IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(9)

Conor Newell owned a game store. As in, board games and puzzles.

What the hell was he doing representing an advanced biomedical printer to a group of experts? Were we being played? But that was impossible. We were Dr. Newell’s only option. The technology was worthless with the patents to the biomedical ink we already controlled.

When Deb buzzed a moment later to let me know the gamer dude had been waiting a full ten minutes, I stood and straightened my suit.

I never appreciated my peers referring to me as Glacial Grange, but today was one of the days I’d be hard-pressed to deny the truth of the moniker. This kid was going to feel my extreme displeasure at his mother’s decision to send in the second string on this one.





3





Conor





I stood in the men’s room stall with sticky ejaculate on my fingers wondering what in the fuck I’d just done. Had I really allowed some random stranger to sext me to completion on my way to one of the most important presentations of my life?

My hands shook as I wiped them off with toilet paper and readjusted my clothing. I had to admit I felt a little less harried than before. When I’d entered the imposing skyscraper lobby with its giant glass atrium and serious security counter, I’d been nervous as hell and jacked up on too much caffeine. My attorney friend, James, had just texted me to inform me he’d been held up with another client and would be late to the meeting. The news had left me terrified of having to hold my own against a room full of corporate execs and big-city attorneys.

At least now I felt…

Nope, still nervous as hell. But I couldn’t help noticing the tiny smile on my face as I washed my hands in the basin. Hell, I’d had more action in the past twelve hours than I’d had in the previous six months back home in Asheville.

After drying my hands on a couple of paper towels, I smoothed down my good-luck tie and buttoned my suit coat. I could do this. I would do this. My mom’s entire future was riding on how well I did in this meeting.

No pressure, jackass.

I cleared my throat and reached for the door handle. When I entered the corridor leading back to the elevators, I tried not to notice the high-powered corporate types rushing here and there around me. Everyone looked so professional and put together. I felt like a bumpkin by comparison. Sure, I’d owned my own business for several years, but I’d never had the kind of job where so much money was on the line. And it wasn’t just money. My mother’s health depended on what happened today.

If I couldn’t convince these executives to buy this biomedical printing technology at top dollar, all of my mother’s treatment plans might as well be written in disappearing ink.

As I left the vaulted atrium to enter one of the high-speed mirrored elevators, I cleared my throat for what seemed the millionth time. The air in this building was stuffy. I missed the fresh, clean air of the Wolf Branch trail behind my mother’s house. The sound of trickling water from the winter-slowed French Broad River wandering past the Blue Ridge Parkway not far away. If I closed my eyes, I could almost replace the ding of each floor whizzing by with the shirring sound of the dried leaves still clinging to some of the trees deep in the Nantahala Forest.

“Sir?”

I snapped my eyes open to see two women looking at me expectantly.

“Isn’t this the floor you wanted?”

“Yeah, yes. Sorry.” I flashed an apologetic smile before jumping through the closing doors just in time. When I looked up, three men in suits stood in an elegant lobby staring at me. Even the young female receptionist blinked at me from her spot behind a sleek, brushed metal… launchpad. Well, more likely it was a desk, but there were curves and monitors, buttons and switches. Her headset looked like something that would be on the newest iteration of Star Trek.

“May I help you?” she asked with the precise raise of a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“I’m uh…” I looked back over my shoulder at the executives as I passed them. “I’m, um, here to see…”

That Asshole. That’s what I’d been about to say because that’s how we always referred to him at home. Never by name. My mother refused to allow anyone to even speak it in her presence. He was always just That Asshole.

And of course now, when I needed to actually remember his name, I totally blanked.

Oh god.

The receptionist stared at me, waiting for me to speak. Which made my brain seize up even more.

“The… the head guy,” I stammered. “The big guy. Not tall, I mean… in charge. Well, maybe he’s also… never mind. I think his name is…” I felt my face heat and my pits begin to sweat. “His name… is…”

Slim Shady? No.

Asshole, Asshole, Asshole! my brain chanted.

My stomach dropped, and I felt my throat dry up.

I’d seen a photograph of the CEO and wondered if describing him would help.

“Tall, dark, and handsome?” I squeaked. “Little intimidating? Scowly, but in an ohmygod kind of way?”

Shut up. Shut up.

Before I had the chance to describe the tiny mole below the edge of the man’s lip, the barest hint of a laugh line appeared next to one of the receptionist’s eyes.

“Might it be Mr. Grange himself?”

Wellington Archibald Grange the Third. The scariest motherfucker to ever be considered a corporate raider.