For Donna and Nick
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Frank Robinson, Richard Parks, David Hartwell, Jim Minz, Karen Lovell, Catherine Sinkys, Bill Eidson, Sr., Rick Berry, Kate Mattes, Nancy Childs, and Sibylle Barrasso for their help with my career and this story.
Chapter 1
They finished the climb and waited on their bikes for the light to change. Ahead of them, the street plunged for five straight city blocks down the kind of hill for which San Francisco was famous. If a walking man tripped, he wouldn’t stop rolling until he reached the flat of the next intersection. At the bottom, the street took a hard left turn before heading uphill again.
Royal sniffed.
Traffic was heavy up ahead, and the sun was hot enough to make the air shimmer. Royal could smell the oil that the sun brought up to the pavement surface. Cars crossed at the intersections.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said.
Beside him, the blond man smiled and breathed deeply. “Me, I feel great. You should be terrific at this. Much better than me.”
“You can get hurt too, man.”
“Of course I can.” The blond man handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “That’s the fee. You know how to get the prize.”
“Ah, man, look—”
“Shut up, Royal. Talk is not what I’m here for.”
Royal stared back at him. The fucker was dressed in black skintight spandex. Red stripes, leather waist pack, helmet, bike shoes, the bit. Couple years past thirty, probably. Blue eyes, smiling WASP face. In any other circumstance, with any other guy with a similar description, Royal would have put him on the ground.
Royal knew this, but something about this guy made him take it.
Royal told himself it was the craving. He had it something bad. Two hundred more bucks if he raced to the bottom of the hill first. Money in his hand, and he needed that, no shit. Fire up the pipe. Plus the guy got him right where it counted—the one thing Royal could do was ride.
Royal’s legs were pumped hard as rocks, and he knew his machine. He rolled back and forth on the bike and snapped his brakes, feeling their solid clamp on the wheel rims. Even through the jones, he took pleasure in the absolute, oiled perfection of his bike. He had picked out the frame and put the rest of it together one part at a time: a Shimano derailleur, Scott handlebars. That was before he had started smoking the crack. Lately, he had been thinking about selling the bike, but he needed it for his messenger job, and there were other things to sell, other things to steal.
And he had a hard time seeing himself without the bike. It was like if it was gone, he was gone.
Gonna to take care of business with it today, he told himself.
Royal licked his lips, but his tongue was dry. Could he count on the bastard to keep his promise? The guy had shown Royal the cash already. Flashed it right after he had pulled up beside Royal, Lucine, and Burlie. The three of them had been drinking some pop, letting the sweat cool. The guy said he had been asking around, and that Royal who rode for Abbanat Messenger was supposed to be fast, was that true?
“Is fast,” Royal had said, and then the guy made the bet. Then Lucine had told Royal that he wasn’t going to race. Bitch said it right in front of Burlie. “This dude’s weird and you ain’t taking him on, and I mean it, Royal.”
He could tell right away she knew she had stepped in it. But there was no way she could take it back. And no way he could let it go, not with the two others right there looking at him. “You on, Homey,” he’d said. Lucine had taken off, face set like one of them frigging sphinxes, and Burlie had gone with her, shaking his head and grinning at Royal.
Royal had felt bad about Lucine. She was bossy as hell, but she was all right. But he wanted to race the guy. It wasn’t just the money. There was something about him that made Royal want to show him how fast he could ride.
Now the guy waved down the hill. Far below, right down at the bottom, Royal saw someone wave back. It was a woman. Royal could see her yellow hair from there, could even tell from that far away she was a looker.
That gave him a bad jolt. “What’s this shit? You got some fucking cheerleader, man?”
The guy shrugged. “Hey, your girl could’ve come. Don’t know that the two of them have that much in common. But I’d have made the introductions.”
Royal looked at him hard. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
The guy ignored the question. “Light’s about to change. Remember, not just to the fifth light, but around the bend where the hill starts to climb again. You’ve got to beat me.”
Royal set himself. “Oh, I’m gonna.”
“One other thing.” The blond took out a pair of wire cutters from his belly pouch, and faster than Royal could’ve imagined, the guy reached over and cut Royal’s front and rear brake cables.
“What the hell?”
The guy calmly snipped his own.
Royal’s heart flopped. “You cocksucker!” A quick glance at the traffic below, the sickeningly steep plunge down to the hard left. The short little guardrail. The girl’s face turned up toward them. Royal’s voice turned high-pitched. “You crazy?”
“Hell, yes.” The blond guy was sweating, too. But it was more than from the ride up. He looked excited, happy almost. “The prize just went up. Five hundred.”
“We’re gonna be hitting sixty by the time we reach that fifth light!”
“So back out.”
The light turned green.
