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I mean, I’ve traveled for work plenty, but usually business class. However, after I established that Chase Moore was not a phone sex operator with the wrong number and truly was the acting head of the largest family-owned department store in Manhattan, I got with the program.
We talked for quite a bit. I mentioned the work King Marketing did in New York over the years, though all of it was conducted remotely on my end. I named my New York-based strategists he’d want to meet with, and he agreed, as long as I was there too.
I never actually said I was hesitant to fly out to New York, but he must have sensed something in my tone, so he pressed.
“I know what you did for Cavendish’s. Six years ago, they were a mom-and-pop business with only a few locations across Texas. That’s it,” he said. “Then you came in, reinvented their website and developed a whole social media marketing plan, and in two years they opened six more stores across three states. And they’re still going strong. That was you, not your staff. I want you.”
And really, when a billionaire with the voice of a sex god offers you the deal of a lifetime and a chance at redemption in the city that once chewed you up and spit you out—you go.
So that’s why, after taking the conveniently pre-arranged limo from the airport to my sumptuous hotel room overlooking Central Park, I spent an evening eating room service and sleeping off the plane’s champagne.
Now, having showered the travel grime off, I’m dressed and sitting in a cab ready to do some recon before the meeting with Chase Moore tomorrow. I know my end of the business is online, in the ether of the Internet, but just as I shopped for cowboy boots and belt buckles at Cavendish’s before taking on their account, I aim to do some hands-on research under the guise of shopping at Moore’s.
Moore’s. Just thinking the name has me salivating. The publicity, recognition, and prestige of taking on such a company.
And being able to charge hours for shopping is a great perk too.
“Get your head out of your ass, woman!” The cab driver leans on the horn, then gestures rudely toward another driver.
My smile stretches wide. Ahh… New York. There would be no little lady-ing or bless-my-hearting here. New Yorkers keep it real.
“Is that Elvis?”
I stop mid-hum. “Ah, yes, it is. Sorry. I tend to hum Elvis without realizing it. Habit I picked up from my mom, I guess.”
“No need to apologize. Better than most of the stuff I hear in this cab.” He makes a jerk-off sign to a fellow driver. “Besides, Elvis was the man. They didn’t call him the King for nothing.”
“Yes. My mother and I thought so.” As usual, a little pang of loss hits me, but anytime Elvis is mentioned, it’s always tempered with great memories. Mom and me dancing to “Blue Suede Shoes” in my bedroom. She and Dad swaying in the kitchen while “Love me Tender” played on the record player.
“Move it, jackass!”
After a few more minutes and a lot of colorful exclamations from the cab driver, I hop out in front of one of New York’s more impressive buildings. Moore’s.
I have to crane my neck back to take it all in. It isn’t a skyscraper, but to me, it’s more imposing. Moore’s takes up an entire block. Nearly one million square feet, set in the ridiculously expensive real estate of Manhattan. Just the property value alone humbles all but the one percent.
Though huge, it’s really the Beaux Arts architecture that sets Moore’s apart from most buildings in New York. Built in the Gilded Age of America, when iron barons ran rampant, Moore’s opulence is what defines it. Balustrades, columns, and pilasters all combine to foreshadow the equally lavish interior. I might know the time stamp of design due to research, but the rest comes from memory.
Once I pass through the gold-framed rotating door, I’ll find finely polished marble floors and a tuxedo-clad employee whose sole purpose is to welcome guests and guide them to their destination. Like a shopping butler.
Though it’s been nearly a decade, my memory proves correct as I push through the heavy door and tell the handsome elderly gentleman I’d like a cup of coffee before I begin my shopping. He gives me directions to the café on the main floor. Directions I’ve followed a hundred times before. It’s the same café I used to study in during my college years, where I’d sit and people-watch the rich patrons I was so sure would be my own clients one day.
Other students had piled into the campus coffee house or the closest Starbucks. Me? I’d made two subway changes and walked three blocks just to sit in Moore’s.
My sandals slap as I walk down the white and black marble hallway and hang a right into the Italian Renaissance-themed café. I take in the surroundings, noting that the hand-painted ceiling, white marble columns, and gold metal chairs with white leather seats arranged thoughtfully around marble-topped tables haven’t changed in the eight years since I’ve been here. But all the luxury around me pales when I see the most decadent element in the room.
Chase Moore’s fine ass.
3
CHASE
Today is going to shit.
To start, my brother tried to contact me. He left a message about wanting to discuss family stuff, but that’s bullshit. He didn’t even blink when he voted to sell the company. Now he probably heard through the rich and lazy’s gossip mill, aka my father, that I’d taken over. And being the control-freak jackass that he is, he probably wants to dictate my business decisions. Well, too bad. He can dictate my dick.
Get it? No? Yeah, me either. I must be too tired for funny this morning.
That’s why I’m standing in line at Moore’s first floor café, waiting on an extra dose of caffeine to jump-start me out of the knee-deep crap Stan made of our family business. The family business I may not get to be a part of if I don’t pull this off. I’m kicking myself for making the deal with the devil, again, aka my father. I knew better. After watching Thomas walk away, you’d think he’d at least be happy with his second son picking up the slack. But nooooo. He’d rather sell than trust me with our legacy.
