CHAPTER TWO
Griffin
I’m glaring at the traffic jam. I do not have time for this. I look at the time on my phone and see the screen light up with caller ID. It’s Simpson again. I bet he’s trying to back out of our meeting.
No way in hell am I going to let him get away with it.
I ignore the call, ask my driver how long this is going to take. Delays make me crazy.
I can turn Pirate’s Fancy—Simpson’s stupid theme club with the prime location—into the latest jewel in the Rose crown. Every one of my string of nightclubs from coast to coast has been a takeover like this. I’ve never had to bother with a new build. I have an instinct for locations and trends, sharpened by a lot of experience now. I know what I’ll do. This one will be called Thorns. It’s going to be black and red, of course, to fit the brand, but I’m thinking a coil of barbed wire above the bar, black roses on the flocked wallpaper behind the DJ setup. Baroque, not goth, more edgy and punk than vampire chic.
I tap notes into my phone. He calls again.
“Doyle here,” I bark into the phone.
“Griffin, It’s Randy Simpson. How are you today?”
“I’m stuck in fucking traffic. You didn’t just call to chat. What is it?”
“I can’t make it on Saturday. My brother and I co-own the club, obviously, and we don’t make decisions without the other partner, so neither of us will be there. I’ve had something come up.”
“Are you unwell? If you’re ill, we’ll reschedule,” I said, waiting. I knew he wasn’t ill.
“No, it’s not that. I’ve just—”
“You gave your word. We’re having a face-to-face to discuss the terms of a buyout.”
“I know, and we’ll sit down and do that soon,” he whines.
“No, we’ll sit down and do that Saturday. I’ve cleared my calendar for the entire night. I’ve closed the club for the evening—that’s thousands of dollars of revenue, by the way. I hired Epicurean Advantage to do the meal.”
“We just planned this a week ago. How could you get them? They’re impossible to book.”
“Not if you’re me, they’re not.” I said smugly, “I assure you it will be an evening well worth your time.”
“I don’t think Saturday is going to be possible…” he said.
“Saturday is settled. We’re meeting. You will attend as promised.” I said and hung up the phone.
By the time traffic was moving, I’d replied to all my emails and instructed my secretary to push my appointments back another hour.
My sister Gina, who just turned sixteen, calls. She’s safely at a nice New England boarding school known for high SAT scores and tight security.
“What’s up?” I said.
“It’s Cameron—” She breaks off, sobbing.
I try not to roll my eyes. Cameron is her boyfriend, and the best I can tell, he’s a douche. Her school has social events with a boys’ school nearby and she met this boy who apparently looks like some singer she likes called Niles or Giles or something else British. At least once a week, something dramatic happens with Cameron—usually he doesn’t answer her Snapchat or didn’t notice her new highlights—and I get a phone call. She’s a roiling vortex of high-strung emotions around the clock. I love my baby sister but I find her exhausting. She doesn’t do calm and rational.
“Can I kick his ass this time? Please?” I say, knowing it will make her laugh. She giggles, and I feel better at the sound of it. If this were serious, if he gave her genital warts or got her pregnant or something, she wouldn’t have laughed at my lame joke, so I’m reassured.
“No. He’s just being a boy, I guess. But it just breaks my heart that he doesn’t love me as much as I love him. I sent him three texts this morning before school—three!” she says, and the crying starts again, “He never answered me.”
“Did you ask a question? I don’t answer texts unless there’s a direct question.”
“Griff! He’s not like the CEO of all the bars in the world like you are. He’s in school. He has free time!”
“They’re nightclubs, not bars,” I correct her, “and I’m sure your communications teacher has explained to you that women place too much emphasis on rapport exchanges rather than the report interactions favored by men.”
She snorts. I have a feeling she didn’t like my lofty explanation, although I thought it was pretty good.
“First of all, my communications teacher would never say that women put too much emphasis on anything. Especially since most of the oral tradition of ancient cultures was preserved by women because the men only grunted about fire, hunting, and sex. Which isn’t much different than today if you replace fire with ‘cars’ and hunting with ‘sports’.”
