Page 21 of Big Boss
She checks back in and finds me staring at her, and a slow flush rises along her neck. “What?” she croaks out.
“How did you come up with a plan to handle the floral mishap that quickly?” I smooth my tie down and unbutton my jacket. I watch with no small amount of satisfaction as her eyes track the movements of my fingers before jerking back up to meet my gaze.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t come up with the idea quickly. I have a set of three to four emergency backup plans for every single possible mishap that I could foresee as a realistic possibility with the gala.”
I eye her skeptically. “Nobody does that.” I shake my head, but she’s already nodding.
“Floral mishap was an easy one. Power failure or hall double-booked are much less likely but more problematic.”
I peer at her to see if she’s making fun of me. “So do you have something planned for the zombie apocalypse too?”
She frowns. “Of course not. Zombies aren’t a real thing, Tate. And if I’m wrong and they are, we’re all fucked. The gala will be overrun by a lurching, brain-eating horde of the undead, and there’s no amount of planning that can fix that. So, if that happens, I hope you’re good with a chainsaw.”
I stare at her for another moment. It sounds like she really does think about every possible mishap and plan how to handle it, but that also sounds like an astronomical amount of extra work to me. “Surely you do whatever works in the moment. That’s the only way to manage something with this many moving parts.”
Her brows pinch downward. “Absolutely not. I would never leave something this important to mere chance. You’re the best friend I have Tate, and it’s important to me to help you succeed in doing great things.”
Her words hit me unexpectedly. The conviction in them is so raw and so painful to listen to. Am I really the type of man who deserves this level of respect? Especially from someone as pure and innocent as Erica?
I haven’t been that type of man ever before, but her faith in me really makes me want to try.
“I guess surprises aren’t always bad, though. If you hadn’t chased me all the way up to my office, we wouldn’t be here now.” The fondness in my tone must be what’s making her squirm. I’m never nice. I pretend to be, but I never show anyone what I’m feeling anymore.
“I had that entire day planned down to the last minute—until you stole my coffee.” She’s grumbling, but it’s halfhearted and I know she doesn’t really mean it.
“Well, this specific contingency plan seems to have worked out well enough for the two of us.” And I mean it. I’m much less worried about my ability to handle all forty thousand daily emails I get, thanks to Erica’s eye for what matters and what’s just a panty-gram.
She’s decisive and quick to act, and underneath it all, she has an entire moral code that she lives by, a set of rules that governs her entire existence.
I’ve never had that luxury. I do exactly what I have to in order to reach a goal or even simply get through whatever terrible thing I have to endure because of my scandalous background. The one that was mostly fabricated by my father for the sole purpose of selling more of my band’s crappy records.
Then I’d started doing my best to live up to whatever bad press I found myself a part of. Some rocker got caught in a threesome with two teen models? Next week, I’d be sure it was me getting caught with three younger and prettier models. Or maybe even four, with a little sprinkling of cocaine.
Because fuck my father for trying to turn my reputation into money at the expense of my mental health and my soul.
And then, when I went into a full tailspin of drugs, pussy, and debauchery, the only thing that pulled me out of that cycle was my friends.
Jackson invited me to one of his poker games when I got out of rehab for the last time. I told him I didn’t want to meet his stupid rich guy friends or play fucking cards with them, but somehow I’d had a great time.
The entire group of them ended up accepting me exactly as I was—a once-upon-a-time rock star with the Midas touch for picking artists to sign to my label, and otherwise a recovering hot mess who had little or no control over my personal life.
They didn’t need or want me to be fake with them. They were okay with the real mess that is Donovan Tate, and it meant everything to me. And they were the only ones I felt like could actually see me for who I am and like me despite that.
Ethan, Jackson, and even Sebastian were good to me at a time when I wasn’t ready to be good to myself. And I’ve never gotten over how they took me in and let me be one of their own without any jokes or snide remarks about my stupid fame or the litany of mistakes I’d already made.
The jokes came later, of course. Like that one time Jackson won the pot and made us all take a couple’s cooking class. A cooking class for mini apple pies.
Look, we’re men of a certain age. We all watched a particular movie that involved lewd things being done to an apple pie. Mistakes were made, and we got kicked out of the class, me still clutching the ravaged bits of pie to my shirt.
They made plenty of jokes about why I was only famous for my mouth after that.
And next time I won, we went to a fondue restaurant, and everybody had to eat without using their hands. I took pictures, and threatened to release them for months afterward.
And ever so slowly, all of my sharp edges got worn off by their deep and abiding affection for me. The guys loved me for exactly who I really am. I never have to be anything other than myself with them, thank goodness. And because of their acceptance, I learned to be the version of Donovan Tate that I am now, at least in private.
The man who’s friends with Erica. I’m doing my best to be a good friend to her because I know how rare real friendship is. She’s the only person I’d trust to help me with First Steps.
“What exactly are you thinking about, Bossypants? You look awfully serious for someone whose newest artist was certified double platinum in the UK this morning.” Erica pokes at me with her jabby little finger, and I swing all of my attention back to the present.