Royal hesitated. Behind them, a car horn sounded. The guy watched him, grinning. He clutched at his throat mockingly. “Choking? Tell your chick that. She’ll tell you you’re still a man.” He shoved off down the hill.
“Motherfucker,” Royal spat, and then he shoved off too.
Royal clicked the brakes automatically. Nothing. He reached back with his right foot and braced his heel against the frame and let the wheel rub against the bottom of his shoe. The bicycle slowed, but that would only be good for setting up, it would never stop him.
He was already going too fast just to bail out—not without losing lots of skin on that asphalt. Royal had made runs as fast before, but with the full use of his brakes to adjust. He started looking ahead, trying to find his path.
The hill seemed to suck him down. Already the wind rushed past his head, blurring his vision. He snapped down his sunglasses and pedaled hard, catching up to the blond in the first traffic-free block. The intersection came up fast, and he let his arms absorb the impact as the front wheel hit the flat of the cross street. When he reached the other side, he simply pushed the wheel down and tucked. Beside him, the blond guy lifted the front wheel and flew a couple of feet.
Showy bastard, Royal thought, and kept his head down.
He rode the yellow double line for most of the next block, sweeping past the cars braking for the next light. The other rider was right behind him. Royal looked far ahead: Guy coming up the hill in a big old Buick looking left, was he going to turn in front of him? The guy didn’t have his signal on.
Yeah, thought Royal, his quick eyes picking the broken glass of the turn signal. This car don’t tell.
Royal kept his front wheel kissing that double line, and when the dickhead in the Buick suddenly pulled a hard left in front of the oncoming cars, and then stopped, Royal was ready. He pumped hard in his top gear and raced around the ass end of the big boat just before the next car up the hill blocked the intersection completely. Its horn blared, the tires screeching as the driver was suddenly faced with two bikers.
Royal wondered suddenly if he had gone too far.
The guy behind him didn’t scream. Royal put a fast glance over his shoulder and was amazed to find the guy still drafting him, less than a foot behind. Paint. He must have scraped through on paint.
Up ahead, a paneled van was crowding the left lane. Royal whipped in behind a Toyota and plunged down the right side of the hill. The blond guy stayed with the double lines. Royal was doing risky shit, but he could still see over the cars on his left. Even though he was approaching forty miles an hour, he kept his hands light on the handlebars and kept an eye on the left-hand mirrors of the parked cars. A face appearing in any one of those could mean an opening door, or worse, a driver about to pull out.
I’m on it, Royal told himself. Doing what I do best.
Even so, when the big white lady stepped out from the curb at the next intersection with her arms full of groceries, Royal used all his considerable arm strength to clamp the useless brake grips to the handlebars. It wasn’t until he was upon her that his body broke into the magic that years of riding had taught him.
He slipped around her, bumped into the side of a moving panel truck and kicked off. The truck’s horn wailed behind him as he crossed the next intersection.
The blond bastard was ahead of him by at least one bike length, and still pedaling for all he was worth. Pedaling. Didn’t that bastard see the next light was already turning yellow?
Course he did, Royal realized, and poured on the power too. Who knew what they would do at the light after that, but running this light was the only way to live this block out, and the one thing Royal had learned in his twenty-two years on the street was that if you were still moving, you were still alive. He started drafting the blond biker and stuck right with him through a two-lane swerve to bypass a drifting U-Haul straight-truck.
And then the traffic up ahead went into a dead stall. Two lines of traffic behind a big old truck, the driver lifting up the hood.
Royal would have died right there had it been left up to him.
His balls froze up inside him, he went totally rigid. But the blond cut a hard right, going straight for the sidewalk. He jumped over the steep curb and rode right into the busy afternoon crowd.
Royal followed.
People were scrambling out of the way, yelling. Royal flashed past them, having seconds only to notice a young woman grabbing a kid wearing a bright yellow T-shirt; a heavily muscled brother shouted. A second later, he ran over the toes of a fat old guy wearing a suit, but recovered his control just in time to miss clipping his handlebars on a parking meter.
That would’ve done me, he thought.
The two of them were hitting fifty at this point.
Something inside of Royal broke, and he screamed to the only one who had a clue as to what was in his head at that moment—the other biker: “Jack. Hey, Jack, how about this?”
They launched their bikes off the sidewalk and flew.
The traffic jam on the fifth block had kept the final stretch free of cars. Royal was digging in, making those years in the saddle pay. Aware now of the girl up ahead, the blonde. He knew she was the dude’s, but that made Royal work all the harder. If the fucker was gonna show off in front of his cheerleader, he had best take the consequences.…
Royal liked the sound of that in his head, and he put those words to work right on his pedals: Take—the—Consequences.
