Текст книги "Heartbreaker"

Автор книги: Cole Saint Jaimes

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

SIX 

AIDAN 

The long plane ride back gives me plenty of time to think. From the moment I sit down, I’m utterly assaulted by the kind of thoughts I’ve fought to hold back since hearing the news.

When was the last time I talked to my parents? When was the last time I ever thanked them for everything that they’d done for me, and apologized for the fact that we were never able to see eye to eye on things?

Fucking bullshit.

For as far back as the Callahan line goes, Callahan men have been cut from the corporate cloth. It’s just what you’re supposed to do. You’re not meant to question it. You’re meant to marry a beautiful woman who will tolerate you fucking her in missionary. Who will bear you more Callahan sons, and who will know exactly how to keep an immaculate home and entertain guests. But that sort of life was never for me. For starters, missionary sex makes me want to fucking shoot myself in the head.

The old man sat down with me one day, right after college, and told me that he’d fund my travel for one year, wherever I wanted to go. The unspoken part of this agreement was that I’d get the wanderlust out of my system, and then I’d come back and work with the family. I backpacked around Europe, went to Thailand, Japan, went to Whistler, BC, Brazil, Fiji. My final stop was Hawaii. Perhaps a bit of a cliché, but I’ve always loved Hawaii. Kauai especially. I did actually have a plane ticket back to Chicago, but I let that day come and go. I decided I was going to stay in Kauai. I knew Dad would cut me off, yeah, but I decided I wanted to make my own way in life. I worked at a coffee shop and couch surfed until I’d saved enough to get a cheap apartment. At the same time, I started offering surfing lessons to tourists. It was less than a year later that I had enough private clients to support myself without the additional income from the café.

“But what kind of car are you driving?” my mother asked during one of our infrequent phone conversations. “And you’re . . . you’re living in an apartment?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I’d said, with far more patience than I felt. I loved my mom, but she was concerned with all the things that didn’t really matter. “And, actually, didn’t Alex and I grow up in an apartment? Don’t you and Dad still live in an apartment?”

“Darling, it’s the penthouse. Please don’t call it an apartment. Now, tell me what kind of car you’re driving.”

“A Jeep Wrangler.”

“A what? A Jeep? Are those things safe?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

“I just want you to be happy, Aidan. I’m your mother. Aren’t I allowed to want you to be happy?”

But I was happy, and she just couldn’t seem to understand. I couldn’t really be happy, could I? The only way I could really be happy would be if I went back to Chicago, if I did what every Callahan man before me had done. If anything, I think my dad might’ve understood how I felt about it, even if he didn’t agree with it. One night, not long before I was to take off to Europe and begin my backpacking expedition, we’d stood out on the penthouse’s terrace, overlooking the city skyline. Dad had a glass of cognac. I had some lemonade. I remember that, the way the ice cubes were melting in the cup, the thick humidity clinging to the air.

“I hope you’ll have a good time,” Dad said. “You’ll have to take lots of pictures; send us updates. It’s actually something I always wanted to do, y’know? Just never had the time. Also, there’s no way that your grandfather would have allowed me such an indulgence.”

Hint, hint. Aren’t I such an indulgent, generous father?

“Well, I do appreciate it,” I told him. “And I’ll be responsible with the money. And if I can find work along the way, I’m not going to turn it down.”

“I know you’ll be okay,” Dad told me. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Life’s funny, sometimes. Often, we find ourselves having to do things we don’t want, or might think we don’t want to do. But after we give it a try, we realize that it’s not so bad.”

Hint, hint. When you get back, you’re going to give this thing your best goddamn shot. 

He seemed to be talking more to himself, even though I was standing right there. “People have certain obligations they’re bound to, whether or not they want to be. That’s what makes them obligations.” He looked at me. “You have obligations, too.”

“I know, Dad.” Then, all I could think about was Europe and getting as far away from Chicago as possible. I don’t remember the entirety of that conversation, but I do remember the promise I made to myself as Dad was standing there, talking about responsibilities and obligations. I promised that I would never get involved with the family business. I would never become a corporate suit like my brother. No matter what happened.

******

Oh, Chicago. I have not missed you.

