“Sure.”
“What’s your game plan after all this?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, if you’re successful and prove you can hold your own in this type of environment, what are you planning to do?”
“Work. Help my family. Finish school next year.” I came back from yoga hell too late to register for this semester, but I’ll go back in the fall. I still have to take my makeup finals for last December, though. I’m waiting for the university’s board to give the approval. My circumstances were extenuating, and I wasn’t really in the frame of mind to take the finals the moment I got back, which means I missed the makeup window. I’m ready now, however. I’ve been slowly reading my materials and preparing over the last month. Still, I’ve got between now and August with nothing to do but help my family. If I end up taking a job, like at one of our green tech companies, I can delay school another semester if I have to. Whatever’s needed.
“But you do realize you’ll have to make sure Brooks is fired eventually, right?” she says. “I mean, whether or not he helped you in his own twisted way, he can’t treat people like that. It’s wrong, not to mention it’s only a matter of time before someone sues and PVP is held liable for letting him go unchecked.”
I blink. It’s something I hadn’t thought of, because up until now, it’s been all about helping my family through this tough situation and trying to survive a terminal case of shyness. But she’s right. I own part of PVP—at least my family trust does, which is part mine. That makes me an owner. Also, my brother, Henry, is the acting CEO of our holdings company and technically has direct oversight of PVP. I have an obligation to have Brooks removed, which was my intent, only now, something is urging me to stick with him. That would be my insanity.
“The last thing we all need right now is a scandal. That’s for sure,” I think out loud. “I’ll have to do something about him after I’m done.”
Besides, for the time being I can see that Craigson doesn’t give a rat’s patootie about Brooks’s behavior as long as the sales keep pouring in. I will have to deal with them both another way and act when the time is right, but I will act. For the moment, we’re fighting too many battles, and we can’t afford another.
When I return from lunch, there’s a note on my desk from Brooks to come see him. My heart starts to pound in my chest, and I feel the familiar burning of stomach acid.
No, Georgie. You’re done with that. I’m not, of course, but I have to start pushing myself to believe it.
I go to his door and knock lightly.
“Come in,” says the deep growl of a voice.
Resisting my instincts to run, I peek my head through the crack. “You wanted to see me?” My voice is quiet, but it’s clear and stutter-free. A monumental step in the right direction.
“Take a seat. We need to talk.” He sounds angry, and it’s scary. Especially since I know he’s about to chew me out for the incident from earlier.
I walk over, avoiding eye contact until I’m seated. I draw a deep breath and then slowly bring my eyes to his. His lips are relaxed, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top, making his mouth seem less like a weapon of war and more like a tool of seduction. Not that I would ever in a million years consider him a man worth being seduced by. However, I’ll admit that he’s unjustly good looking, clearly works out—takes lots of manly muscles to stretch a suit like that—and that he’s the kind of guy a woman would stop to look at on the street. But the anger, the cruelty, the unchivalrous attitude make it impossible for me to appreciate how good looking he his.
Only you just appreciated it.
Oh. Stop it.
“Well? Do you have anything to say?” he asks.
“Ummm…no. Not really.” Again, I speak quietly, but at least I’m speaking.
“No apology for all of the dick-swinging comments and insults?”
You deserved every word. I shake my head no.
A sly smile creeps across his lips. It’s then I notice how the two hollows of his cheeks actually pucker into boyish dimples when he smiles.
Ugh. I frown. Where the hell does this guy get off having boyishly cute anything?
“I’m glad,” he says. “You should never apologize when you’re in the right.”
“Are you sa-saying,” dammit! No stutters, “that you’re happy about what I said?”
“Frankly, I was ready to have you tossed out on your ass if you didn’t stand up for yourself.”
I’m blown away. He can’t possibly mean what I think. “So it was a test? And you’re not really an asshole?”
“Oh, I’m definitely an asshole. But anyone who wants to work for me has to be immune to it or they have no place here. Sales is the toughest role at any company, whether you’re selling ad space or vacuum cleaners. You have to have balls, and you can’t fear rejection. So if you’re ready to check the timid-mouse act at the door and open that little mouth of yours to form actual words, I have some work for you.”
I’m in shock. All his bullshit nastiness was really the Nick Brooks Sales Boot Camp? Not that his confession in any way, shape, or form excuses his behavior. However, what shocks me most is that he now seems interested in letting me do some real work.
“What’s the project?” I squeak. “I mean,” I lower my voice, “what’s the project?”
“I’ve got a small presentation I need to throw together for a six o’clock meeting. I need some data pulled and thrown into a spreadsheet along with one summary slide. Think you can handle it?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll email the details now.” Brooks looks at his watch.
That’s funny. It’s a cheap Rolex knockoff. I know this because Michelle bought one for Chewy by accident off some website. When he took it into a jewelry store to size it, they told him it was a fake. They don’t sell the orange face with the gold and silver band. It only comes in solid silver. Brooks’s watch has two kinds of metal.
Hmmm…I wonder if he knows? Likely not, because a man who makes his kind of salary would never wear a fake.