The blond guy had the inside, but just as they flashed by the woman, Royal took the lead. Royal felt a sharp burst of pride, wishing Lucine had been right there beside the bitch. But he shoved all that down and settled in for the curve ahead. He almost reached back with his foot to hit the rear tire, but figured he could take that corner if he laid the bike all the way over.
The tires were inches away from the gravel on the soft shoulder. The roofs of the houses below flashed by. Gonna make it, he exulted.
Then there would be the uphill to slow him down, the laugh he’d have at that blond bastard—the guy was a good rider, he’d give him that. He risked a glance over. The guy looked back.
Crazy eyes, Royal thought, then put his head down, concentrating on the win.
That’s when the blond guy drifted into him.
It wasn’t a hard hit, didn’t have to be.
Royal suddenly found himself sitting straight up through the curve, surprised. He hit the gravel, slid, started to fall. He corrected by jabbing the wheel toward the guardrail, but that was just a reflex. He knew he was screwed. The front wheel hit the low fence and crumpled.
Royal and the bike flipped through the air until they landed on the roof of the stucco house below. The bike kept on tumbling and went over the edge. Royal didn’t go as far.
At first, he thought the breath was just knocked out of him. And definitely that was true, he was gasping and flopping on top of that house, his body not his own.
But it was as if it was all happening to his upper body, his legs were twisted at an angle that would’ve made him scream if he had the air.
The voices above him, the sight of the woman and man looking down at him, those were things that came back to him later. Days later, in the hospital.
“We can’t leave him,” she had said. The lady was terrified. “He’s hurt.”
“People get hurt,” the man had said.
“Not like this!”
“Just like this. I can’t afford this kind of trouble. Not now. Neither can you.”
Royal had tried to call out to them. To tell them to get an ambulance, to get him some frigging help. But the two of them took off. Left him to wait two hours with a compound fracture in his right leg, and a mess of splinters in his left. Left him to wait until the owner of the house came home and wondered aloud what the hell was a ruined bike doing on his driveway.
The bike. The least of Royal’s problems.
Because Royal never raced a bike again.
Or walked, for that matter.
Chapter 2
It was Steve’s turn.
The hull trembled. They were fifty feet underwater, taking the big wheel out of the cabin cruiser when they both felt it. She was beginning to shift.
Ray spun for the cabinway and Steve headed for the shattered porthole.
Every bit of instinct, training, and knowledge told him to stop. The boat had been listing to port, the cabinway was more protected—he was putting himself in a worse spot.
But it was his turn.
The boat captured him by the knees as she settled. He screamed in his mouthpiece, but the pain was strangely remote. Ray was there, his face concerned through the faceplate. But Steve could see relief in Ray’s face as well, relief that it wasn’t him who was trapped. It shamed Steve to see that, because he knew it must have been on his own face when it had been Ray’s turn.
Ray tried to dig him free. But it quickly became apparent that Steve was pinned to rock, covered by only a fine layer of mud. Ray’s dive knife did no more than make a sharp scratching sound. But Ray fought for Steve, fought in a way that gave Steve pause, insight into himself, perhaps.
Even so, Steve knew and Ray knew, it was simply Steve’s turn.
And so Ray left when it was his time to go. Steve rode the anger, the hatred for his best friend as he swam away to let him drown. He watched Ray reach the silvery surface, and a part of him wondered if that meant Lisa would now be Ray’s too.
The air in his mouthpiece tugged against his lungs, that artificial shortening of breath that meant he was sucking his tank dry.
Here we go, Steve thought.
And then he began to drown. He watched his friend watch him from far above. Steve gagged and coughed, and beat his hands against the slick fiberglass. In his struggles, he knocked his mask askew and the water poured in, blinding him.
For a horrific moment, it was all true.
And then Steve broke to the surface—and woke up in his bunk alongside Lisa.
“Sssh,” she said, holding him. “Again?”
He coughed and gasped. The air was close in their sloop. He had dogged down the hatches because it had been raining when they turned in.
“Yeah,” he said when he could speak steadily. “I could use a new nightmare.”
“You’re all right,” she said.
“I know I am.” His heart was tripping.
Steve was very definitely alive.
He couldn’t say the same for Ray. As much as Steve’s subconscious insisted, the truth was, it had been Ray’s turn, and always would be.
Steve stroked Lisa’s back until she fell asleep. His eyes were wide open and he knew that after that particular dream he wouldn’t be sleeping again for hours.
After a few minutes, he slipped out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt and shorts. He quietly made his way over to the icebox and pulled out a beer. It was beaded with condensation, and he touched the cold bottle to his forehead. He caught a glimpse of a photo of him, Alex, and Ray over the navigation station, and he said, quietly, “Hey, I could use the sleep.”
