“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, studyingme 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, andHope 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 ofone, 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.”
