Street Smart, page 1
Street Smart
Work For It Book #1
Aly Stiles
www.smartypantsromance.com
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
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Copyright © 2021 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
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Made in the United States of America
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Ebook Edition:
978-1-949202-56-4
Contents
I. Define
1—Reed Reedweather, III
2—Evangeline Reedweather
3—Chad-Something
Real Mark
5—Marisya
6—J-Dawg
7—Beverly Harris
II. Discover
8—Marcos Oliveira
9—Grant Worthington, et al
10—Jules Cassidy
11—Carter Hollis
III. Monitor
12—Lucinda Mae
13—Axl Rhodes
14—Mary Lou Barr-Reedweather
15—Nate Hanover
16—The Ladies… and Gerald
17—Denver Sandeke
IV. Take Action
18—Nash Ellis
19—Jerry
20—Kaitlyn Parker
21—Martin Sandeke
V. Measure
22—The Loser
23—The Winner
24—The Real Winner
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Heart Smart by Emma Lee Jayne, Work For It Book #2
Other Books by Aly Stiles
Also by Smartypants Romance
Part I
Define
1—Reed Reedweather, III
Marcos
Mr.
Reedweather
Will
Be
With
You
Shortly
Seven words I never thought I’d hear. And yet, here I am, wrecking all kinds of statistics in my dash to break the mold and achieve every MBA grad’s wet dream. Yep, on paper I belong in prison. In practice, I’m a soon-to-be Yorkshire University alum who just landed an internship at Reedweather Media, a marketing subsidiary of the legendary Sandeke business empire. Paid internship, I might add. Suck that, Mr. Gary of the Bellevue Group Home for Boys.
My leg seems less confident as it vibrates against the waiting room chair. And by chair, I don’t mean the uncomfortable doctor’s office variety that look like they were upholstered with scraps from your gram’s tub of weird basement crap. These are legit leather beasts, like the kind mob bosses use when they’re ordering hits and stuff.
I lift two fingers and point them at the wall. Pretty sure it’s what powerful people do to get things done. Lefty Two Eyes… dead. Bourbon on the rocks… ordered.
Shit. Gets. Done.
My roommate Nate and I were just discussing this last night. He came up through the foster system too, but with three more years of experience, he’s also more educated in the intangibles. You know, the real skills you need that they don’t teach in business school.
Golf.
Scotch-tasting.
Cigar-smoking.
Oh, and that handshake where you squeeze with just the right amount of too-hard pressure while narrowing your eyes in ominous I’m-too-important-to-fuck-with-ness.
“Everything okay?” the executive assistant calls over from his desk.
Crap. I’m still two-finger-saluting the wall and probably squinting super ominously.
“Fine.” I force my eyes un-squinted and drop my hand back to the soft leather armrest. Yep, these chairs also have armrests. The dumpster rescue chair in my living room doesn’t even have armrests.
The assistant’s phone buzzes, and he answers without averting his wary stare from my direction. Clearly no one taught him about The Handshake or he wouldn’t be so concerned.
“Mr. Reedweather is ready for you,” he says, nodding toward a pair of imposing walnut doors. I resist the urge to lift two fingers as I pass, pretty sure he doesn’t know about that either.
With a deep breath, I push through to The Promised Land. And freeze. Seriously, this office—nay, suite—is the standard backdrop for every business magazine feature photo from 1992 to 1995. Mahogany bookcases, mahogany desk, even a mahogany sideboard with one of those obscene hutch things towering on top. Why have a hutch? Because you have so much money that buying a giant useless cabinet isn’t enough—it needs a roof. Damn, how many trees had to die to furnish this place? There’s even a matching table that could host at least twenty people. What would a twenty-person meeting that couldn’t take place in a conference room even be about?
“You’re looking at genuine West Indian mahogany, son.”
A deep voice interrupts my revelry, and I tear my gaze away to land on the emperor himself: Reed Reedweather, III. The man, the myth, the reason I was up until 2 AM practicing that stupid handshake.
Game time.
“It’s very impressive, sir.”
I’m a pro at using “sir.” Plenty of years of addressing authority figures who love that word. It melts on the tongue like butter, way smoother than my attempt at The Handshake, it turns out.
Shit.
But Mr. Reedweather’s grip? Pure art. I shudder in the wake of the ominous eye-squint, discreetly flexing my hand to ease the cramp as I take the seat he offers—another leather chair with armrests, of course.
After returning to his throne behind the desk, my new boss steeples his fingers in perfectly executed Thoughtful Appraisal. Damn, he’s good. No wonder he’s a gazillionaire.
I’m not sure what to do with my own hands, though, and settle on clasping them loosely in my lap once the blood flow returns to my fingers.
