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“Can I pway with that?” Liam asked, pointing his grimy little hands at my tablet.
“No way, kid,” I said and put my earbuds in.
* * *
The twins screamed the whole flight. The earbuds did nothing to block out their wails.
“It’s their ears,” I heard their mother telling the flight attendant.
Their fucking ears had been hurting for six straight hours. If I were her, I would have given them both sleeping pills to knock them out.
I wasn’t her, and I was thinking about trying it.
“Poor things,” the flight attendant said while everyone in first class glared.
Liam was looking up at my tablet again, longingly.
“Oh, just take it,” I said. I opened up the Flappy Birds app and practically threw it at him.
“Miss?” I called. “I’d like a double bourbon.”
I also sent the frizzy-haired mother a glass of Chardonnay. She clearly needed it, and despite what people say about me, I am not a complete prick.
Not always.
* * *
A driver in a suit was waiting for me at Logan with a Preston sign. I raised my hand in greeting, and he gave me a pleasant smile and took my bag.
“Mr. Preston, I’m Kai. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Get me the hell out of here. The flight was full of screaming kids.”
“Of course, sir. You can wait in the car while I get your luggage.”
A Mercedes SUV was parked at the curb, hazards flashing. Once inside the cool, dark interior, I leaned back and tried to relax. The memory of the screaming twins didn’t
help. The fact that I had to go see my mother and then pick up my prostitute/wedding date didn’t either.
Kai came out shortly with my luggage, and we sped away from the airport. “Where can I take you, Mr. Preston?”
“I need to go to my parents’ house in Beacon Hill.” I gave him the address. “Then to the South End to pick up my…girlfriend.” The word felt foreign on my tongue. But I might as well start the facade now. “I have a dinner tonight, a brunch tomorrow…you’ll be driving me to all sorts of annoying shit all week.”
I grabbed my phone and called my office assistant, Molly. She answered before the phone even rang. “Yes, Mr. Preston?”
“Where is the Mueller report?” I asked. “It was supposed to be sent to me during the flight.”
“There are a few problems with it,” she said. She was using the tone I mentally referred to as the Don’t Make Mr. Preston Scream at Me tone. “The inspections didn’t come back the way we hoped. The EPA’s going to have to be involved.”
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled into the phone, because (a) this was bad news and (b) I was trying to toughen Molly up. She’d been working for me for ten months, and she’d already cried twice. But this was real estate. If she kept crying, I was going to have to replace her. I didn’t have time to emotionally babysit anybody—especially not the hired help.
She took a deep breath. “No, Mr. Preston, I’m not kidding you. They found traces of contaminants in the soil. Not exactly ideal for a retirement community.”
“I disagree,” I snapped. “It’s not like it’s a school. These retirement people are on their way out, anyway.”
Molly paused for a beat. “Mr. Preston, what would you like me to do?”
“Deal with it and buy me some time. Hire some independent analysts and get them out there. Today.”