I leave O’Hare and get blasted in the face by an Arctic wind that makes my bones feel as though they’re about to shatter. Forget about crystal blue skies and friendly sunshine. Here, we’ve got dense low clouds and no sun in sight at all. Everything’s grey, somber, frozen. No one looks happy. Everyone seems as though they’re trying to get somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

Arturo arranged for one of the company drivers to pick me up, but I walk right by the middle-aged guy holding the CALLAHAN sign. The dude doesn’t even give me a second look. After all, I don’t exactly look like a Callahan. I’m horribly underdressed in just a sweatshirt and jeans, so I go by unnoticed. I’d rather freeze than sit in the back of a Lincoln town car right now. Instead, I wait for the train and take it into the city.

I don’t have a key to the penthouse, but the doorman—I don’t recognize him—let’s me in, telling me he’s been told to expect me. Of course, it’s no surprise when the elevator door opens and Arturo is right there, looking ancient as ever in his grey three-piece suit.

“Aidan,” he says. My name sounds like a fucking curse word coming out of his mouth. I step out of the elevator.

My parents’ home hasn’t changed at all. It’s like a museum with its high ceilings and low lighting and dark hues. There’s a noticeable empty feel to the place; it’s too quiet, too cavernous, too cold.

“Hi, Art.” We shake hands. His skin feels like it’s made from crinkled old paper.

“I’m going to give you some time to settle in, son,” he tells me. “But after that, we need to have a conversation.”

I just grunt. There’s a Christmas tree set up in the living room, a few perfectly wrapped presents underneath. I walk down the hallway to my old bedroom, which my mother has kept exactly the way I left it.

I throw my duffel bag down on the bed, and then walk back out to where Arturo is waiting. Part of me is expecting Alex to be right there with him, a self-satisfied grin on his face. I told you I’d get you back here, you son of a bitch.

But he’s not there. It’s just Arturo. “Why don’t we go sit down,” he says. I follow him into the den where there’s fire crackling in the fireplace. The whole scene seems so ridiculously quaint and Christmassy that a wave of nausea rolls over me. “Do you want a drink?” Arturo gestures to my father’s vast array of expensive single malts.

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

“Well. All right, then. Yes.” He fiddles with the buttons on his blazer, then scratches at his bushy grey eyebrows. “ I suppose there’s no need for me to tell you how sorry I am, Aidan. I really am. I really should have insisted they got a cab. But Alex—”

“Was Alex. He wouldn’t have listened to you, Art. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, well. I’m still…so shocked. So very sorry for your loss.” It’s his loss, too. Without a wife or any children of his own, he’s been a part of our family forever. I place a hand on his shoulder, not really sure if I’m meant to hug him or not.

“Thank you, Art. This is all…just a lot to take in.”

“I know,” he says. “Alex has been…Alex was under a lot of stress recently. I know he was excited about taking the company over, but something like that…it’s a huge headache, too. He was managing the best he could, but there’s only so much a man can handle before he starts to lose sleep. And he was worried about you.”

“He was worried about me?”

“Oh, come now. Your brother cared about you. He wanted you to come home. He had a temper, yes. I know the two of you were like oil and water, but he had a vision. He wanted to talk to you about it in person. I thought it might be better to at least bridge some of the specifics with you over the phone, but he was adamant that once you got here, the two of you would go out, have a brotherly chat, and then take on the world.”

“Is that so?” And all I can think of is the last thing I said to my brother before I hung up the phone: Why don’t you fuck off and die?

I don’t think Art knows I wasn’t planning on coming home, nor do I think he knows how shitty he’s making me feel right now. If I’d been here, maybe I would have been the one driving. None of this would have happened to begin with. Everyone would still be alive. But no. I had to put my own wants and desires before everything else. I mean, acting that way has always served me well before, but now, right now, it appears that it’s backfired horribly.

“I’ve been in touch with the only living relative of the man driving the truck. His name was Vaughn Floyd. His sister’s name is Essie Floyd. I did a bit of investigating. Seems it’s been just the two of them for a while. They were struggling to make ends meet,” Arturo says. “I called and offered to take care of the funeral expenses on behalf of the family. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“How generous of you.” When he says on behalf of the family, he means on my behalf. I’m such a fucking waste of oxygen that I didn’t even think of that myself, and yet I’m mad that Arturo chose to speak for me.

