CHAPTER
TWO
____________________
Calder
I walked out into the midday heat of a warm June day feeling equally gratified as much as I was anxious. It never made any sense to me feeling like this every time I left a meeting, but no matter how many I went to, no matter how many years I'd managed to stay clean, it was like this every time. Sharing personal things never came easy to me, doing that in a room full of people didn't either, but I'd learned to do it, just like I learned to play the roles that I needed to run my businesses. They were necessary evils I needed to manage my life.
It was only when I was alone or with someone I trusted, which I might add was a very short list of people, could I truly be myself. The solitary introvert who really didn't like to talk, the man who struggled with a host of demons that still to this day could rise up and tear him apart if he let go for one single second of the hard-won control he fought so arduously for.
I stood out on the sidewalk staring off across the street as the other recovering addicts from the meeting filed out around me, thankfully leaving me alone to catch my breath metaphorically. Unconsciously, I brushed my fingers over the tiny raised up scars on my left elbow under the rolled-up sleeve of my dress shirt, the map of pain and self-loathing I'd inflicted on myself with heroin. I used to be ashamed of them, constantly wearing long sleeves to cover them up, even in the sweltering heat of summer that probably made it seem more suspicious than if I didn't. Now I wore my old scars like a soldier who'd won a hard-fought battle. I was proud of what I accomplished by being sober for the last eight years, even though the battle was never really over. The scars reminded me of that stark fact too.
"Hey," a familiar and welcome male voice said in a smooth and relaxed tone. "You have time for lunch before work?"
I glanced over to see Scott Conrad, my best friend in the world and my brother in every way but blood really, watching me with calculating blue eyes and a sober expression. He was a few years younger and a good four inches shorter than my six-three height, broad-shouldered and fit, and dressed in a ratty T-shirt and cargo shorts. As a private investigator, he pretty much wore whatever he liked on any given day. It must be nice. As a business man I had certain expectations to live up to, and didn't have that luxury.
Scott liked to talk in front of people at the meetings even less than I did, being the laconic man he was, but it didn't disquiet him as much as it did me. He was too calm and relaxed to get too worked up over anything really, and his personality was a good influence on mine when I felt at odds with myself like this. I was grateful everyday that we met in rehab ten years ago. I knew each of us would have died of an overdose long before now if not for the other.
"I'm sorry," I said apologetically. "I've got a meeting with a promoter, and interviews this afternoon for new waitstaff at The Indigo Room before the club opens tonight." My phone chirped in the pocket of my slacks, and I pulled it out to glare at the text I'd just received. I sighed. "And apparently a fucking crisis with my alcohol distributor at Désir Dangereux too."
Scott frowned as he ran a hand through his short light-brown hair. "You know, you really need to delegate some of that shit. You own too many clubs and bars to run it all by yourself now, and you're spreading yourself thin."
"I know," I replied, but said nothing else. My control issues were strong and ran deep, and they were hard to let go of, especially considering I thought they were the biggest reason I'd remained clean and sober for as long as I'd managed.
Scott gave me a look that spoke volumes without him having to say a word, his brows raised and his expression dubious. I understood his underlying implication that wearing myself too thin could lead to too much stress, which could in turn lead to a relapse.
I met his eyes with determination. "I know," I said more strongly this time. "I'm working on it."
"Work harder," he said sternly.
"It would be easier if you came and worked with me," I grumbled out.
"You don't want me to do that," he replied like he always did to that suggestion. "I'm your silent partner for a reason, Calder. I have no fucking clue about money and business like you do, or know the first thing about running a nightclub. You know that."
"You could run security," I suggested.
He frowned. "I set up your security so it can practically run itself, and you have Pete. You don't need me." In addition to being a P.I., Scott was also a physical security specialist and set up the security systems and measures in all my clubs.
"I guess," I said quietly.
"You should let Gwen do more," Scott continued with another suggestion I didn't really want to hear. "She's lasted as your assistant for three years without quitting or killing you. She could probably do a better job than you at this point."