He climbed up into the cockpit of The Sea Tern, and was struck immediately with the beauty of the Boston skyline. He wondered, not for the first time, if they were making a mistake building their new home so far from the city. He checked his watch. Just after three-thirty in the morning.
He grabbed a seat cushion and quietly made his way forward. He settled back against the mast, thinking about the nightmare. It had been months since it had visited him. Years since the actual event. Steve thought it through … damn near twelve years. He was thirty-seven now. He and Ray had just gotten out of the navy when they had bought the salvage boat.
Steve would guess that the dream revisiting him probably had to do with the move and the new job. Steve smiled wryly, wondering when the hell he had become such a weenie. He didn’t deal in life-and-death decisions anymore. Profit and loss. Markets and share. Financially, Steve was moving from a decent income to a damn good income. Possibly a spectacular income, if he played the next year right and the executive vice president position for the corporation opened up, the way it was rumored. In fact, that could be what Carl Jansten, the head of the conglomerate that owned Steve’s division, wanted to talk with him about. Jansten’s secretary had called to schedule a breakfast meeting at Jansten’s home. And if Steve did land the position … Jansten would most likely be retiring within the next four or five years, positioning Steve as the next president and CEO. All the money and power he could want.
Hell, probably more. And maybe that’s why Ray was coming to visit him now. Ray, and others, had always looked for Steve to take the lead. Ray had been as fully capable a diver as Steve, but he had followed Steve into that boat even though both of them knew damn well that it was balanced precariously. Their air had been low; they had been searching for days for the boat, and money very definitely had not been decent back in those days. Finding the cruiser with only minor damage meant their fledgling business could make it through the next few months, and they had been anxious to prize something free and go up and claim the salvage rights. They should have at the very least braced the boat, protected their exit.
But we were twenty-five, Steve told himself.
Sometimes that rationalization helped. But at three-thirty-eight in the morning, it didn’t make a dent.
Steve downed his beer.
After a while, it became apparent that the city lights didn’t have any answers for him. And an occasional sleepless night wasn’t so bad, not as atonement went.
So he went below and started in on some paperwork.
He was still at it when the sun rose and Lisa awoke.
“You didn’t stay up working all this time,” she said.
“Insomnia. Secret to my success.”
As she yawned and stretched, he smiled, just to look at her. She was five years his junior, thirty-two. Black hair, fair skin with a sprinkle of freckles. He enjoyed watching her emerge from her slumber, hair tousled, faintly cranky at the start … watching her awake was like seeing her as a child. It took no more than a few minutes for her to quickly become her normal self. And that self was good-natured, sexy, smart, and tough.
He loved her without reservation.
She said, “Do I hear wind out there?”
He looked up through the hatch, and indeed, the halyards were slapping against the mast. “Not bad. About ten knots.”
She reached out for his hand. “Take a little sail with your wife?”
“You romantic, you.”
“We can do that, too.” She kissed him and pulled him down onto the bunk. He drew off his shirt. She said, “You’re never home before ten, and you’ve worked every weekend since we’ve gotten here. So take a couple hours off, play with your wife, get some rest. You can be a little late one morning.”
“Hmmm …” he said.
“Hmmm …” she mocked.
He pulled her close, burying his face in her dark curls … and ticked through the responsibilities of his morning: a conference call over the Blue Waters design budget, which he could perhaps postpone until later in the week … two short meetings with members of Jansten’s corporate staff that he really shouldn’t miss … he needed an hour or so to gear up for a briefing he was to give to the ad agency over a lunchtime meeting … there was just no way.
He gasped. Her bare skin against his felt so damn good. She had opened the old shirt of his that she had been wearing. He said, “How long’s it been?”
“Four days, but who’s counting?” She looked up mischievously. “I know you must be exhausted.…”
He stood up and kicked off his shorts, and she pulled him down to the bed and straddled him. He drew the shirt off her shoulders so he could look at her. She had been a competitive swimmer in college. And though he hadn’t known her back then, he could still see the lean strength of an athlete within the ripeness of her body. Time had added faint character lines about her eyes and he loved that about her too—time was passing with them together. He only wished he had known her sooner. “God, you’re beautiful.” He laid his hand along her face and she held him by the wrist.
“So are you,” she whispered.
Outside, the wind gusted, rocking their boat. As he entered her, Lisa’s nipples stiffened and she grew flushed. There was a faint shiver in her voice as she leaned down, her lips moving against his ear. “We’re going to do this … and then we’ll shove this boat away from the dock, and I’m going to sail it while you sleep. You think you can make time for that?”
Those responsibilities flashed through his mind again, meetings and tasks fanning before him like a deck of cards. “No,” he said. “But I will.”