Arturo shrugs. “Maybe by covering the funeral costs, we might avoid any potential lawsuits this young woman might want to pursue. That’s just one headache we don’t need to deal with right now.”

How very fucking pragmatic of him. Buy off the poor woman who’s lost the only family she had. “So she accepted?”

“Yes.” He gives me a tight grin. “Though…she was hardly happy about it. Furious is probably a better word to describe her temperament, in fact.”

“Can you blame her? I assume you told her who you were. I’d probably be pretty pissed too.” I think about the girl for a minute, whoever she is, and her brother, whoever he was. Like mine, her life is now irrevocably changed, and we’re all just expected to carry on.

My father’s most trusted friend sighs heavily. “If she can at least give her brother a decent memorial service, I think we won’t have to worry about her in the future.”

“Jesus. So glad to hear you’re thinking ahead.” I can’t hide the disgust from my voice. I rub a hand over my eyes. “Maybe I should go lie down.”

“Maybe. Yes. Well.” Art nods, glancing around at his overly shined Italian leather shoes like he’s trying to find something he’s lost on the floor. Eventually he says, “Yes. A nap would probably do you some good. Just one more thing before I go. You’ll be expected to speak at the family memorial service. Just a few words. All the other arrangements have been taken care of. Your mother had very specific requests.”

“My mother had her funeral planned?”

“You sound surprised. Your parents have always thought ahead. They were realists. They knew this day would come eventually.” Arturo looks at me. “When was the last time your father spoke to you about his will?”

“His will?” I laugh. “Never. If he was going to talk to anyone about that, it would have been Alex.”

A pained expression crosses Arturo’s face, almost like he feels bad for what he’s about to tell me. “The Callahan Corporation was to be passed on to you and your brother. Since your brother is no longer with us, you are the sole heir. The business is yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Callahan Corporation is yours. You’ll need to hit the ground running, Aidan. The company was going through major transition already. Everything’s up in the air. What the business needs now is a strong hand and guidance. Everyone’s...well, they’re reeling, of course. Many of your father’s employees are in a state of panic. People think they’re going to lose their jobs.”

“But…what about the board? Won’t they just manage everything from here on out?”

Arturo shakes his hand, sliding his hands into his pockets. “The Callahan Corporation never went public, Aidan. There is no board. You trying to tell me you didn’t know that?”

“No, I…” I feel stupid. I’ve never had even the slightest interest in what happened in that shining glass tower that dominates the Chicago city skyline. But to not even know how the company was structured? That’s madness. This whole situation reminds me of a movie. Something scripted. Completely untenable. This is just like fucking Batman, except Arturo makes a shitty Arthur and I am just about the worst Bruce Wayne ever.

Arturo speaks some more. I think maybe they’re coherent sentences, but I can’t decipher a single thing that comes out of his mouth. My parents are dead, my brother is dead, and now everything is mine.

Everything I’ve ever tried to free myself from is mine.

SEVEN

ESSIE

A handful of people show up to Vaughn’s memorial service. Mostly people he worked with from the bike shop. They say kind words to me, but I don’t hear any of it, much like I don’t hear a single thing the priest is saying. How is it this priest can be saying anything about my brother anyway, when he never even knew him?

The day is spectacularly cold but there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun is a bright hard, shining coin of silver overhead, radiating a brittle kind of light. There are flowers everywhere, flowers that are so beautiful in their explosive array of colors. Flowers that seem shocked to be outside, assaulted by the cold. I know who most of these flowers were sent by: the Callahans. More specifically, Aidan Callahan, who’s paying for the funeral. How can I forget? I feel a twinge of nausea every time I think of that fact. I try to just forget it, to just swallow my pride because all that really matters is that Vaughn is getting the memorial service he deserves, but it’s hard.

The funeral director asked me if I wanted to say a few words, but I declined, not trusting myself to be able to get a single word out without completely falling apart. And what was there to say, anyway? That none of this was fair? That for everything Vaughn and I went through, for it to end this way was a total and complete slap in the face? No one would have wanted to listen to me ask how a person is supposed to continue living and breathing when it feels like nothing will ever be good in the world again.

