CRUEL (The Buck Boys Heroes Book 2), page 3
“What subject?” I question him as he tugs on the lapels of his suit jacket.
“The one about you reading an article on RumorMel.” A hearty laugh chases the words out of him. “I never would have pinned you for a Melster, Bane.”
“What the fuck is a Melster?”
He points a finger at my face. “I’m looking at one.”
I raise both brows in silent question.
“It’s someone addicted to that damn website.” He shakes his head. “Melsters crave details about famous people.”
Swiping a finger over my phone’s screen to close the browser, I return my attention to the almost empty glass in front of me. “Why are you here?”
“Why are you reading RumorMel?” He chuckles. “Look, Bane, I’m not dropping this because it’s too good. You’re the last person I expected to catch reading gossip.”
I haven’t explained any of my actions to another person in years. I sure as hell won’t start tonight.
“Thanks,” Sean directs that to the bartender as he slides a glass of scotch in front of him. “Top up his with the same.”
I don’t get in the middle of that because I could use another drink and a few minutes with Sean.
He’s one of three men I consider friends. I’d never admit that to any of them, but Graham, Sean, and Harrison Keene have stood by my side since I was a fifteen-year-old kid navigating my way through a family battle.
They witnessed the height of that and the aftermath when my life fractured before I worked to piece it back together.
“How’s the Trade Minds deal going?” Sean tosses that out there and then takes a drink.
“Dead in the water,” I say with an even tone. “They backed out last week.”
Scratching his beard-covered chin, he glances around the almost empty bar. “You’re shitting me, right?”
I wish I were.
I can’t deny that acquiring Trade Minds would have been a huge win for Bane Enterprises as the plan was to merge the technology firm with the company we acquired several years ago. That would have strengthened our position in the market as we set out to launch a new line of products, including smartphones, laptops, and security devices.
Technology is only one branch of the business we do, but it’s worth investing in. I view this as a setback but not one that’s insurmountable.
“They didn’t like your terms, did they?” He chuckles. “You need to learn how to negotiate. When was the last time you gave an inch, Bane?”
Five years ago, I gave much more than an inch. I sacrificed everything for someone.
I take a drink from the newly filled glass in front of me.
“Back at Buchanan, you would have cracked a joke about my dick if I asked about giving me an inch.”
I stare straight ahead. “Back at Buchanan, you were working with an inch, maybe an inch and a half. If memory serves, it took some time for you to mature.”
“Your memory is failing you, Kavan. I’ve always had more than most women can handle. I’m talking eight and a half very satisfying and thick…” He trails off, nudging my elbow with his.
I turn to glance in his direction to catch a smirk on his lips as his hand threads through his brown hair. He wiggles both brows in silence.
“One more word about your dick, and our friendship is over, Sean.”
He takes a mouthful of his drink and swallows it. “Agreed if you tell me why you were on RumorMel. Are you buying the site?”
“Is it for sale?” I ask, amused that he’s not giving up his hunt to get to the bottom of why I was scouring that website when he walked in.
“Everything and everyone is for sale,” he quips. “Name a price. I bet old Mel would take you up on that offer.”
He might if he hadn’t sold the enterprise to Marks Creative several years ago.
Sean may have caught me reading a story about a social media star I’ve never heard of and the hideous ring her athlete boyfriend bought her, but I have no interest in any of those people.
I’m curious about the woman who penned that piece.
Juliet Bardin.
I saved her from being mugged last week, and then I took the necessary steps to keep my name out of that complication.
It was the right move considering the fact that Miss Bardin earns a living reporting on the lives of people in the public eye, and I work very hard to avoid the spotlight.
Chapter Seven
Kavan
I’m not a man who permits anyone to back him into a corner.
I’m always aware of my surroundings, including my position now.
Nigel Rothe, my late father’s right-hand man and current personal advisor to me, is standing in front of my desk with his gaze trained on one of the many windows in my office that overlooks Manhattan.
“The board isn’t going to drop this, Mr. Bane.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve insisted that he call me by my first name. Nigel is old school and loyal to his core.
He worked for my father for many years, and as soon as I took the reins of the company, he accepted the advisor position. It’s impossible for me to remember a time when Nigel wasn’t a prominent part of my life.
He’s right about the board of directors.
I spent the bulk of the afternoon in a meeting with the group. Each of them took their turn explaining what they perceived as the root cause of the declining price of Bane Enterprises stock and the core reason Trade Minds backed out of our agreement.
I wasn’t surprised when every finger came back pointing at me.
All of the dozens of books written about me over the past few years that professed to contain ‘firsthand knowledge’ of my life or ‘gruesome (never before heard) details’ about the night the Bane family changed forever are bullshit.
That includes the one released just last week with the uninspired title of The Bad Bane. It’s currently topping every bestseller list.
Add that to the never-ending list of podcasts that have made a fortune focusing on me and the articles posted online written by supposed insiders, and I can see why the board views me as the issue.