Chapter 3
Coming out of the terminal at Logan Airport, Geoff found a limo driver holding a sign bearing his name. Geoff handed the driver his luggage ticket and said, “Get me a newspaper first.”
The driver tipped his hat and offered him tightly folded copies of The Wall Street Journal and The Boston Globe from his front seat. “I picked these up on the way, sir. However, I’ll be happy to get you something else if you prefer.”
Geoff shook his head. “The bags, and let’s go.”
After they were out of the airport traffic and heading into the tunnel, the driver cleared his throat. “Mr. Jansten said to offer you his welcome to Boston. He is occupied this evening, but if you are free, he would like to have you out to his home for breakfast tomorrow morning, along with Mr. Dern.”
“Steve Dern?”
“Yes, sir.”
Interesting.
Geoff didn’t let the surprise show on his face. He kept his eyes busy on more important business, working his way quickly through the Journal back to the New York Stock Exchange listings. He scanned a few of his smaller purchases. Nothing much had happened. Then he focused his attention where it mattered: TerrPac.
His only reaction was to draw his breath just a tad more sharply. Just a little taste of additional oxygen to acknowledge what had happened to him.
He flipped to the front page and began to work his way back, paying attention this time. He found a lead taking him back to a more in-depth article on page twelve. TerrPac had lost a lawsuit charging them with copyright infringement. Their settlement would not be a record breaker for the pharmaceutical industry, but it would possibly be enough to put them out of business. Certainly enough to send their stock into a tailspin.
And certainly enough to be a nasty surprise for Geoff.
At thirty-four, he had amassed just over six million dollars, the results of hundreds of high-flying transactions in and outside of his own field of real estate development. Plenty of times he had taken hits, but never anything like this.
On TerrPac, he had leveraged everything to bet the pot. His inside informer was highly placed, and for over six months the stock had been climbing as expected.
Now Geoff had virtually lost the pot.
He went through a series of rapid calculations. For a number of good reasons, no one within the corporation knew of his personal investments; he had even conducted the transactions over the wire. Bob Guston, his informer at TerrPac, would keep his mouth shut. Geoff had sniffed out a sweetheart deal that Guston had put together, where he was buying real estate for TerrPac that he actually owned. He had been holding that over Guston for information for over two years now. The blackmail would work just as well for silence.
Geoff’s position at Jansten Enterprises would certainly give him enough income to keep up appearances for the time being. And there would be even more of that once he nailed the executive vice president job. He figured that Jansten’s agreeing to let him run his division from Boston was a sure sign of his favor. So if everything went the way he intended, there would be plenty of money.
But part of him wanted to tell the driver.
Part of him wanted to tell Jansten, tell everyone. He felt the buzz of adrenaline. He wanted to do something. Bloody his hands, with Guston to start.
Geoff glanced up at the vanity mirror and saw that his face appeared calm and relaxed. The seething impatience inside was well in check.
Maybe it’s time to try something else. Maybe Kelly had been right. Maybe this was the start of his fall, his own tumble from the saddle.
He closed his eyes, thinking of his parents, dead twenty years now. They would have been flabbergasted to know he had amassed such a fortune. Couple of losers, both of them. His mother, pretty and weak—and a lush. His father, full of grand schemes, but ultimately nothing but a lousy salesman who continually ascribed his own limitations to his son.
His father’s voice spoke in his ear, Big frigging surprise you lost it, Jeff.
He opened his eyes and thought about the money, about not having it. Thought about how his father had crowed when Geoff had changed the spelling of his own name. Jeff had liked the sophistication of “Geoff” and had informed his parents of the new spelling when he was thirteen. Years later, he made it legal.
“You’re too damn full of yourself, Lord Geoff,” the old man had said. He had been sitting on the sagging back deck of their ugly little ranch house in Sacramento, drinking a beer. “I’ve tried pulling us up, but some shitter always comes along to knock you down. Saddled with you and your mom, I just can’t get out from under. It’ll happen to you someday. I was as good at running with the ball as you, and look where I am now.”
Geoff had just looked coolly at his father, a going-to-fat ex-jock whose failure as a man was right there on his face for anyone to see.
“Bullshit,” Geoff had said. “You were never as good as me.”
“Watch that mouth!” His dad had raised his hand, but Geoff didn’t even flinch. The old man had dropped it. “Get away from me.”
Even then, Geoff could tell his father was a little frightened of him. Geoff was just beginning to realize the extent of the gulf between himself and other people. The way Geoff saw it, his dad still had a slight physical edge, but it wouldn’t be long before Geoff could start calling the shots himself. And in four or five years, he would be out and away from them forever.
