Page 4 of Tiebreaker

Or the common area floor of it, anyway. It’s got a lounge with a foosball table in it that we’ve never used. None of us ever stuck around long enough, or liked each other well enough to bother kicking off a game. Luxury condos are stacked above it — one of them with my name figuratively on the door, though it’s probably inch-deep in dust, all the furniture wrapped in tight plastic. I have no idea what it looks like these days, and I have no intention of checking in on it.

I left this all behind, made my own damn life, and yet… here I am again.

It’s only been, what, five years? Maybe? Fuck, I’ve actually lost track. The elevators open and the rush of scent envelops me, the synesthetic memories it brings with it hitting me like a physical wall. They pay extra to have their signature building fragrance piped through the HVAC system. It’s ridiculous and overdone, but Everett has never been anything but ridiculous and overdone.

And that’s saying something, since I'm the fucking rockstar. I should be the extra, over the top, stinky-flower-shit-in-the-HVAC-system one.

Stepping out into the foyer, I realize I’m holding my breath and let it go in a rush. There she is, the secretary of the month, standing and waiting to receive me. I wonder how often she receives Everett’s dick — if she's under his desk, mouth open, servicing him through every meeting that he takes via Zoom. Probably. She’s got those red lips and the short skirt and that vacant, dumb smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

“Oh,” she says. “You already have a coffee. Can I make you something special? Or add anything to it?”

The way she bats a dark cluster of eyelashes at me, I’m pretty sure she's talking about sex. But with women like her, especially around men like me, it's always about sex. And I’m not buying. Not today. Not in this place, this ode to death and fucking misery. They say that the music industry is filled with pimps and criminals… well, so is corporate America, and I’m currently standing in one of their citadels of infamy.

“Nah, I’m good.” I wave her off. “In there?” I point towards the boardroom.

“Oh, he’s not ready for you yet…” she trails off as I blow past her, not in any way or shape willing to wait. He dragged me here, he can damn well put up with me whenever the hell I decide to show up. I shove the door open with my boot. It leaves a mark on the wood. Fantastic.

“All right what the fuck—” and I stop in my tracks.

So there was a reason he wasn't ready for me. I lift my sunglasses up to perch on the top of my head .

“What?” I ask. “You get bored of fucking your secretary?” Because there he is, ass out, hitting some poor, thin, emaciated thing to the enormous glass conference table.

Everett Fucking Leighton the Fucking Third, everybody.

She shrieks when I come in, but he claps a hand over her mouth to silence her. His hips thrust once, twice, and he grunts, eyes on me the whole time. There’s a defiant smirk on his face and he's not even out of breath.

He’s out of her, though, in an instant, tucking his cock back into his pants as she lays on the table panting, her breasts pancake-pressed into the glass surface. I bet that looks pretty fucked up if you're underneath… actually, I’m vaguely into it. Maybe I should get a glass-top table in my apartment and let some groupie finger herself on top of it.

“Well, this is nice,” I say. “But I don't do threesomes anymore.” I sit down in a chair across from him and kick my feet up onto the conference table, ignoring the girl, to save her any more embarrassment than she’s already suffered. Also to let her know I don’t give a shit about her. Anybody who fucks Everett is immediately on my shit list. They’re dead to me.

He lets her go and she gets up shrugging herself back into her shirt dress, trying not to look at me as she skitters out of the room.

“Thanks for the free porno. Don’t you know they have the Internet for that shit and, like, I don'tneedto spy on you? I pretty much have access to whatever I want to watch, whenever I want to watch it. Live, and in person too. So… thanks, but no thanks.” I glare at him, shifting my tone. “So, what gives with the meeting?”

He shrugs.

“It wasn't me who called.” He adjusts the knot of his tie and looks over at the windows floor-to-ceiling, Los Angeles spilling out in front of us like oil. It’s a dirty gem, in an old setting. That’s the kind of ring Los Angeles is. A pawn shop engagement ring. Gritty and pretty and probably cursed.

“No, you can’t go in there yet!” I hear the secretary outside shouting and the door bangs open.

I spit out the words before I even mean to. “Well, look who the dog dragged in.”

There he stands. Vincent King. I haven't seen him in, hell, I don't know, maybe ten years… maybe more.He left before I did.

If I’m smirking, or if I look in any way amused, it’s because I want to kill him, and my body might be trying to deal with this new development. I glare at Everett.

“Is this a fucking joke?”

He stares back at me and then shrugs. “I'm not laughing. Are you?” he mutters.

“Boys, boys.” That familiar voice, although it's worn down a bit with age since the last time I heard it, cuts through the ice in the room. He enters, in all his glory — but he looks… old. It shocks me how his cheeks have sunken in, how the salt-and-pepper in his hair has been blanketed in a near white-out. His shoulders are hunched low where they used to jut proudly north.

But, here he is. Our lodestone, the albatross around my neck, the CEO of this godforsaken investment company: Lansing O’Connel.

“Sit,” he says.

All three of us remain standing. It’s even odds who’s going to go for who first. I’m pretty sure that I can take out Everett. Vince, though? Not so much. My emotions are gonna get the better of me with him. I’d better stay away — I don't need a scandal or stint in actual jail to ruin everything I've been working on.

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