“You don’t think that once the hype of this latest book dies down that they’ll retreat?” My question is rhetorical since stock prices have fallen steadily since I took on the position of CEO two years ago.
Nigel closes his eyes briefly. It’s a telltale sign that he’s drawing on the never-ending reservoir of patience that sits within him. “I know the board, sir. I’ve known some of them longer than…”
“I’ve been alive,” I interrupt. “I’m aware.”
“They sent me a private memo.” He taps the screen of his phone. “The shareholders made it very clear to the board that they want one thing.”
Nigel won’t go there. He refuses to, but I will, so I do. “They want a mea culpa for what happened in Miami. They want me to put all of my cards on the table.”
Nigel’s blue eyes scan my face in search of something. He won’t find whatever he’s looking for because I’ve learned how to bury the past in a grave so deep that it can never be unearthed by anyone.
“It’s a dark cloud that’s been hanging over Bane Enterprises for many years.” His voice has a tremor in it as he continues, “I do so wish you’d let me talk to the press or perhaps a ghostwriter. I can work on a memoir with someone under the guise that you wrote it, of course. That would clear all of this up, and I imagine a project like that would send stock prices on an upward trajectory.”
I shoot him a look that he knows all too well.
I’ve never told Nigel to shut the fuck up, but that look says what I can’t.
“The police then,” he rattles on. “They could handle revealing all to the press if I go to them with the information we’ve withheld.”
“Nigel.” His name comes out like a thinly veiled warning. “That’s not happening.”
He nods in agreement. “Very well, sir.”
I move to stand. Buttoning my suit jacket, I round my desk. “If anyone is going to speak to the press, it’ll be me.”
“You?” He doesn’t try to hide the surprise in his tone. “You swore never to speak of that night.”
“I’m not talking about that night.”
That fucking night when the world fell off its axis in the darkness with rain pouring down in buckets and the angry roar of thunder punctuating the moment.
“What then?”
“I will agree to speak to a journalist of my choosing about my vision for the company’s future,” I propose. “The board will see that the article will strengthen Bane’s position as a global brand, and it will quiet their fears that my past will continue to impact what my father worked so hard to build.”
Nigel studies me carefully as he pushes his wire-rimmed eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Drown out the past with the promise of a brighter undeniable tomorrow? That might work. I know a reporter with The Times. He’s very well respected. He’ll go deep, but you can warn him of the subjects that you feel are off-limits.”
I shake my head. “No. I have someone in mind.”
Someone I can easily guide to write an article that will not reveal anything beyond what I want.
I don’t need a seasoned journalist poking my brain with their manipulative questions. I have no doubt that I can navigate that with ease, but the last thing I want is a headline screaming about my refusal to answer anything.
If I control the narrative of the interview, I can finally shift the focus from my past to the company’s future.
It will change nothing for me, but perhaps, it will shake off some of the stigmas that have been haunting Bane Enterprises since I took over.
“May I ask who?” Nigel quizzes.
Now is not the time to tell him that my plan is for the article to appear in New York Viewpoint since I know that Thurston Marks, the owner of Marks Creative, would walk barefoot over hot coals to get an exclusive from me. Surely, he won’t have an issue with my choice of a journalist.
“Send a secret memo back to the board that I’m ready to sit down for a magazine article,” I accentuate the word secret because the concept is laughable. I’m aware of every electronic communication that takes place within this company. “Then we’ll begin the process of securing the journalist I have in mind.”
Journalist. Gossip Columnist. Reporter.
Whatever Juliet Bardin chooses to call herself is fine with me.
Her expertise is writing articles about the size of engagement rings.
I’m about to drop her into the middle of the ocean with a shark circling her. If she follows my rules, I won’t bite...hard.
Chapter Eight
Juliet
“Who wants to speak to me?” I ask Hugo as he stands in front of my desk.
He leans closer to lower his voice so my co-workers in the cubicles around me won’t hear him. “Mr. Marks.”
I study his lips to see if the movement matches the name that just fell from them.
It’s not that I can read lips. I can’t, but somewhere between Hugo’s mouth and my ears, the name he said got jumbled because there’s no way that owner of Marks Creative wants to talk to me.
I’m one of the lowest-ranked employees on staff.
Hugo has tried to boost my confidence by telling me that I’m the lead junior writer for RumorMel. That would mean a lot more if there were other junior writers on staff.
I’m the only one. My co-workers have all been working the job for at least two years. I just passed the six month mark.
I glance down at the pink and red floral dress I’m wearing. I would have paired it with something other than my black leather jacket and low-heeled black boots if I knew I was going to have an audience with the owner of the company.
“Juliet,” Hugo stresses my name. “You need to come with me now. Mr. Marks is waiting for you.”
I stay seated behind my desk because I don’t have any confidence that my legs will work at this moment. That’s because my knees are shaking. “Why?”
“Why what?” He shoves a hand through his red curly hair.
