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“Someone took pictures while I was incapacitated,” Thorin continues, his voice devoid of all emotion. “I don’t know why they waited or who they are, but they sold them to small media outlets, which larger outlets quickly hopped on. Even though it’s been months, they’re treating it like it happened yesterday. It’s affecting our contracts with Ravenscroft Hotels, with certain companies not wanting to be associated with our prestigious hotels and amenities due to unsubstantiated drug use the media is claiming. And while I understand their hesitancy, they’re putting more faith in the media than they are in the proof I have of what happened. Not to mention Donner Hotels CEO is having a field day smearing my name any chance he can get in front of a camera.”
It’s terrible that people who have worked with Thorin for so long are doubting him. Absolutely inexcusable. “I’m sorry this is happening.” And I am. Even though I don’t like being thrust in this position of trying to fix his image, it’s still heartbreaking to know what led up to King and Aillard blackmailing me.
“We’re hoping that by showing I’m not out there walking around with a needle in my arm, people will come to their senses,” Thorin grumbles. “The board is already wanting me to submit to doing a piss test so they can assure themselves that I’m not going to fuck them over by overdosing on cocaine or heroin in my office and creating another scandal.”
It’s absurd of them to even believe for a moment someone they work with, who has no history of drugs, would need to consent to an invasion of privacy based on a rumor. “Are you going to do the test?”
Thorin rolls his eyes. “I’ve done three. They want weekly testing. It’s tedious, but my father thinks it’s worth it to keep the shareholders from going off the deep end while we try to come up with a reasonable plan to salvage my name.”
Seems more like they’re micromanaging someone with deeper wallets than them, but what do I know about business? Dad essentially cut me out of the majority of his life when Mom died and when I disobeyed him by choosing to have an English degree in college. Maybe it’s a blessing I won’t be taking over Hastings Center. Although Thorin doesn’t know that. I’m sure he, like many other people in this city, thinks I have things handed to me due to my last name. “That sucks. So King’s big fix is charity?”
“And you.”
I tilt my head in confusion. “Because we know each other?”
“Because you’re one of New York’s top philanthropists.” He frowns at me. “You have magazine articles written about you. Did you not know this?”
I know they’re written, but I hardly have the time to sit down and read them. “Detrick occasionally emails me lists of questions people have, but I don’t usually read the articles. I’m too busy or I get distracted doing something until I forget about it. He probably knows more about my life than I do.”
Thorin’s lips twitch at my comment. “I take it he’ll be my point of contact to reach you?”
“It’s probably the best way to get a quick response,” I admit without shame. “My phone is hit or miss if I respond to it. When I’m not here or doing volunteer work, I’m at a bookstore or reading.” I shrug. “You probably remember me telling you about how easy it is to block out the world when my head is in a book.”
“I do,” he nods. “So if I need a quick response, go through Detrick, anything not emergent can go directly to you.” I pull out a pen from my desk and scribble both Detrick’s cell phone number, his tablet messenger number, and my cell phone number on a notepad. “Here. Detrick will respond to emergencies on his tablet before anything else. They pop up like emergency alerts for whatever reason. Just put ‘SOS’ in the text and he’ll respond usually within thirty minutes.”
Thorin takes the note and folds it, sticking it in his pocket for safe keeping. “Do your volunteer aspects change throughout the year or are they pretty consistent?”
“Depends on the charity,” I answer as I tap my fingers on my desk. “Sometimes it depends on the season. Summer camps need volunteers, but clearly those aren’t going to be the same in the winter because school is in session. It’s the beginning of September, so a lot of students are back in school and camps are closing down until next year. Right now I’m helping the city gather donations for the winter to be passed out to the homeless and going to start packing dinners for students.”
Thorin’s brow furrows. “What do you mean you’re packing dinners for students?”
“The local food pantries send schools food. Students whose parents are having problems economically can have food given to their children for dinners or to cover the weekends so they don’t go hungry. No one makes a big deal about it, people rarely know so the students don’t feel ostracized about their home situation being different from others.” I lean back in my seat to watch Thorin’s reaction move from confusion to outrage.
“The fuck? That’s a real thing?”
“Yes.”
“Kids go home starving?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s fucked up.”
I click my tongue to admonish him. “You’re rich, Thorin. Beyond the normal parameters of what normal people consider rich. You can’t judge someone who has to work and can’t always be there. Sometimes kids go hungry, it’s why this type of thing is in place. It’s not to make them feel bad, it’s to help support them. I’d rather someone send my child a meal home, so I can go to work at night and my kid isn’t starving.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
A sigh leaves me. “You’re not wrong for your beliefs, Thorin. They’re your beliefs so they are whatever your moral and ethical decisions are. But sometimes people need help and having a reaction like that makes them pause in receiving it. You need to look at the larger picture.” Resuming tapping my fingers on my desk, I continue. “That check you give to them helps bring in more food, which means more can go home with the kids. It’s that simple.”
“I never realized that was something people had to worry about.”
“You’re not exactly in a position toneedto worry about it.”
Thorin nods absentmindedly. “How do you know this? Hastings Center is worth over half a billion dollars, so how do you know about kids going home starving?”
The answer is easy. “My mom.” When Thorin gives me a quizzical look, I feel my insides tighten as the sadness courses through me. “She wasn’t born into a wealthy family. She met my father by happenstance. My mom had a degree in Nonprofit Management and was fundraising when they crossed paths. They fell in love. Dad helped her get a job here at Hastings Center to continue her work. She was on the Humanitarian Award Committee. She used to joke that she was sure before she died she would win one, even though it was against the rules for her to, but I have no doubt if she wasn’t a Hastings she would have been recommended a thousand times over.” Nana Noel didn’t come into her money until her late third husband died, so my mom knew better than most how much support families needed.
“She died when you were little, right?”