When that separation came only one year later, he felt no pain, just mild disappointment that he didn’t have the opportunity to truly flex his muscles with them. Drunk, and probably in the middle of one of their vicious arguments, his mother and father had swerved into the oncoming lane and took themselves and a long-distance trucker out of the equation forever. Geoff had landed with his mother’s parents, an old couple who didn’t want him. Particularly after the first week, when he kicked the old man on his ass to show them both who was boss. He was able to squeeze cars, cash, and, ultimately, a college education out of them. Including the tuition for an MBA from Wharton. It took all of their retirement money to pull that off. And they did it while maintaining the public fiction of being the doting grandparents of their star-athlete grandson, as he demanded. He even kept a portrait of them in his office for visitors, although they could be dead by now, for all he knew.
As was often the case with Geoff, he found that he had arrived at the answer while thinking about other things. He decided that as long as he didn’t have to endure the appearance of being a loser, he truly didn’t care. He told himself he didn’t need the insulation. In fact, he rather liked the idea of pulling himself back up to the top.
Geoff thought of the bike messenger, his broken back. He looked for some sense of pity or shame in himself, knew it should be there. But it wasn’t. Just a sense of revulsion for the damage done. Paralyzed.
Then he realized the driver was talking and was holding something out for him. “I’m to show you to your apartment … and give you these.”
He handed Geoff a set of car keys with a BMW logo.
Geoff laughed quietly to himself. The car was probably leased, just a gesture from Jansten to welcome him to Boston. But he might as well take it as a sign.
People like me are never poor, he thought, pushing aside images of his father and mother. The bike messenger didn’t know his name and sure as hell wasn’t going to crawl all the way to Boston to embarrass him. And Geoff had taken care of Kelly.
Geoff gave himself two goals: He would become the next executive vice president of Jansten Enterprises as a stepping stone to president and CEO. And he would put together another million in personal fortune before the year was out.
He grinned to himself, already feeling much better. The way he saw it, a goal named was a goal achieved.
* * *
A few minutes later, they pulled in front of an elegant brownstone in the Back Bay.
The driver said, “They unpacked everything for you … even hung all those pictures. I made sure of it myself.”
Geoff paid attention to the driver for the first time: an intelligent-looking man with his personality carefully hidden by his manners. Geoff stared at him until the driver apparently felt compelled to speak.
“Certainly was impressive … some of the things you’ve done.”
“Thanks.” Geoff smiled, disarmingly. “You’re good at your job, aren’t you?”
The driver returned the smile cautiously. “I try to be.”
“I expect you’ve driven for Jansten for some time?”
“I have.”
“Know him pretty well?”
“He’s been very good to me.” Still the driver was being careful. Geoff’s reputation preceded him, which was just the way he liked it.
“That’s good. So you know his taste in restaurants, drinking establishments, and such.”
“I could recommend some of the better establishments in Boston, sir.”
“What I’d like is for you to recommend exactly the opposite for me.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to find me a place where Jansten wouldn’t go.”
“Excuse me?”
“I think you know what I mean. And feel free to pass it along to Jansten when you next talk with him.”
“I don’t work for him in that capacity.”
“Sure you don’t.” Geoff liked the worry he saw on the driver’s face. If he was going to win the top job and pull himself out of his financial disaster, he wasn’t going to do it playing nice. “Now find me that bar. But you can keep calling me sir. I like that.”
The driver took him to a series of bars in the Back Bay. None were what Geoff had in mind. “You’re cold.”
“I think I know what you have in mind.”
The driver took him through a tour of what remained of the Combat Zone. “Keep going,” Geoff said. “This place is dying.”
Just a few blocks away, however, he saw what he wanted. A seedy little place across from the Boston Common that was staving off gentrification on either side. A young blond woman Geoff took to be a hooker stood with her back to the street, looking at her reflection in the mirrored glass.
“This will do,” Geoff said, as they stopped at the light. He got out.
The driver called out politely, “Shall I pick you up at seven for your breakfast meeting?”
Geoff didn’t bother to acknowledge the man.
Just then, the hooker turned. She backed away abruptly, and, for a moment, Geoff was certain she was frightened of him. She looked past him at the limo, then forced a smile.
“Whoa,” she said. “Thought you were somebody else.”
Geoff waited for her to get out of his way. Under the bright blond wig, miniskirt, and stiletto heels there was a surprisingly pretty woman. Green eyes, flawless skin. Faint sprinkle of freckles over a straight and imperious nose.
She smiled awkwardly. “So, this is where I’m supposed to ask if you want a date.”
Geoff sighed. Instant pauper or not, he still had his standards. “And is this where I’m supposed to think this is your first time and whisk you away from it all?”
She smiled ruefully and stepped aside. “I’d be yours forever.”
In spite of himself, Geoff laughed as he brushed by.