Several seconds pass, and I’m sure this is another calculated business thing I should know. Thoughtful Pausing—not to be confused with Thoughtful Appraisal, which is more advanced. And so we stare. Him looking thoughtful, and me… Well, I’m aiming for thoughtful as well, but my face feels like it might be leaning toward confused.
Also in the silence, I can’t help but notice that Mr. Reedweather is the perfect accessory to all his mahogany accents. Tailored suit, smooth jaw—he even rocks the medium-length salt-and-pepper hair slicked back at an angle that lets you know he stands in front of the mirror each morning and gives himself a wink of approval. Look at you, rock star. Go slay some P&L reports. Finger gun and out.
“You have an impressive résumé, Mark.”
“Oh, um, Marcos.”
“Mark-O, yes.”
“Marcos, actually. Like... with an s.”
Wait, how does he have a facial expression that makes me feel bad he can’t pronounce my name? This dude is a freaking business ninja.
“Oh right. They mentioned you were Mexican.”
“Well—”
“I think that’s just great, Mark-O. See, we’re all about diversity here at Reedweather.”
I can tell him I’m Brazilian another time.
“Actually, many of our employees are native Spanish-speakers.”
And that Portuguese and Spanish are different languages.
“You may have noticed my assistant is male.”
True.
“Rapid Inclusivity, Mark-O. There’s a term you need to learn if you’re going to survive in the twenty-first century.”
Rapid Inclusivity? Pretty sure that’s not a thing.
“But here at Reedweather, it’s not enough. No, my amigo. Our mantra is what I like to call Rabid Inclusivity.”
Yeah, definitely not a thing.
I nod gravely, focusing on the weird desk sculpture that looks like an avocado to keep a straight face. Note to future CEO self: Source a bronze avocado.
“You know what? I already like you, Mark-O.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He nods as if to assure himself of that fact and drops another pause that has me shifting to the edge of my seat. It’s uncanny, really. I study his manicured eyebrows to see if those dynamic weapons are playing any role in this witchcraft.
“You know, I don’t do this often, but I already feel like you and I have a special bond.”
“Oh, um—”
“You a scotch man, Mark-O?”
Shit. “Uh…”
“Well, never mind. I can tell you will be if you’re not already. I can read these things. Acquired Intuition they call it.”
They don’t. Almost positive.
“Like I said, I don’t do this often.” He says this with a slick swipe at a desk drawer that tells me he definitely does.
In another graceful movement, he deposits a decanter and two tumblers on his giant desk calendar. Yes, he still has one of those enormous paper calendars covering half his workspace. From my vantage point, I mostly see doodles and notes on Fridays that look suspiciously like tee times.
“Picked this up two years ago on a trip to your part of the world,” he says proudly, handing me a glass.
“Pennsylvania?”
With a h earty laugh, he swirls his cup in salute. “You’re funny. I knew I liked you.”
I force a smile and swirl my own, still not sure about the protocol for drinking within the first twenty minutes of employment at a new job. I play along and mirror his movements, pretending to smell something divine before tipping the glass ever so slightly toward my tongue. Truthfully, it smells like booze, and when a drop sneaks its way past my lips, tastes like it too.
“Ahhh,” he breathes out. “Heaven, am I right?” He swirls the glass again, and I follow suit, figuring that’s what you do after drinking scotch as well as before. Maybe you’re supposed to swirl it with every swallow? Or is it a timing thing? Every twenty-three seconds? I grip the glass, waiting to see what he does next.
“Well, now that we’re relaxed, let’s talk business. I’ve seen your portfolio, Mark-O. Impressive stuff, impressive stuff.” He nods and takes another sip from his glass, this time without a swirl. I file that away.
“You are quite the artist. What do they call these cartoon books again?” He waves at his screen as if I can see it.
“Graphic novels?”
“Yes! That’s it. Graphic novels. I remember when we called them the funny pages. You ever read Dagwood, Mark-O?”
I nod because I’m not sure but have zero confidence he can verify my story either way.
“Good stuff, good stuff. So listen.”
He places his glass on “Wednesday April 3” and leans forward to bore his stare into mine. I swallow hard, forgetting I’d brought the glass back to my lips a second before, and have to choke down a huge gulp of scotch.
“We’ll be starting you off as an entry-level assistant. I’m sure you understand the politics involved. Or as we like to call it here at Reedweather: Dogmatic Positioning. You study Dogmatic Positioning at Yorkshire, Mark-O?”
I have no idea how to answer that. “Well—”
He waves me quiet and resumes his laser stare. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. You’re here to learn, am I right? We’ll only be hiring one intern to a permanent position at the end of this quarter, but you do well, impress us with your hard work, and the sky’s the limit for go-getters like you. You feel me, Mark-O?”