In front of me on this cold, cold day, waiting to be lowered into the ground, is my brother in his casket. The casket gleams—it’s mahogany, covered in a blanket of roses. Beautiful. It probably cost more than a brand new car. Max stands next to me, and he’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. All I can do is cry. All I can do is think that this is the closest I’m ever going to be to my brother again. This is the last time I’m ever going to see him, except I’m not even seeing him because he’s in that casket.

The priest finishes speaking. The casket disappears into the ground. People come up to me again, press my hand into theirs, look into my eyes, wipe tears from their own. I force a tiny smile and nod, though, again, I don’t hear a word they say. Finally, I am by myself. I stand there staring at that hole long after everyone has gone, after Max whispers for me to take as much time as I need and that he’ll be waiting for me in the car.

I stand there so long it’s like I’m frozen in place. When I do look up, across the cemetery a huge crowd has amassed. Were they here when we got here? I don’t know. I doubt it. It would have been impossible to miss such a sea of black. How many people? Hundreds. They start to file away as I stand and watch them. A few walk by me as they leave, shooting me steely-eyed glances, giving me brisk nods of their heads. Their conversations wash over me.

“Poor Aidan. Only Callahan left now. Quite the burden to bear,” one man says to another. Both are dressed in black suits, overcoats, black sunglasses on, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” the other says.

The man says something in reply, but by then they’ve walked past and I don’t hear what he says.

It seems to take forever for the people to leave the Callahan gravesites—three yawning holes, side by side. The family plot. At last, only one person remains, wearing the requisite suit and overcoat. He’s far enough away that I can’t make out the precise details of him. Close enough, however, that I can tell he’s exquisitely good-looking, like some sort of fallen angel. Dark hair. A jaw full of stubble. Dark eyes.

 There’s a hand on my shoulder.

“Essie.”

It’s Max. I turn to look at him, to find his brow furrowed in concern. “C’mon. It’s time to go. It’s freezing out here, girl. Don’t want you getting sick, right?”

His worry is touching, but I ignore what he’s said. I nod over to the Callahans’ graves.

“That’s him? That’s Aidan Callahan?”

Max looks. “Couldn’t say. I’ve never seen him before. I’ve only heard his name mentioned.”

I scan the figure of the stranger at the other end of the cemetery, knowing that I’m right. Who else would hover over a grave like that? Like I’m doing right now?

Suddenly, as though he can tell he’s being talked about, Aidan Callahan turns and looks right at me. For a long moment, we stare at each other. The only thing that separates us are the graves of our loved ones. Max squeezes my shoulder.

“Seriously, Essie,” he says. “I’ll bring you back here whenever you want, but we’ve got to get you out of the cold.”

I let him lead me away. As I trip and stumble numbly over my own feet, all I can think about is Aidan Callahan. I think about the fact that I will do anything in my power to avenge my brother.

I think about how far I will go to eradicate the Callahan name from the face of this planet for good.

EIGHT

ESSIE

Five Years Later

Hatred is a curious thing. It feeds you, threatens to completely overwhelm you, yet at the same time, it leaves you feeling hollow. Hungry. It encases you, enshrouds you, but you never feel warm, never feel protected. It’s an empty thing, yet it can completely consume you, demanding you never forgive, never forget. Five years have passed, and I still haven’t forgotten what happened, haven’t forgotten the pain of losing my brother, haven’t forgotten the promise I made that day I stood in the freezing cold at Vaughn’s gravesite.

Back then¸ people were very fond of telling me that time would make things easier, time would heal the pain. Give it enough time and I’d be able to get on with my life, I’d be able to move forward. In one sense, I suppose they were right. For weeks after Vaughn’s death, I wasn’t able to do anything. I slept on Max’s couch. I went through dozens of boxes of tissues. I stopped eating. I couldn’t sleep. I was a zombie. I would have been evicted from the apartment eventually, but I didn’t let it get that far. I only went back there once to get the few irreplaceable bits and pieces. There wasn’t much. The Christmas tree Vaughn brought home had drooped and turned brittle because no one had been there to water it. I left behind our meager furniture and the few small treasures that me and Vaughn had saved for. The new tenants could have them, for what they were worth, or the landlord could throw them away. It didn’t matter to me.

