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The way he sizes me up and down like I’m garbage is too similar to the way he’s always talked about the people John and Randy hand-picked for management positions over the years. I have curtains at my house. I have curtains everywhere except for the front room windows by the door.
I take a step out into the hallway after him on instinct, fairly certain that murder is in my mind. The motherfucker must have stopped by my house and saw us. This was all him; not Heather.
Ten years we’ve worked together, and this is what he does? He’s always been hung up on the cronyism here, of course, that’s what he’d think.
The flash of fear in his eyes, and the way he turns and hauls ass, has me giving up any chase before it even started. He’s not worth the beatdown he deserves. I refuse to get fired from this hellhole. Of course, I want to, but it’s the principle of the matter. I’ve done nothing wrong. The only thing I did wrong was to Cam, and he forgave me for it. I’ll be damned if anyone here tries to make him or me pay for letting me into his life.
Shutting the door, I drop back into my chair and check my phone messages. Nothing. Nothing except a recipe for caramel apple toffees that Mom wants me to share with Cam for them to try to bake this weekend. Terrific. Will there even be a this weekend?
I can’t very well barge in and ask Randy where Cam is. He might not even know, given what Cam’s told me about how little they interact. Would he go see that Brice guy he talks to online? I don’t even know how to get a hold of him. Maybe he’s just holed up in his apartment, refusing to answer the door like he’s saving me from exile by not communicating with me.
An announcement alert chimes on my computer for a meeting. I don’t remember having any meetings today and don’t think I can handle one right now.
Except, it’s a new meeting alert for four p.m. today. Attendee list: me, Randy Fairway, John Fairway. Tenth floor.
They’re waiting until the end of the day when everyone is getting ready to head home, so no one sees a scene and they can let me sweat all day. I’m tempted to check the Not Attending reply just to piss them off that someone didn’t ask, “How high?”, when they said to jump.
I suddenly remember what Cam said about getting his job at Fairway. He said he wanted a job in graphic design in Portland, but that his father wanted him at Fairway, so he came home. John Fairway didn’t want a son who was an artist. He said jump, and so Cameron, being the good son that he is, did.
Cam wouldn’t quit. I know that now. He wouldn’t quit unless he got told that he was supposed to or allowed to. I should have known by all the signs, all his worrying.
I select the Attending response and hit send. I’ll be there with bells on. I’m not John Fairway’s kindhearted youngest child. I’m a fucking lumberjack from Wenatchee that drinks moonshine on the porch and crushes old ladies’ rose bushes. I dare him to tell me to jump.
CHAPTER 29
Pete
Randy looks like hell as he leads me in silence to his father’s office. He must either think I don’t remember that it’s two doors down from his or that I’m a security risk who needs an escort. I hope his bloodshot eyes and five o’clock shadow mean he lost sleep over this. He should have if he had any part in being the reason Cam has gone silent on me.
The opulence of old man Fairway’s office is disgusting. The size alone is a waste of space, nearly the dimensions of two master bedrooms combined. Pictures of him with public figures at events litter the wall behind his desk. Their position is clearly intended for the view of his visitors, not him.
In the far corner, near a wall of windows overlooking the city, sits a lavish, fully stocked bar. A small dining table is centered between it and a leather sectional, hogging the view of the skyline. To my right is an open door, showing the marble countertops of his illustrious ensuite private bathroom. Completely unnecessary considering there’s a bathroom thirty feet down the hallway. God forbid the man has to use a public restroom. He probably doesn’t even have unavoidable concerns about shared spaces.
“Carver, have a seat,” he calls, motioning to the black leather chairs on this side of his enormous desk.
Randy rounds it and takes a place at the credenza at the wall, leaning against it, arms folded. My guess is that’s supposed to intimidate me. I wonder if he does it for all his father’s private meetings to signify his stature at the company.
Begrudgingly, I forgo the urge to insist that I’ll stand. It would be too cliché, and I need to appear calm.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” John says as soon as my ass hits the seat. “You know why you’re here?”
This must be the part where I’m supposed to look nervous and profess my guilt. Crossing my legs, I fold my hands over my stomach, the semblance of calm. My only concern is saying something that might cause Cam more grief, but I gather that’s what they’re expecting. I have no doubts now that his failure to answer my calls has something to do with their influence.
“I have an idea.”
His merciless blue eyes, so different from how the color matches Cam’s, give me a once-over. The man has never paid me much mind in all the years I’ve been here. The way he sizes me up so thoroughly now, however, is as much curiosity as it is evident annoyance. He wants to know his adversary.
“We don’t pry into the personal lives of our employees. You’ve been here a long time, Pete. There’s plenty of room for advancement for people we can trust.”
The fact he’s switched to my first name throws me off. I know it’s illegal to fire someone for a single policy violation without written notice and corrective action, so his ominous mention of advancement doesn’t track either. I expected a man like John to forgo disciplinary policies and just try to fire me on the spot.
“I’m willing to overlook an indiscretion,” he continues gruffly, “as long as I have your assurance that it won’t happen again.”
That what won’t happen again? I read the damn interoffice relationship policy today while I waited for this impending meeting. As far as I can tell, we haven’t violated it. We don’t even work in the same department, and neither of us is in a position of authority or one where the other could gain from each other.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
Exhaling through his nostrils like a grumpy dragon, he walks to his bar and takes his time making himself a drink. I wait, listening to the ice clink in his glass, hearing the bourbon trickle from the bottle. How very professional.