“All right,” he says. “Well, get to work. Mr. Walton said he might stop by early if he can.”
Walton? My back goes ramrod straight. “Sorry?”
“Henry Walton. He’s the son of Chester Walton. Craigson asked me to step in since he’s got some FDA regulatory thing to deal with.”
“Wa-Walton?” I gulp.
“Please don’t tell me you haven’t heard of them?”
I pucker my lips. “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
“They own the company? Their names are splashed all over the news because the family is trying to oust the father?”
“Oh. Those Waltons.” I shrug. “I thought you meant that old TV show or something.”
He frowns, likely wondering if I’m dumber than he thought. “Just have it all ready by four so I have time to look it over.”
I turn, eager to leave because I’m already thinking that all is not lost. Brooks didn’t say I needed to stick around for the meeting. That means I can give him the data and get the hell out of here before Henry sees me.
“Oh, and, Sally,” Brooks says, “you’ll have to stay late for the meeting. Just in case Henry Walton has any additional requests.”
Crap. I nod stiffly. “Of course, Mr. Brooks.”
What the hell am I going to do?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Approximately Two and a Half Months Ago.
We’ve been held prisoner now for almost eight weeks. Christmas, New Year’s, and my birthday have come and gone without any sign of their existence with the exception of the hugs we shared. Claire is with us now and has recovered nicely, though they had to shave part of her hair off when they did the stitches. She says she didn’t see much of my mother during the weeks she was in recovery, but that Mom did attempt to escape and come find us. Sadly, my mother was caught, and now she’s locked up somewhere on this island. Or remote beach. Or wherever we are.
 
; But tonight, we’re making our move. I’ve been paying careful attention, and for the last two weeks, no one has been outside our hut around eleven fifteen at night. The guy leaves and another arrives about five minutes after. I’ve tested it six times, calling for the guard. No one replies during that window. I’ve also overheard them speaking about my mother not being too far away, making references like: “Hey, can you get Georgina more water?” The reply being: “I’ll go next door in a sec.”
Claire can see I’m nervous and grabs my hand. “It’s okay, Georgie. They’re not going to hurt us. If that was their goal, they would’ve done it by now.”
“I don’t think they’d harm us intentionally, but something could go wrong,” I say.
“Don’t think that way,” says Michelle. “Just stay calm and focus that big brain of yours, okay? You need to make sure we head in the right direction after we get Mom.”
I know I’m the one who figured out the logistics of our escape plan, but that doesn’t mean I’m brave like my sisters.
Claire looks at her watch. “Everyone ready?”
Michelle and I nod.
“On the count of three, we kick. One, two, three!” Claire yells.
We slam the soles of our bare feet against the wooden door. Whatever’s got us bolted in isn’t strong. I can already see the doorjamb buckling.
“Hurry! Harder!” Claire yells.
The door busts open, exposing what looks to be dark jungle ahead. We rush out and immediately see five more grass roof huts like ours and a dimly lit walkway going off to our left.
“I’ll take this hut.” I point to the closest structure. Michele and Claire go to the others at the far end.
“Mom?” No one answers in the first structure, so I go to the next hut. “Mom!” I whisper loudly. “Mom!”
“Georgie?” Her voice is muted through the rickety door, but I know it’s her.
“Guys! She’s here.” I slide the bolt on the outside, and my mother rushes out, wrapping her arms around me.
“Oh, thank God you’re okay.” She squeezes so hard I can’t breathe, but I couldn’t care less.
Michelle and Claire run to us and give a quick hug to my mother because there’s no time for a sniffly reunion.
“Come on, we need to run!” I point directly west, and the four of us head into the night, praying to God that this is the end of our nightmare.
Little do we know, it’s just the beginning of the horror, and the things I will see tonight cannot be unseen or forgotten. Giant. Hairy. Balls.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Present Day.
It’s four thirty, and I am a dizzy, stressed-out mess. Brooks just called me into his office to review my work while at the same time informing me that Henry will indeed arrive early. At any moment, my brother is going to step from that elevator, see me, and go ballistic because I lied about my name and put our family in the crosshairs of scandal.
But I have a plan.
This warrior squirrel is going to run like the wind. Brooks will think I’ve lost my nerve, for which I will pay dearly; however, that is a far more savory option.
I hit Send on my email to Brooks so he has the best and final numbers, which I’ve triple-checked. I grab my purse and make a mad dash for the back stairwell.
“Where are you going, Gail?” says that baritone voice.
I’m Gail again? I freeze with my back to him. “Errr…bathroom.”
“Ladies’ room is the other way.” He points over his shoulder toward the elevator bank.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Think. Think. “That one’s dirty. All covered in diarrhea.” Oh, Jesus. How gross.
The corners of his godlike lips turn down in disappointment. “Or maybe you’re trying to sneak out before Henry Walton shows up.”
Crapola. I crinkle my nose. I know I’m caught, which still leaves the option of running but makes it far less dignified.
I turn, praying he might take pity on me, and shrug. “Guilty as charged?” My words come out like a ten-year-old elf’s. Tiny, squeaky, high-pitched.