I glared at him, done with this conversation.
"Just think about it," Scott said in a softer placating tone. "Okay?
I nodded grudgingly. "Okay."
"Catch you later," he said with a smile and a quick tap to my upper arm, then sauntered away like he didn't have a care in the world. I knew that wasn't true, he had just as many demons as I did, he was just better at it keeping them under wraps.
I headed in the opposite direction to my sleek black Tesla Model S and took off toward The Indigo Room. When I arrived and walked in, Gwen accosted me after I'd barely set foot through the door into my small office suite and was slipping on my suit jacket for the day.
"You have a scheduling conflict nightmare today, Calder," she announced as she stalked across the small waiting area from her office toward me in the royal blue sheath dress that I knew was her favorite because she wore it often.
Gwen Yadava was a striking woman of Indian descent with long thick black hair, gorgeous dusky skin, and big green eyes. I knew she was in her early forties, but you couldn't tell by looking at her. She had a timeless grace and beauty to her that made figuring out her true age difficult. Sometimes I had a hard time believing she had a twenty-year-old son. She was very competent at her job, and somehow managed to put up with my obsessive control issues and demanding perfectionism. No one else ever lasted a month until Gwen. I couldn't run my businesses without her, or my life for that matter.
I sighed deeply. I could tell it was going to be a long day already. "Lay it all out for me."
She nodded brusquely. "The promoter had to push the meeting up an hour and a half, which coincides with the waitstaff interviews this afternoon. The alcohol delivery to Désir Dangereux never showed up this morning, so we need to put that fire out first so they can open on time tonight."
She continued on with a bunch of other little details that required my attention. I started to feel overwhelmed and anxious as tension began to tighten the muscles across my upper back. I'd already exercised and done my yoga this morning, but suddenly it felt like I'd done none of it. Even after all these years, I still got an itch for the euphoric oblivion of heroin when I felt stressed like this, and back in the day these were the times I'd go looking for a hit. A deep craving fell over me, and just thinking about using had fear coursing through me with icy tendrils of panic.
Shit, was Scott right? Was this just another heroin craving like I dealt with everyday for the last eight years, or the first stirrings of a full-blown relapse? Heroin was the second love of my life, and I'd used it as a crutch to get through the darkest most painful time of my life when my first love walked out on me twelve long years ago.
My life had been an uphill battle all alone ever since. Leaving heroin behind had been just as hard for me as truly having to deal with the pain of her leaving me when I finally stopped using. Both left me scarred and broken, inside and out. I'd slowly and painfully managed to put the pieces of myself that were left back together again after all these years. Going back to using would only lead to total self-destruction.
Gwen continued talking, oblivious to the jumbled mess I was dealing with inside my head. "...so if I reschedule the interviews or the promoter, you can get back on-"
"You do the interviews," I suddenly blurted out in a panicked tone, interrupting her mid sentence.
Gwen's eyes widened and her mouth literally fell open as she stared at me in stunned shock for several moments. "Wh...what?" she finally asked.
I straightened and got a grip on myself, then spoke more firmly this time. "You do the interviews, and I'll take care of the rest."
She just stood there blinking rapidly in confusion.
"I'll deal with the distributor at Désir right now, then I'll meet with the promoter before I deal with everything else."
"Uh...um...okay then," she finally managed to say. "I...I'll take care of the interviews then." She literally looked shell-shocked.
"Good," I nodded and headed toward my office, fighting the urge to tell her I changed my mind. I decided to treat the urge like a heroin craving that couldn't be acted upon.
"Calder?" Gwen called out behind me. I turned to see her smiling gratefully at me. "I won't let you down."
"I know, Gwen," I said with a certainty I didn't completely feel, even though I did trust her. She'd proven herself umpteen times over the last three years after all. It was time to let her do more.
"Thank you," she added softly.
"You're very welcome, Gwen," I replied warmly, then turned to go shut myself in my office and call the distributor, hoping that I didn't just make a huge mistake by trusting someone else with my business for the very first time.