Charleston Airport

I slide my fingers under the rim of my starched shirt collar as I walk off the plane in Charleston, South Carolina. The reason I'm here now makes my collar and tie feel like they’re choking me.

I’d been hoping to at least stop by my hotel to check in, drop my bag, and connect to my scheduled meeting back in New York. But my flight had been delayed so I need to connect into my meeting from here.

I set my laptop bag on the bar height workstation at the gate across the concourse from my arrival gate and plug in my dead cell phone. Might as well get some work done before my call. Seems like everyone has the same idea. Almost every charging outlet is taken, but I don't have time to find somewhere quiet.

A hint of sugar and flowers wafts through the air, and I'm jostled as some chick next to me digs around in her oversized purse. Women and their massive purses. I shake my head almost involuntarily. Why so much stuff?

My phone buzzes as soon as it's got juice, and I answer.

"Trystan? It's Mac. When are you back?"

"Best case, by tonight, worst case I'll be back Friday."

"Are you sure there's not something you're not telling me?" Mac asks.

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Rumor has it Carson is offering more. A lot more."

Bloody hell. "I'll grind his fucking nuts," I snap, momentarily forgetting I'm in public. The pressure of my current situation has apparently caught up with me.

"He doesn't have any fucking nuts or he'd up his game." Mac laughs, but he sounds nervous. "It isn't the first time he's done this. But I can trust you, right, Trystan?"

I'd never shaft Mac. We've been doing business for years, and I owe him.

"It's a good offer," Mac adds. "He knows it. We know it."

Yeah. Of course I know it. But I'm just over people being greedy motherfuckers. Where's the honor? The fucking decency? I'm strung tight today and can't check my irritation anymore. "If you see him before I do, tell him to shove his offer up his—"

Now I definitely feel censure emanating from the floral hippie chick with the oversized purse. I turn and catch her blue eyes. “His arse,” I finish.

"That's my boy," says Mac.

She’s cute. But hippies don't really do it for me, no matter how pretty they are. There's a higher chance of underarm hair, coconut oil, and quinoa for breakfast.

I shudder.

Been there. Tapped that.

"Exactly what I thought you'd say," Mac says. "Or hoping anyway."

Hippie Chick scowls at me and wanders away. I follow her arse, the shape of two full moons visible against the fabric of her long patterned skirt. Probably got legs like tree-trunks. Yes, I'm an asshole, but I prefer a delicate calf. Fuck it, why do I even care? Because her hair is my weakness. Red. No, ginger. No, freaking rose gold and wavy.

What is wrong with me? I shake it off and snatch my gaze away.

"Trystan? You still there?"

"Yeah, I am. Sorry."

Mac sighs. "Look, you good to get on the call with the bank in five minutes? They have some follow-ups from the meeting this morning. And try not to sound like you're holding this deal together like MacGyver with a handful of paper clips." He laughs. "I know it's a bad week."

"Ha. I'm going to take a leak, then I'll call in."

I tap the end button and breathe out a long, slow breath. Immediately, I pull up my Spark app. I'm going to need to get laid if there’s a rat's hell chance of surviving the tension of the next few days. The app is location based, so it's useless to pull it up here at the airport. I may be an asshole, but I'm not going to have a quickie right before or after the funeral. Or in a freaking airport bathroom. That's beneath even me. Still, it's worth a look to get my mind back to neutral. Maybe Hippie Chick is on Spark. Wouldn't that be a bloody laugh? With that in mind, I quickly tap through to see if anyone is around me. No joy. Not in this terminal anyway. My phone battery is still so low. I set it down, leaving it charging. I hate to do it, but I've got a long day ahead. I grab my laptop bag though and head to the men's room across the way before the conference call starts.

I wash my hands and then splash water on my face, running my hands over my rough chin. I look up and stare myself in the face. I have my mother's eyes, and my grandmother deserves to see them today. To see the eyes of the daughter she turned her back on. I blow out a breath and drag my damp fingers through my short, dark brown hair.