He crosses those noticeably fit arms over his noticeably fit chest. His coat is off, red tie loose, and his white dress shirt is unbuttoned to his collarbone. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, so I can see the ropes of muscle on his forearms. Low and behold, there’s a tattoo with USMC in vertical block letters on his right arm.
I knew it. His tough demeanor, strong body, and confident stance instantly made me think Marines when we first met. It explains why he hates weakness. I hear they practically beat it out of them in the Corps. Ironically, it only makes him more human to me.
He notices me looking and unrolls his sleeve. “I served in the Middle East,” he says. “And I don’t discuss it.”
“Oh. Okay,” I say quietly. “I won’t ever ask.”
“Good. Now get your ass in my office. We have a meeting to prepare for, and it’s an important one.”
Despite my state, my curiosity is piqued. Why is Henry here to see Brooks? “What’s the purpose of the meeting?”
“Henry Walton is impressed with my sales team and is considering having me take over some of the other companies. He hopes we can adapt what I’ve done here.”
“Oh.” Of course, this would be Elle’s idea since she’s the brains behind the operations. Not that Henry isn’t smart because he is. It’s just that he’s focused on finals, the NFL, and helping Elle at a consultative level. He’s the face; she’s the brains.
Ugh. But Brooks? Expanding into our other companies? This is not good. He might know his stuff and have killer instincts, but he is not the kind of man we need running—I mean ruining—things. Example being, he just told me to get my “ass” in his office.
“Well, con-congrats?” I say sheepishly.
“Not yet.” He points to his office, indicating that he’s still waiting for my ass to get a move on.
I blow out a flubbery sound and march inside. This is it. The end of my escapade. But I can’t continue regardless. I’ll have to come clean with Henry because we won’t want an asshole like Nick Brooks at the helm of sales.
Brooks grabs one of the chairs in front of his desk and drags it around to his side. “Come and sit, Candy.”
“Sydney,” I correct, feeling ridiculous. It’s not even my real name, and in a matter of minutes, he’ll know I am Georgie Walton, named after my mother, Georgina, Texan royalty whose great grandfather was the first to discover oil in our great state in 1903.
“Sydney.” He winks and flashes that smile again. It’s devilish and charming and…
He knew my name was Sydney all along. It was just one more way to push my buttons. I’d be pissed, but I’m far too freaking nervous about the impending drama with my brother.
Brooks takes a seat while I remain standing. “Come on, Sydney. I don’t bite.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Fine. I do. But I’ll behave just for you.” He pats the chair beside him, and I come around. I don’t know why I’m complying, since this ruse is about to implode.
Immediately, he begins going over the file I sent and points to the screen. “Ah, you see there. You never want to give the best news first when you’re making a pitch. You start with the bad news, the challenges, the failures. Make them think you’re going to tell them the most tragic story they’ve ever heard.”
I sit and lean in toward the screen. “Why?”
“Pretend you own a used-car lot. The sales manager, who has a monthly goal of three hundred car sales, walks in and tells you she sold five hundred this month.”
I like that he said “she.” He doesn’t assume the manager is a guy.
“Okay,” I say.
“Now imagine that following this news of five hundred cars, which is quite good, she tells you she could’ve done better, but they didn’t close half of the sales because the customers walked away. Now how do you feel about her exciting news?”
I give it some thought. “I guess I’m still hap
py, but—”
“But the shine is tarnished. She failed to do the one thing most sales people fail at: to sell their successes. Now imagine that same manager comes in and says: ‘Well, I have bad news, boss. Half the customers walked away before we could close.’ Now, how are you feeling about her work?” he asks.
“Not good.”
“Right.” Brooks points to the numbers on the screen. “But then she shows the results. You see that she’s pulled off a miracle because despite the hurdles, she gave you much more than you asked for.”
I process that for a moment. “But what happens if you don’t exceed targets?”
“It happens. Sure. But even then you always start with the bad news. People are more grateful when they think it’s doomsday and you give them some good news.”
“So when you show this to my b—” Dammit. I was about to say my brother. “To our boss’s boss, you want him to see the dropped accounts, the declining shares of sales in key accounts first?”
“Exactly.”
It’s counterintuitive, for sure. “Then why wouldn’t you start at the very bottom? Show them your hypothetical projected sales had you maintained the status quo. Show them doomsday.”
“That’s exactly what I’d do.” He jerks back his head of thick dark hair. “I’m impressed.”
“Really?”
He blinks at me appreciatively, and I notice that his eyes, which once were the color of tombstones, now seem more like…I don’t know. Beautiful. Not a shitty gray on a shitty overcast day, but more like freshly polished silver.
Or chrome? Oh shit. I quickly think of his bike and its very flat back tire. I should say something. “Mr. Brooks, I have to—”
“Call me Nick.”
Nick. It makes him seem so much more human and less Antichrist. Nick is the guy you hang with who has your back. Nick is the guy who tells you like it is out of respect.
“Nick.” I nod.
He smiles, but this time his eyes are beaming. Like he’s more than proud. Like he admires me just a little.