Page 10 of Sinner (Priest 2)
“Good morning, Mr. Bell.” Trent the Secretary sounds a little nervous. “Mr. Valdman says he wants you in his office as soon as possible. Something big’s come up and it’s an emergency.”
I look across the room to where my mom sleeps fitfully, surrounded by a cluster of poles and wires and bags and screens.
I sigh. “My mom’s in the hospital right now. Is there any way it can wait?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask,” Trent says and I hear the electronic piano tones of a Liszt piece as I’m put on hold. Then Trent returns. “Uh, Mr. Bell? I’m really sorry, but Mr. Valdman says he needs to see you right away and that it can’t wait. Should I tell him you’re on your way?”
“Fuck,” I mumble, running a hand over my unshaven face. I look down at my wrinkled tuxedo. “Yes, I’m on my way. I have to swing by home to change, then I’ll be in.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let him know.”
Fuck a damn duck.
I hang up the phone and stand up, reluctant to leave Mom alone. I’d made Dad go to work—he’s a warehouse manager for a small plumbing company, and his boss is not very forgiving of Dad missing work for any reason, even a sick wife—and Ryan’s all the way in Lawrence, getting settled into his new off-campus digs. Aiden’s at work. And obviously Tyler isn’t here.
I drop a kiss onto Mom’s cool forehead and she stirs, but she doesn’t wake up. I find a nurse and explain that I have to go in to work, but to call me at the slightest sign of trouble, and then I leave her every number of every person I can think of in case she can’t reach me, although she’ll be able to reach me. Valdman will understand if I have to dash out of our meeting, I’m certain of it.
Mostly certain.
Like, halfway certain.
Shit, maybe I’m not that certain at all. I chew over this as I get into my car and speed back to my apartment, tapping my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. It’s legitimately the first time taking care of Mom has been a problem with my job, and I have to admit—even knowing that Valdman’s an asshole—I’m surprised he still insisted on me coming in. Trent said it was an emergency—but what fucking investment emergency is more important than
my mom’s surgical emergency?
And then I feel like an idiot, because I didn’t get all the money I have now by asking myself those kinds of questions. I’ve always, always put work first, at least until Mom’s illness. And even after, I’ve done my best to give this firm every part of me not locked down by chemo-chauffeur duties and pharmacy runs. If Valdman says it’s an emergency, then I fucking believe him and I need to fix it, whatever it is.
But Jesus, for real. What could it be?
I get to my place, take the world’s fastest shower and jump into a clean suit without bothering to shave. I won’t be seeing any clients anyway, so it’s fine, although the foreign sensation of stubble abrading the fabric of a clean shirt collar is distracting. I feel unkempt, and when I glance up at the mirror to make sure my tie-knot is straight, I barely recognize the grim, scruffy man looking back at me.
Well, it can’t be helped. It was a long fucking night, and not the good kind…except for the part with Mary, because I could have spent a thousand long nights with her.
Which means I’m going straight to hell.
Thirty-six year old men like me have no business wanting to see a college student’s pussy. Wanting to lick and rub her until she’s wet and mewling, wanting to split her legs open and mount her. Wanting to fuck and thrust and grind until she’s come so many times under me that she’s forgotten her name—and her fake name. And now I’m hard, which is great, just fucking great.
I toss all my shit into a leather satchel and run out the door to meet my boss, boner be damned. Lord knows it will shrivel the moment I get to his office anyway.
Rosacea decorates Valdman’s cheeks like red, splotchy spiders, and I find myself staring at the tiny ruptured capillaries and veins as he talks, wondering if all rich white guys end up gouty and drink-ruddy and wondering what I need to do to avoid getting the Henry VIII look myself. Stop drinking probably, although I do eat a lot of kale, and that feels like it should count for something.
He’s been ranting since I came in and sat down a few minutes ago, and I still have no idea what’s wrong.
“—fucked, Sean, we’re fucked, and I’ve already heard from two clients complaining about the bad PR bouncing back onto them. And the news—Jesus, you would not believe those vultures! They’ve been ringing everyone off the hook, even the fucking interns.”
I force myself to tear my eyes from his cheeks. “If you’ll tell me what’s happened, I’ll fix it. I promise.”
Valdman heaves himself into his chair and reaches for the globe bar he keeps next to his desk. “You want a drink?” he asks, already rummaging for a glass and the scotch decanter.
I glance discreetly over at the clock. It’s a little after nine a.m.
“I’m good,” I decline cautiously. “Now, sir, about whatever’s happened—”
“Right, right,” he mumbles, taking a drink and then setting the scotch decanter on the desk between us. “The Keegan deal.”
I’m honestly confused. “The Keegan deal, sir?”
Valdman blinks at me with bloodshot eyes, takes another drink. Waiting for me to say something.
