Ms. Gayle smiled. “Porter, you’re the sweetest. Do I have a limit?”
I’d raised a brow. “Ms. Gayle, I mean, be reasonable.” I was sweet, but I wasn’t that six-hundred-dollar shoes sweet. Then again, I had no idea how much women’s clothing cost.
Ms. Gayle walked out, chuckling, and waving the credit card in the air, declaring “Prada it is!”
Before I could object, she was already on her cell phone with someone to get the replacements for Ms. James. Fine as hell, Ms. James.
Ms. Gayle snapped her fingers. “Porter? Did you hear me? Don’t keep Riddle waiting.”
I blinked. The call. Shit. I had totally forgotten about the call to Madrid. “Damn. I told Ari, I mean Ms. James we’d meet again in thirty minutes. The call shouldn’t take too long.”
Ms. Gayle tossed me another mint for the road. “I’ll buzz Ms. James and let her know you’re running behind. Go do your thing, Porter.”
As I was heading into my office, Darius Greer blocked my path. The dude made me uncomfortable. One of those smug bastards who looked down on HBCU-educated folks and thought his membership in Skull and Bones was far superior to any Black frat, Greer stood sipping coffee from his Harvard mug. The scholarships to boarding school and going on ski trips with his friends where he was the only brown face had done a number on him. The irony was that he grew up in the tough neighborhood of Compton and tried his best to forget that life ever existed for him. I never understood why he wanted to work at a firm that was Black-owned and led. The only thing that came to mind was that he figured the path to partnership would be easier at Riddle and Robinson. I was standing in the way of that.
“Greer? What can I do for you this fine morning?” I said in my most sarcastic tone, preparing myself for some version of the same tired conversation.
“Harrison. Late isn’t on time,” quipped Greer. “Then again, CP time is kind of your thing.” His eyes looked me up and down. “And you look paler than usual, like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m just in a rush. It’s been a hell of a morning. I got held up on the train. My car is in the shop. And—”
“Oh, I forgot,” Greer interrupted. “You’re taking dirty transportation because your Porsche got repossessed or something.”
“Repo...what? My car did not get repossessed, Greer.”
“Whatever. By the way, I passed the new associate in the hallway. She was not what I expected.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Man... I wasn’t expecting her to be so...”
“So what?”
“You know...big. How big do you think she is? Like 225? 250?”
And there it was. Day 19563849 of Greer being an asshole.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You realize you’re violating like several HR and EEOC rules, right?”
Greer took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “Whatever. Her size doesn’t matter. She’s cute for a big girl I suppose. I mean, you won’t have to worry about me trying to bang her is all.”
I clapped my hands sarcastically. “Well, we can thank God for sparing her from two weak pumps from you.” Michelle Obama wants us to go high, but in a verbal sparring match with Greer, the only option is going to hell.
“So, are you going to have time to onboard the new associate? Or do you need me to do it, Trust Fund? I know you’re both... Hamptonites, Hampers, or whatever it’s called.”
Greer knew what alum were called. Asshole. “I’ll have time to show her around. After my Madrid call.” I didn’t bother to let Greer know I’d already met Ari. And busted in on her like a pervert.
“I heard she’s good as hell. Great designs. Maybe even better than yours. Thank God she’s here to save your ass. You’ve been missing the mark lately, buddy.”
We were far from buddies. “We’ll see. One thing’s for sure: I’m sure anything she or I come up with will be ten times better than anything you’ve done, Darius.” I turned, walked into my office, and slammed the door. Every day, Greer gave me a reason to put rat poison in his coffee. He wasn’t worth the energy or an attempted murder charge.
Darius Greer was hungry and just as determined as I was to make partner. We’d both started as interns at Riddle and Robinson, each of us being mentored by one of the founding partners. Initially, I’d really admired his drive and determination. He was young and scrappy, always feeling the need to claw his way to the top. He had a passion for design that I only occasionally could muster. He was as talented as he was conniving—stealing clients, plagiarizing designs, and resorting to lying had often been his M.O. That’s when I realized he’d probably sell out his own mother to get ahead, closing the book on any potential friendship we could have had. Despite growing up in different parts of the country, we had shared similar experiences. Private schools, ski trips, and being in spaces where sometimes you were the only Black face... I knew that reality all too well. Finally, another brother I could commiserate with. But I don’t think Greer ever saw it that way. Greer’s resentment had everything to do with my family name. I was a Harrison, a member of a political dynasty of powerful men going all the way back to Reconstruction. Greer claimed to anyone within earshot that the only reason I was here was because Riddle was a friend of my grandfather, not because I had any talent. For that reason, he’d given me the nickname Trust Fund and I hated every time he said it. Fifteen years of the same shit, and it still annoyed me like a pebble in my shoe.
I looked at the clock. I was super late. I quickly connected to the video conference in Madrid.
“Porter. You’re late,” admonished Mr. Riddle. He was my mentor and like a second father to me. Third, counting my stepfather. “And I see you skipped the razor this morning.”
I rubbed my chin. Ugh, I probably should have shaved before meeting Ari. “So sorry, Mr. Riddle. I was in a rush this morning. What are the Serranos saying? Do they have any idea what direction they’d like to go in?” I had been anxiously awaiting to hear all week from Riddle about the initial conceptual meeting with the client.
“Honestly, they aren’t quite sure. I’m hoping you and Ari can work together on some stellar ideas. I think this stadium project needs some warmth.”
I smirked. “I can do warmth.”
“I doubt that. Warmth isn’t your strong suit. Hence, hiring a woman. Another subject that you aren’t well-versed in.”
I scoffed. “Tsk. I know women!”
Mr. Riddle pulled his glasses off and looked at me directly. “Son, if you knew women, you would have one.”
I frowned. True, I didn’t know women. If I did, I wouldn’t be such a colossal fuck-up in relationships. I’d ended my last relationship six months ago. We simply filled a void in each other’s lives, taking up space where loneliness had been. It wasn’t healthy. It was a colossal waste of two years with a woman who I didn’t see a future with.