Page 146 of Only the Wicked
My gut instinct is to shut the door on them, but they’re probably outsourced security on ARGUS payroll.
“Let them in,” Miles barks.
“Security? Why?” I stand in the doorway, hand on the knob, Sydney at my side, peering at the men.
“It’s fucking needed, given the shit you’ve been pulling. Don’t leave them out in the hall.”
I look to Sydney, questioning, and she gives a brief nod.
I’m not sure why I’m questioning letting these men enter the hotel suite. Miles is pissed, but he’s not a violent guy. He can’t stand guns. He refuses to play violent video games.
Right now, he’s annoyed I won’t cave. I maintain controlling interest, and therefore the company can’t go public without my approval.
Before closing the door, I peer down the hall, half-expecting Alex to be waiting in the wings.
Satisfied that he’s nowhere to be found, I take in my old friend, too worked up to stand still, pacing between the circular sitting area and the adjacent room with a long dining table, a portion of the suite Sydney and I have yet to use. Daisy swears that Miles aims to mimic Ryan Reynolds in all things fashion, and in his tapered dark jeans, brown wingtips, subdued tee, and flexy light suede jacket, I’d say he nailed the look today, even if the suede jacket has no place in July in D.C. The black square dark-rimmed glasses create a funky, cool vibe, all designed to hide the inner geek. Before I left on vacation, he’d been growing out his thick black hair, debating attempting gravity-defying dreadlocks, but he must’ve lost patience, as his hair is shorn down almost to the scalp.
“Still holing up with your vacation find, I see,” he says, speaking in the general direction of Sydney, but avoiding her direct gaze. “She’s lovely, but can we clear the room? I’m happy for you and all, but we need to talk.”
He’s in max asshole mode.
One of the suited security men places his hand on the door knob as if he’s going to open it for Sydney to leave.
“Sydney, you remember Miles Johnson, my partner and a backstabber. Oh, and she stays.” Miles needs to calm the fuck down. He’s jittery, agitated. “Did you stop taking your Adderall?”
“Fuck you.” His anger is visceral. “Do you have any idea how much you’re fucking up right now?”
Miles and I go way back, but I’ve never seen him like this. He’s so worked up, so in his head. How the hell am I going to get through to him?
“Did Alex put you up to this? Is he behind this? Has he gotten in your head?”
“Alex? What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not here for Alex. Or the IPO. You think I can’t tell when you mirror a site? You think I don’t know what you’re planning on doing? What the hell, MacMillan? You think I’m going to let you throw everything we’ve worked so hard for away?”
“What exactly do you think we’ve been working for?”
I’m standing in the center of the round room, a hallmark of Suite 7, the crystal chandelier directly overhead, and I swear, I feel like Zeus, waiting for one of the misguided gods to explain to me exactly how he’s fucked up.
Miles glowers. He’s Apollo, ready to battle.
“You brought up Alex. Well, he’s right. This is our chance for generational wealth. Alex is right! Do you get that? Building on campuses that bear our names. MacMillan Avenue. Johnson Business School. This is a stepping stone to imprint businesses across the world. What exactly is your plan? Huh? ‘Catch’ the bad guys?” Using his fingers for air quotes, he looks like a buffoon. “Don’t you get it? The government is playing nice right now. We play along, give them what they want, and we’ll move forward with a public offering, and we grow. We get what we want; they get what they want. We don’t play along, they declare we’re a risk to national security, and they take over. We become a government-run utility. If we’re lucky, we don’t end up in jail. You need to wake the fuck up! This is not your call!”
“Have they threatened you?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, MacMillan! Are you listening to me?”
Syd sits on the sofa, head bowed, but she’s sure as fuck listening. Probably recording.
“Why did you visit the Russian embassy yesterday?” He stops pacing as realization registers.
My eyes are now open, but I’m still trying to understand what I’m seeing.
“It’s not always an us versus them scenario,” Miles says, voice hushed, defensive. Zero trace of denial.
“You’ve struck deals with multiple governments,” I say, barking out a half-chuckle that tastes bitter in my throat. All this time I suspected Alex was the problem, the one pushing the financial agenda. But it was Miles all along. The realization crashes over me in waves—not just the betrayal, but the magnitude of it. This isn’t a disagreement about company direction; this is Miles systematically undermining everything we built together. Miles. Not Alex.
Nearly twenty years of friendship, of sharing apartments with paper-thin walls during our startup days after dropping out of business school and pissing off our parents, of celebrating breakthroughs at three a.m. with cheap beer, of standing beside him at his father’s funeral. All of it sacrificed for what? Control? Profit? Fear?
“You tried to trap me. Put them up to blackmailing me.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—too controlled, too calm for the hurricane of emotions beneath. “That’s the backstabbing knife I was referring to, by the way. Was that meant to force my hand? To back me into a corner?”