* * *
It was an old dark wood tavern, with the smell of stale beer and cigarettes. Geoff asked the bartender for the phone.
“Back near the can.” The bartender was a white-haired guy with a huge gut and broken blood vessels in his face. He looked as if Geoff’s impeccable suit offended him.
Geoff dropped a fifty down on the bar. “Set me up with your best scotch. Give me some change, too.”
Geoff went back and dialed Harrison, who answered on the third ring.
“Hey,” Harrison said. “Figured you’d be about due in. Good flight?”
Geoff gritted his teeth. Harrison performed best if they maintained the fiction that he was Geoff’s friend, instead of the ass-kisser that he was. Geoff told him the name and address of the bar. “Come on over and bring me up to speed,” Geoff said. “Twenty minutes.”
“How about this evening? Geena and I have plans this afternoon, but tonight, I could break free and we could hit the town.”
“Twenty minutes,” Geoff said and hung up.
Back at the bar, Geoff sipped his scotch and looked out the flyblown window. He could see the hooker out front, but he was fairly certain she couldn’t see him through the mirrored glass. Pretty thing, even with the ridiculous clothes and wig.
Kelly’s hair had been the color of that wig. Of course, hers had been real. Geoff missed her, but only a little. It had been two weeks since he had broken it off with her, so to speak. She possessed a spectacular body. Honeyed skin, blue eyes, and model-perfect features. To walk in a room with her on his arm made him the envy of every man in sight. And she had truly seemed to enjoy Geoff’s little adventures, more so than any of his previous women. She had been damned inventive in bed afterward.
He had wondered about that, at times. If that’s why he had been escalating lately, taking greater and greater risks. Physical challenges. Rock climbing without any protection. Whitewater kayaking in rivers never meant to be run. Extreme skiing. Cliff diving.
He liked the audience, certainly.
But the real action was inside him. He loved the adrenaline, just like a junkie spiking his arm. When he had poured everything into the TerrPac investment it had given him a great buzz as the stock climbed. And now that the worst had happened, he was still alive and well, thanks for asking.
But the night after the bike messenger thing, Kelly had just lost it—and, to be truthful with himself, so had he. It had started with her standing just inside the glass doors while he sat out on the balcony, drinking.
They had just made love, and, unlike previous times, she had been cold and unresponsive. She kept worrying about the bike messenger. Worrying that he might be paralyzed, worrying that someone might have seen them drive away, or captured the license plate.
Geoff was normally too prideful a lover to let her remain unsatisfied. But after the incident, he had been too charged up to wait. The feeling that he was taking her for his pleasure alone added to his appetite. Afterward, he went out on the balcony. She followed him, whispering her fear. He quickly downed two shots of scotch. He became hard again, almost immediately, and figured he would drag her away from that door and take her back to bed again, thaw her out. Geoff couldn’t remember being so pumped up.
Kelly had kept after him, though. “Geoff, are you listening to me?”
“He wanted to play the game,” Geoff said, calmly. For the fortieth time that night. “And he lost.”
“He didn’t want to. He needed the money. You hurt people. You frighten them and bribe them into doing things they don’t want—and for what? You hardly needed that boy’s money!”
Geoff went to her. He put his palm against the small of her back and pulled her close. “I don’t seem to remember bribing you.”
She looked away. When she spoke, her voice was shaking. “I know I played a part.” She waved her hand around, taking in his penthouse apartment, the view. “We’ve got all this. We’ve got money. You’ve got power, and if this vice president thing works out, you’re going to be set for life …” She laughed, tears on her cheek. “Hell, you’re already set for life. Why did you need to hurt that boy?”
He kissed her behind the ear. He wondered how many of her tears represented genuine guilt and how many represented fear of getting caught. His gut reaction was to count heavily on the latter, but he supposed it could have been both. Either way, he had no use for her emotions. Her body, that he could use. He was so full he was almost bursting. He opened her robe and his own and pulled her close. He ran his hands down her back, the curve of her hips, and felt the smoothness of her upper legs. A part of him remained remote, watching.
This time, she looked up at him, a small smile on her face. She pulled him even tighter, trapping his penis between them. “Isn’t this enough?” she asked. “We don’t need to do anything like that again.”
She was damn near perfect.
Even so, he realized he was almost done with her.
He whispered in her ear. “We needed to do it because I’m bored.”
Christ, Geoff. What a dive.” Harrison laid his hand on Geoff’s shoulder and squeezed.
Geoff smiled back lazily. His every instinct was to slap the idiot’s hand away.
Instead, Geoff said, “Tell Geena I owe her for letting you go.”
“Oh, I will. She will, if she sees you any time soon.” Harrison called for a beer, his voice booming loud, his every mannerism saying, I’m-a-hearty-guy-meeting-my-good-friend-isn’t-life- grand.