The only thing I took with me was a bag full of clothes, a small photo album containing what few pictures of my parents still remained, and the tiny rectangular box I found wrapped in Christmas paper in the back of Vaughn’s sock drawer. The gift he’d been hiding from me.

And, of course, I took my anger with me. Anger at myself, for not picking up that damn phone when Vaughn called. Anger at my brother for leaving me here alone. Anger at the Callahans. Mostly anger at the Callahans.

I stayed with Max for a while. He gave me my space. He only once tried to tell me that time would make the hurt better. Though he put it in such a way that didn’t make it sound patronizing, that didn’t minimize every awful feeling I was experiencing.

“It’s not always going to be like this,” he said. His own eyes had been red. Even though he’d been getting up and going to work and eating and getting sleep, I knew he was badly affected by Vaughn’s death, too. I knew that he missed him almost as much as I did.

I’ll always be indebted to Max for standing by me. For years he helped Vaughn out, but then it was my turn, it seemed. I’m not sure where I would’ve ended up if he hadn’t been there at the time to provide me with a place to stay, to force me to eat when the days were passing and I could barely take more than a bite or two.

It was Max who suggested I look into getting a job that might lead to something else, a job that could turn into a career, to give me some sort of focus outside of my grief. I think I surprised us both when I said I wanted that job to be at a law firm, and that I knew exactly which law firm I wanted to work at. I let Max assume I wanted to be a lawyer. I couldn’t tell him the real reason I wanted to work at Mendel, Goldstein and Hofstadter.

******

If Vaughn were alive today, he’d be proud of me for sure. Sometimes, I look around at my apartment, my own apartment, decorated with furnishings I chose and paid for myself, a closet full of professional clothes, a fridge stocked with food, and I wonder how it is I made it this far. By all accounts, I have made it. I’m successful. All those people who told me that time would make it easier and that I’d be able to get on with my life would say that’s indeed exactly what happened. I’m a responsible adult, handling her shit. I should probably be thinking about finding a boyfriend, getting married, maybe having a kid or two.

Thing is, that would require me losing focus. I can’t attribute my standard of living to a drive to succeed, or even a desire to show Vaughn that I really can take care of myself. There’s only been one thing driving me this whole time, and that is my need to see the Callahan Corporation completely destroyed.

It might seem like letting a seriously intense revenge plan overtake your every waking moment would render you an awful person to be around, the negativity turning you into someone that others avoided at all costs, but that hasn’t been the case at all. If you didn’t know me, you’d think I was like any other girl in her mid-twenties, who hangs out with friends, goes out on dates, and has a favorite bar she hits up after work.

Four and a half years ago, I was hired as the legal secretary at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter. For a while, Arturo Mendel was one of my bosses, though he had no idea who I was. To him, I was just another eager-faced secretary who toyed with the idea of becoming a lawyer but decided the path was too rigorous, the demands too great.

“A career in law is certainly not everyone’s cup of tea,” Arturo told me one day, not long after I’d first started working there. He’d said this to be kind, to make me not feel bad about myself. I’d had to bite my tongue. I came so close to telling him I could give a shit about a career in law. That there was only one reason why I was there, and that reason was Aidan Callahan.

I don’t think Arturo knew I was the girl he called that day to offer to pay for the funeral. Perhaps my name sounded vaguely familiar when I first started working for him. More likely, he’d long forgotten about the poor girl and her dead brother the moment he’d signed off on Vaughn’s funeral costs.

Even if I wanted to tell Arturo who I really was now, long after the fact, I wouldn’t be able to. He died three years ago from pancreatic cancer. It was a bad way to go, and startling how quickly the disease ravaged his body. The doctors gave him six months; he died after three weeks, the poor bastard. I ended up quite liking him by the time he went.

I attended the funeral. I went in part because I did want to pay my respects to Arturo, but also because I knew that Aidan would be there. And in a church where well over five hundred people had gathered, Aidan Callahan stood and gave a eulogy. The whole time he was talking, I hid in the back of the church and thought about how I was going to bring him down.