“Very funny,” I said. “People have different communication styles. Maybe Cameron doesn’t text a lot.”
“Right. Let me screenshot these and—”
“No!” I say. “Do not screenshot anything. The last time you did that my phone blew up with thirty-five images of your messages and snaps, and I’d prefer to think you spell better than that, considering what I’m paying for your education.”
“You’re not paying for it. Mom is, or she was. So my inheritance—”
“Is in trust for you until you’re twenty-five. Until then, I’m paying. That way, I know you’ll finish college.”
“Come on, Griff. It’s not like I couldn’t get a job. I speak four languages!”
“But can you spell properly in any of those?” I demand, shaking my head. At least she’s off the topic of Cameron breaking her heart for the moment.
My phone beeps, and it’s the office, “I’m getting a call. I have to go. Message me later and let me know you’re okay. Go to class.”
“Fine. But you won’t answer if I text you.”
“If you ask me a question, I might,” I say.
My secretary has called to tell me that Jay Goulding, my financial advisor, won’t stop calling. I tell her to inform him I’m out of the country for the next two weeks, and I hang up. I don’t want to deal with Goulding. In fact, if I never had to think about him or my mother’s money again, it would be too soon. Now my heart’s hammering, and I’m sweating.
I need to burn off some stress at the gym. I tell Ronald, my driver, to take me to the gym. I stalked in and asked for Enid, my trainer.
“She’s getting ready for a client. She’s booked today.”
“Tell her that Griffin Doyle is here and needs a session,” I said.
The receptionist calls Enid, and in five minutes I’m in the locker room, changing.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Doyle,” she says when I come out, “I had to get another trainer to take my nine thirty.”
“No problem,” I said.
I have to admit, I kind of get off on the fact that I can get whatever I want and people apologize for making me wait, like they’re the ones who are being assholes and not me. I own that. I don’t do it all the time, but I do enjoy pulling rank, getting special treatment. Like a last-minute booking with Epicurean Advantage or an extra session with my trainer…hmm…maybe I do it all the time after all.
My mother must be spinning in her grave. She never raised me to be like this. To want the power more than the money, to want the money for its own sake and not the good that can be done with it. I banish the thought and get back to my circuit training. After half an hour, my head is clear, and I feel better. I pay Enid double for the half session because she worked me in, and because I know I was a bastard about it. I hit the showers and make my way to the office.
As soon as I step off the elevator I see him. I shake my head, hands fisted in my pockets. He shouldn’t have done this.
“I’m sorry, sir. I told him to leave. Should I call security?” my secretary says. I shake my head again.
“Goulding,” I say, “I said I’d make an appointment when I was ready.”
“It’s been over a year, Mr. Doyle. That money—”
“Not out in the open, for God’s sake,” I say, indicating my office.
He sits without being invited to. I can’t sit down so I pace. I don’t care if it makes him nervous. He couldn’t be more miserable than I am right now. My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweating. I’m about to sweat through an Armani shirt. If I had my wish, this guy would stand up and leave without saying another word to me. He’d never call me again.
“You’ve inherited a considerable fortune, Mr. Doyle. It’s my role as a fiduciary to act in your best interests. To let this money remain idle in a…a mutual fund!” He says the words like another person would say “meth lab.”
“I don’t care if you keep it in a shoebox under your bed. I don’t want to discuss it.” I storm off, raking a hand through my hair. “I never wanted this money. I wanted—” I break off. I’m not talking about this. Not with him or anyone else. “Leave it where it is. That’s my final decision. Should my views change, I will be in contact with you. Until that time, you are not to call or come to this office. If you require any documentation for tax purposes, you may email my secretary. Good day,” I said.
When he leaves, I think how much I’d love to have a drink. It’s only eleven. This week has been a fucking joke. If I didn’t have meetings, I’d go for a run. Or go test all the vodkas in stock at one of the clubs just for quality control purposes, of course. I’d test them until I had to be carried to the car if I had my way. But I have a job to do.