Fucking pathetic.
Geoff let Harrison prattle along, telling Geoff all sorts of specifics in which he had no interest. Geoff was president of the real estate division of Jansten Enterprises, a multinational conglomerate headquartered in Boston. Geoff had led the hostile takeover of the San Francisco-based real estate firm five years back, then managed to turn the successful independent company into an even more successful division of Jansten’s empire. It had been a major coup, especially considering he had been just twenty-nine at the time. It also made Geoff one of the top-ten officers in the company.
Harrison was Geoff’s age, but apparently he fancied himself some kind of combination adviser-protégé of Geoff’s all at once. Which was a joke, considering the growing gut about Harrison’s waist and the veiled fear in his eyes. But he was a natural politician, so Geoff had assigned him to represent the real estate division on an ongoing basis back at corporate.
In theory, it was just a liaison role to make sure the real estate division got its fair share of whatever corporate was handing out, and to ensure that they weren’t saddled with what they didn’t need. In truth, his job was to make Geoff look good—to the board members and to Jansten.
As such, Harrison had a lot of face-to-face time with Jansten, and Geoff could tell it made the slug feel like he was the man of the house. Patently ridiculous, of course. But Harrison had been efficient in setting up the invitation back to corporate headquarters once Geoff decided San Francisco was no longer good for him—what with the newspapers picking up the story about the bike messenger, and his friends riding around plastering a surprisingly accurate sketch of Geoff’s face all over the place. When Jansten had called with the offer, he hinted rather broadly that Geoff could be in line for the VP job: “Your man tells me you might be willing to come to Boston. I’d like that. You can run your division same as always. I can tell you that you’ll be in the top three or four contenders for helping me run the company into the next decade.”
Top three or four. Neither Barry Lerner nor Phil Rudden were lightweights, but Geoff felt confident he could burn past them. If Steve Dern was now to be a contender, then that was a surprise, but surely one he could manage.
Vice president of a conglomerate with over sixty thousand employees in twenty-two countries, including half-a-dozen consumer brand lines, two high-growth electronics companies, Steve’s boat line, and Geoff’s own real estate division. The VP position would bring in a salary of over a half-million a year, plus stock options and perks, and a clean shot at the presidency when Jansten retired, which would be the genuine pot of gold. Yes, that would be entirely acceptable for a guy who hadn’t yet reached thirty-five.
Geoff tuned back in to Harrison, who was saying, “So I told Voss, ‘Uh-uh, you got the wrong idea. Try again.’ Face went red as a frigging beet, I thought we were going to have to do CPR on him, and then I figured, what the hell? Maybe I should lock the conference room door, come back an hour later with a wreath.” Harrison began to laugh.
Geoff said quietly, “What’s for breakfast tomorrow?”
Harrison cocked his head. “I … breakfast?” He reached absently for his breast pocket and pulled out his phone to check his calendar.
Geoff said, “Jansten’s called me out for breakfast. With Steve Dern. What should I be expecting?”
Harrison looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know anything about it. With Dern?” Harrison’s face was red, and Geoff thought of the story about Voss.
“I’m sorry, man,” Harrison said. “I talked to Jansten just yesterday, and he said his secretary was making all the arrangements to welcome you into town. In fact, I thought the first time we’d see you would be at the executive committee meeting on Monday. There has been a rumor of one of Jansten’s godawful team-building things. Going on a retreat.”
“Tell me about Steve Dern,” Geoff said softly.
Harrison lifted his shoulders. “Don’t know him that well. Wish I could tell you he was a scumsucker, but he’s a good guy. Smart, calm, knows his business.”
Geoff sighed internally as Harrison slid into the background. Most of it was stock company propaganda about Dern’s success with the Blue Water line. Jansten liked to brag about it. Probably figured it was one of the few lines Jansten Enterprises actually earned, rather than bought.
“Boats?” Geoff said, scornfully. “You think Jansten could be taking Dern seriously?”
“You’ve got no argument from me,” Harrison said.
Never do, Geoff thought.
“Sure, boating is strictly a small-potatoes industry. But, if you go to any marina, you’ll see that Dern’s line has rivaled the best of Boston Whaler and Mako—and he’s got a better price.”
“What’s he doing back here?”
Harrison grinned. “Dern’s making us some money. No doubt about that.”
“How’s our boy doing himself, financially?” Geoff asked this, hoping that somewhere Dern wasn’t asking some toad to pull up the same information on him.
“Got me. Probably stretched somewhat, though. He’s just been in Boston the past two months, you know. Building a house outside of Route 495. He and his wife are living on their sailboat in the meantime.”
“What’s that?” Geoff was genuinely surprised. “He’s building a house?”