My friend Julia thinks my hatred is misplaced. “He didn’t do it, Essie.” She’s said this more than once. “It doesn’t make sense that you bear all of this anger toward him. He wasn’t the one driving. And even if he had been, it was an accident.”

But how will she ever understand? She, who grew up with two parents, a roof over her head, never worrying about where her next meal was coming from, or who was going to protect her. The most traumatizing thing that’s ever happened to Julia was when she got passed over for a promotion. She thinks holding onto this is not good for my mental state of being, that I need to let it go, that I’m not honoring Vaughn.

“You need to forgive, Ess. That’s the only way you’re going to be able to move on.”

That’s what she doesn’t understand, though. What most people who know me, who know what happened to my brother, don’t understand. I don’t want to move on. Moving on suggests that you’ve accepted what is, and even though I know I can’t change the fact that Vaughn is no longer alive, I don’t have to accept it. I simply refuse.

Today, my inbox is piled with legal briefs that need preparing. At this point, I’m probably so familiar with most of the legal terminology that I wouldn’t be that bad a lawyer anyways. The whole legal system infuriates me, though. I know exactly how much the lawyers here charge each client, and while it might not be a big deal for a huge multi-billion dollar corporation like Callahan, for regular folks who need legal representation, their fee is completely out of the question. People mortgage their houses and go bankrupt just to be able to afford a lawyer. It’s maddening.

None of the lawyers here seem to mind how crippling their fees are, of course. Just like the funeral director who wouldn’t give me a break when Vaughn died.

 I work here in this office, hoping that one day Aidan Callahan will simply step out of the elevator and appear like a ghost. Since Arturo’s no longer able to handle the Callahan accounts, Aidan occasionally attends for meetings with Mr. Goldstein, though those meetings are few and far between. The Callahan Corporation pays a hefty fifty thousand dollar a month retainer at the firm; that means more often than not, Mr. Goldstein, much as it pains him, has to step out of his sanctuary and trek across the city to make personal visits.

Just because Aidan doesn’t come here as often as I’d like—seeing his perfect fucking face and his perfect fucking hair and his perfect fucking smile spurs me on—doesn’t mean I ever forget why I’m here.

No. I never forget. And it pays to be patient. When you work at a place as large as this, a place that deals with so many clients, both individuals and corporations, it’s easy for things to get lost in the chaos. Easy for a few file folders to slip into your stack that have nothing to do with the subpoena you’re meant to be drafting or the legal research you’ve been asked to conduct. Some people would’ve given up at this point. Would have decided there were better ways to get revenge, or maybe just given up on the revenge part altogether, but not me. All I needed was patience.

And after all these years, biding my time, waiting it out with the patience of a goddamn saint, today was the day. Today was the day when everything finally clicked into place. I’ve spent countless hours poring over documents, records and financial statements. I’ve taken stuff home with me, even though it would have been an automatic jail sentence if anyone had found it. Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter’s Callahan Corp files have been my nightly reading material for years. I’ve flipped through documents while I drink my coffee in the morning, and then I’ve taken them back to work and replaced them before anyone could notice. All of that’s over now, though. I’ve finally found what I’ve been after, what I knew would eventually show up. See, a corporation as big as Callahan’s is never perfect. They always trip up somewhere. There’s always something that someone is trying to hide. And I found it.

It’s not common practice for big corporations to keep their financial records on file with their lawyers. I wouldn’t have even bothered looking through them at all, but after I’d exhausted every other avenue open to me—there were no law suits, no litigations, no toxic waste dumping off the coast of Florida, no sexual harassment. Nothing—I’d run out of options. I learned how to read a profit and loss sheet very quickly. Everything was squeaky clean after Aidan took over the company. Everything added up. I was beginning to lose hope. But then I came across some of the P & L sheets from before Aidan took over the company. That’s when I hit pay dirt. The profits were consistently so much lower than when Aidan took over. It made no sense. So I dug, and I dug and I dug.

Turns out Alex Callahan was siphoning money from the company, stealing from the share holders. Highly illegal stuff. Not technically Aidan’s fault, but it will do. It’ll be enough to bring his world crashing down around his ears.

So.

Time to put the plan into action.

I sit down at my computer and begin to compose an email.