Game time.

Minutes to spare. I stalk back to the work area. Luckily the spot next to my phone is still open. I unzip my laptop and power it up. I open my email for the dial-in number my assistant, Dorothy, sent me for the conference line. I'm late. Grabbing my charging cell phone, I jam the on button with my thumb and keep it there to fingerprint identify my code. Except there's no code. The screen opens to an array of icons. I wonder if the last update undid my security code. It's probably time to upgrade the entire device, I've been meaning to. I make a mental note to have Dorothy order me the latest iPhone. I hurriedly press the green phone icon and keyboard so I can type in the number.

There's a beep prompt for the conference pin, and I enter it and take a breath.

The call with the bank drags on for almost two hours while they go through our balance sheets line by line. After finally hearing the beep that they've disconnected, MacMillen stays on the conference line. "That went well. I think we're a go."

I exhale in relief, knowing I've spent years building to a point where I could sell. "I'm headed to the funeral. So I hope you don't mind if we talk while I walk?" I glance at my watch. Shit. I’m going to be late to the funeral too.

"No problem. Listen, I forgot it was today, I should have rescheduled the bank. I'm sorry. Will you make it?"

I stalk down the concourse toward the exit and baggage claim. "I think so." I squint at the people milling about at the bottom of the escalator and spot a uniformed girl in a knee length skirt and baggy suit jacket leaning against a pillar. She's scrolling through a phone with one hand and half-heartedly holding a scrawled sign that reads Montgomery with the other. Her mousy hair is scraped back into a ponytail so tight, it looks painful. Dressing up for work doesn't seem natural to her.

"Look, I just want to say something to you, Tryst," Mac says in my ear, his age and weariness echoing through his tone. "I know what you're walking away from by ignoring Carson's offer."

"I know you do." I stand in front of the girl. A teenager. Jesus, can't people employ grown-ups these days?

She looks up. Her eyes register me, and her pale skin turns puce. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Are you—?"

I point at my name she holds and nod, jerking my head toward the exit, hoping we can get going. I motion I only have my roller bag.

"I wouldn't blame you," Mac says as I stride out the airport terminal into the muggy Lowcountry air and follow the girl to the limousine waiting area. I hope she's old enough to drive. The phone beeps with an incoming call, I look down but don't recognize the New York number. "I've taught you to look out for yourself, after all," MacMillen continues as I put the phone back to my ear. "That's a lot of money. Money going directly to you. You haven't fought this long and this hard to walk away from what you're worth. And you are worth it. Every penny, and more. I wouldn't blame you," he repeats.

I slide into the back of a dark Escalade, the air-conditioning cuts on, and I take a deep breath. "Yeah," I say. "But I'd blame me." I stick a finger in the knot of my tie, yank it loose and undo the top button of my shirt. I cover the phone briefly as I tell the driver to take me to the church instead of the hotel. "And today, of all days," I continue on my call, "I don't need to beat myself up any more. You're a mentor but also a father figure to me. The only other person who might have been even close is lying cold and about to be buried. This company represents everything I had to overcome. I've built it stone by stone, and there's only one person I'd trust enough to do what needs to be done. That's you."

The phone beeps again. Same number. I frown, but Mac is talking.

"I'm proud of you, son. Not sure how that family of yours produced you, but I'm glad they did."

"Thanks, Mac," I say sincerely, slightly embarrassed by his pride and faith in me. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay. And good luck today. Remember, you succeeded in spite of them. You don't need anything from them. And you don't owe them a damned thing."

"Thank you. Later." I clear the roughness from my voice and end the call.

A voicemail beeps through. Make that two.

I look down, remembering the apps all being rearranged, then I notice the perfect screen. No crack.

My stomach sinks. Shit.

I go to the voicemail page and see the caller list, and it truly sinks in that this is not my phone.

David

David

David

David

David

Followed by two voicemails from the number in New York. I tap the first one to listen.