“My wife is in acute heart failure. I’m not exactly in the mood to joke.”
“Neither am I, Felix. Do you have any idea what’s at stake here, what will happen if we lose the Life Plan deal? What it will mean for the company and for us personally? The loss of revenue? I’m working my balls off here to hold up my end of the deal, and I need you to take the lead on the bond issue.”
“I’m doing that; I—”
“I need you in the office every second of every day. I need you on call seven days a week. I need you to be the hot shit specialist I once believed you to be.”
“I can deliver.” Felix clenched his jaw.
“And how exactly do you propose to do that if you’re leaving the office every day for school pickup?” Robert made the words school pickup sound like something that should be buried in the middle of a compost heap.
“I’ll work at home in the evenings. As many hours as it takes.” Thwack. Felix snapped the elastic band he was still wearing on his wrist at Katherine’s suggestion. The woman clearly understood a thing or two about stress. “But part of my day will now revolve around my son’s schedule.”
“Have you considered allowing your son to take the bus, Felix, like most sixteen-year-old boys?”
“He’s seventeen, and there is no bus. He goes to a small private school. I thought you knew this.”
“No offense, but I don’t keep up with the personal lives of employees.”
“I’m not an employee. I’m your partner.”
“Then act like one, man! What the hell’s happened to you? You used to be a friggin’ rock star, and now you’re talking about school pickup as if you were a whiny kindergarten parent. This is a crock of lazy, slack shit.”
Lazy. Slack. Felix pinged the elastic band so hard it snapped in two. And stung like hell.
“Hire a taxi service to drive your son to school.”
“He has after-school activities.”
“Then hire a fleet of taxis. God knows you earn enough money.”
“No one is driving my son except me.”
“Man up, Felix. Your son is sixteen—”
“Seventeen.”
“My eldest had his first DUI at that age. When family shit happens, people like us hire domestic help, caregivers, whatever the fuck you call them. I am not losing this deal, do you hear me?”
To think he’d lost his temper with Ella a few weeks ago after she’d called his partner a philandering scumbag. Robert Sharpe was a man who didn’t see obstacles, who saw only the prize, who had moved his mistress to an apartment five miles from his wife and kids to cut down on commute time, never once questioning whether the women would cross paths.
“I am not handing over the care of my wife, my son, and my house to strangers.”
“Your son, Felix, is sixteen—”
“Seventeen.” Felix spat the word out. “My son is seventeen.”
“And he doesn’t drive.”
“No. And nor does he drink. He’s a straight-A student without a police record.” Unlike your delinquent.
“When I took you on board, I made it clear that family came second. That’s why our wives are full-time wives.” Robert’s southern drawl grated on Felix more than usual.
“My wife”—Felix bristled—“was a talented jewelry designer who made a choice to stay home with our son because of his needs. Now I am making the same choice. My son is not your average seventeen-year-old. He has issues.”
“We all have issues. Hire a therapist.”
“He has several.”
“Good, then let them do their jobs.”
In the forest, a dog howled—an eerie yip and a yowl. Or was it a coyote? According to the local news, coyote sightings in Durham were increasingly common. The creature howled again, but this time on the move. Felix stood.
“This conversation is pointless. Need I remind you that if we were a bigger company, I would be quoting the family and medical leave act and taking twelve weeks of unpaid leave?” He would be chewing through his own siding if he had to leave his job for twelve weeks.