I nod, still fighting back tears against the alcoholic burn in my throat—and now a fresh tickle from whatever Dogmatic Positioning is supposed to be.
“I can’t hear you,” he says, adding a creepy big-toothed grin that I think is intended to be playful.
“I—feel you,” I rasp out.
I put the glass on the edge of the desk before it does more damage. Naughty scotch. Another note to future CEO self: Avoid desk drinking.
“Great. Well, then, I think it’s time we hook you up with your new boss. You ready for the big leagues, Mark-O?”
I nod yet again, not sure what other response I could give to that or most of these questions. One day I’ll be the man who only gets yeses.
He seems to like it and makes quite the show of leaning over to push a button on his phone. (Which also answers my question about why he still has a phone that requires you to lean over and push a button.)
“David, can you do me a favor and see if my daughter is ready to meet her new intern?”
2—Evangeline Reedweather
Marcos
“Ms. Reedweather?”
My fist stalls on the door to the office when its owner looks up from her desk. Well, damn. This is a pleasant surprise. Or a dangerous one.
They say we all have a doppelgänger—some human on the planet who is our clone in every way for no explicable reason. If we also have a polar opposite doppelgänger—someone who doesn’t have a single identifiable trait in common with another person—that would be Evangeline Reedweather and her father. Intelligent, brown eyes bore into me, sizing up my entire existence in one swift appraisal. Her matching dark brown hair is twisted back in some severe style that screams, I’m young and beautiful, but none shall enjoy this fact. Especially you, asshole. My asshole brain is clearly not heeding said warning. Because—damn.
“Marcos Oliveira?”
I swallow and nod, suddenly aware that only the top half of my body is in her office. Her gaze slides from my face to my partial torso bending around the door frame. It’s an athletic pose, at least. Does she notice the strain of my pecs and abs required to pull off this daring position? The slightest of smiles flickers over her lips, making me think she notices just fine.
“Feel free to come in.” She even adds a wave, like maybe I’m not well versed in human interactive protocol. You see, Marcos, in many cultures, door-knocking leads to door-entering…
I shake off my stupid. “Right. Yeah. Duh.” Then cringe when I hear my private thought-words out loud. She smiles to herself again. Probably a sad-polite gesture because she just realized she lost the intern lottery. Which one of you wants the dude who doesn’t know how to walk through doors and speak words?
“Sorry, Ms. Reedweather. You’re just—” Shit. Abort! My fingers, still holding the door frame, clench around the wood in protest at my stupidity. How were you going to finish that sentence, genius?
“I’m just, what?”
“Uh…”
Hot as fuck. No.
A challenging, intelligent woman—a.k.a. my kryptonite. Also no.
“You okay, Marcos?”
“Yeah, fine. Just.” I clear my throat. “Allergies.”
Oh my god. Somewhere my professors are groaning into their locally sourced, sustainable kale-based lattes. Your star student, ladies and gentlemen. Straight-As be damned. I could desperately use a locally sourced, sustainable kale-based latte to groan into right about now. Or more of Mr. Reedweather’s weird desk scotch.
Another slight smile skims over her lips. “Why don’t you sit, and we can chat?”
She rounds her desk and takes a seat at a small, normal-sized private office table, which, like everything else about her, sits in direct contrast to her father’s tastes. In fact, her entire office is the sophisticated and modest opposite of Reedweather’s flamboyant ode to mahogany. It probably ruined his year that she passed on the hutch when she designed her space. Motioning toward the chair across from her, she studies me with an unreadable expression.
I follow instructions like a functioning human this time and place my zippered portfolio on the table. She eyes it curiously, and I pray she doesn’t have x-ray vision because there’s nothing in it. A blank legal pad and a pen—that’s what I brought for my epic corporate crusade. Hashtag warrior.
“Look, I’m going to be up-front with you,” she says, all humor draining from her face as she settles her stare back on me. “I’m not a fan of this internship program. My father enjoys the brutality of the competition and the slick political games you young, hungry suits love to play, but I personally find it tedious and counterproductive. I know you think you’re God’s gift because you come from some fancy school and bought that fancy tie, but I assure you, I’ve watched twelve other clones of you work at those desks over the last three years and all it does is make my life harder. I’m not impressed by who your parents are, how many yachts they own, or which senator signed your letter of recommendation. Your money and connections have zero impact on your ability to do this job, got it?”
Is now a bad time to mention that I got myself through school by stripping? Her gaze narrows coldly. Probably.
I nod instead, trying to suppress a smile of my own this time. That was quite possibly the hottest speech I ever heard.
