to ensure no breaches of contact in the interim. I’m aware that your last sexual encounter, prior to your stellar blow job at Sercio, was around four months ago with the married twin brother of your coworker. Correct?”
Her lower jaw sinks an unhealthy distance from her upper mandible.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because it’s my business to know yours, as my EPA, Sabrina.”
“You did a background check,” she huffs out with mild indignation. “I was expecting a credit check and any outstanding arrest warrants. Not intimate details of my private life. I guess nothing stays private in the media, huh?”
“No, nothing stays private in the media, and nothing is off-limits when it comes to my executive staff and who they are fraternizing with. At the end of the day, it’s your cunt that my dick will sink into, after all.
I need to be sure that my dick is the only dick that enjoys the privilege.
I have eyes and ears everywhere; your company phone is tracked, and your drivers and security work for me, not you.
Remember that if you are ever tempted toward a cock not attached to me. Is that understood, Sabrina?”
“Yes, sir,” is all that squeaks out of her before the reddening hue of a facial flush roars up her neck with flourish.
“In the limited time after the Houston call, please ensure that you are back in here, on your knees next to my desk. The moment that call light is off, your presence is required, and it would want to be as enthusiastic and stellar as the last one. Dismissed.”