“Why does he want to see me?” I narrow my eyes. “Did I mess up? Was it the pictures of Corla Berletti’s engagement ring? My source has been supplying me with information for months. I can’t reveal who it is, though. If that means I’m going to lose this job, so be it. I have to stick by my principles.”
I can tell that he’s fighting to hold in a smile. “I’m impressed with your loyalty to Brad, but this isn’t about those pictures.”
That jolts me to my feet. “You know Brad?”
He laughs. “How do you think Brad found you?”
I assumed it was my call out on social media for anyone with information on my first story. That involved a lost poodle that belonged to a Broadway star. Brad sent me a cryptic message about a doggie in a window with a snapshot of a poodle in the window of a townhouse on the Upper East Side.
I followed that tip and found the dog.
The woman who owned the townhouse lived a block from the Broadway star and took the dog in on a snowy night. She’d already reached out to the dog’s owner by the time I showed up on her stoop.
Still, I met up with Brad at a coffee shop, slipped him one hundred dollars for his help, and we became fast friends.
“You sent him my way,” I say with a slight grin. “That’s why you always approve my petty cash requests for my informant.”
“Brad is either a one hundred or five hundred dollar source even though he could be charging ten or twenty times that.” He smirks. “He’s been lending us a hand for a few years now.”
I sigh. “He’s fun to work with.”
“Very,” Hugo agrees with a nod. “Are you ready, Juliet?”
That yanks me back to this moment in time and the meeting I’m supposed to attend.
I round my desk. “Do you know why Mr. Marks wants to see me?”
He nods. “I do, but he wants to explain the reason to you.”
I fall in step behind him as we head toward the elevator. The executive offices of Marks Creative are on the top floor of this office tower.
RumorMel’s offices are five floors below.
Hugo jabs his finger into the elevator call button. “You have something special, Juliet.”
I glance at him. “What do you mean?”
“Your drive.” He smiles, and it carries to his kind blue eyes. “You remind me of myself when I was first starting out.”
“That means a lot to me, Hugo.”
He nods. “I’m glad to see your forehead healed up just fine, but you might need another bandage after this meeting.”
As cryptic as that is, I piece it together just as the elevator doors slide open. “You think I’m going to be in a celebratory mood after this meeting.”
Waving me ahead of him so I can board the lift first, he grins. “I know you will be.”
As the doors slide shut behind us after he pushes the button for the top floor, I glance at his profile. “Is that the only hint I’m getting?”
“You’re the investigative journalist.” He perks both of his eyebrows. “Surely, you can draw your own conclusion based on the clues I’ve dropped.”
I look up to see the numbers edging up as we make our journey to Mr. Marks’s office. “It’s really good news, isn’t it?”
He leans closer to drop his voice to a whisper. “You didn’t hear it from me, but yes. It is damn good news for you.”
Chapter Nine
Juliet
We step off the elevator on the executive floor of Marks Creative, and I need a second to take it all in.
I thought my sister’s offices were beautiful, but this puts them to shame.
The floor is polished stone. The reception desk is crafted from steel with sleek edges. The lighting is muted, but the fixtures themselves are breathtaking.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“I know, right?” Hugo shoots me a look. “The first time I was called up here, I snapped a few pictures for my wife. She’s an interior designer.”
I take one last glance to the left and then the right before my gaze lands on the man behind the reception desk. I suck in a deep breath. “Is it show time, Hugo?”
“It is,” he says, gesturing to the right. “They’re waiting for us, so let’s head in.”
I turn to look at him. “They?”
Hugo moves a hand, so it’s hovering just inches from my arm. “We need to get in there, Juliet.”
Nodding, I start in the direction I know we’re headed. “I wish I would have worn something else today.”
Hugo chuckles. “You look great. Stylish with a little edge.”
I glance down at my dress. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”
Smiling, he leads me around a corner past an open area where many people are seated around a large table. “Mr. Marks appreciates personality, and you have it in droves. It shows in your work, in your outfit…you’re one of a kind.”
This sounds like a pep talk my dad gave me before my first job.
I suspect Hugo is close in age to my father, so I take some comfort in his words of encouragement.
We round another corner with the heels of my boots clicking out a reminder of every step I’m taking toward the unknown.
“Good morning, Hugo.” A dark-haired woman wearing a brown pantsuit approaches us. “I need to run up to marketing for a moment. He’s expecting you. Go right on in.”
“Thanks, Shirlene.” Hugo smiles. “This is Juliet Bardin.”
“Hi, Juliet.” She raises a hand to wave at me.
“That’s Mr. Marks’s assistant,” Hugo whispers as Shirlene walks toward a corridor. “That woman is the salt of the earth.”
I nod, still taking in my surroundings while butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“This way.” Hugo gestures to the right.
I make the turn and then stop as soon as I see the open double doors that reveal a gray-haired man sitting behind a desk that outshines the one in reception.
He pushes to his feet.
