Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Zach was sensible when it came to his cars, his clothes, his women, and his career—but he was downright rabid when it came to his art. Since he’d loaned a quarter of his private collection to Sotheby’s two months ago, he’d taken the opportunity to fill the space with new findings.
The ice in question was my heart. A specific reference to my showdown with Madison thirteen days ago at Dallas’s makeshift party. I was happy to report that, aside from the charity gala she’d spent fleecing a famous Japanese master of his top-secret recipes, I’d passed my rare time at home completely ignoring her, holed up in my office, working nonstop to prove to Senior that I was indeed worthy of the CEO position.
“My heart is not surrounded by ice. It is surrounded by not giving a care in the world about anyone.” My voice reverberated over the walls with an echo. I waltzed through the immense space, stopping before a Gerhard Richter abstract painting.
“True.” Oliver sloped against an empty sliver of wall, tossing back a shot of something strong. “When I think about someone who doesn’t give a fuck, I think about an idiot who almost murdered his archenemy in front of dozens of people in his own fucking home, which is more wired than the goddamn Pentagon. All because the latter mingled with his wife.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Ollie here.” Zach raked a hand through his ink-black hair. “She’s turning you inside out.”
“She’s a mess in need of tidying up and straightening out,” I countered, moving along to the next piece of hung art.
“Can we at least agree you make a shit-ass cleaner?” Oliver pushed off the wall, advancing toward a genuine Picasso. He reached to touch it.
Zach materialized at the speed of light, slapping his hand away. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s not a petting zoo.”
Oliver yawned, perusing the place, probably searching for the nudity section. “I’ll never understand what you see in this.”
“In Picasso’s Les femmes d’Alger?” Zach glared at him as if he’d suggested to replace the piece with a portrait of his own feces.
Oliver strode to the vintage alcohol cart, selecting a decanter of whisky. He circled it in the air by its neck. “Are we all going to pretend not to see that this ‘work of art’ looks like something a bored Midwestern housewife painted at her local YMCA to express the heartbreak of her broken-down marriage to an insurance broker who left her for his secretary?”
Zach blinked. “That was incredibly detailed and astoundingly ignorant.”
I saluted Zach with my beer. “Don’t forget condescending and stereotypical.”
“Me? Condescending?” Oliver choked on his liquor. “I speak the truth of the average folk. This”—he pointed at Cy Twombly’s Untitled painting—“looks like the back of my calculus notebook from seventh grade. And this”—he turned to 17A by Jackson Pollock—“is clearly what happens when a low-quality Christmas sweater and a furball procreate.”
Zach crumpled his nose, ambling to the red panic button on one of his walls and pressing it. “Security, I have a man here I need you to escort off my property.”
Tilting an eyebrow up, I skimmed over the man in question. “I wouldn’t call Oliver a man.”
Oliver nodded. “A legend is more like it.”
Zach turned to me. “Does she know about Morgan yet?”
“Not exactly.”
Shortbread knew bits and pieces but not the parts that had carved the heartless beast out of me.
“What’s her game plan?” Oliver set his glass down on the palm of a Grecian goddess. The only statue he—quote, unquote—understood. “It’s obvious she has one.”
The three of us parted, all moving in different directions, orbiting around pieces of art that spoke to us.
I stalled in front of the Jeff Koons balloon dog. “She wants to get pregnant.”
Oliver chuckled. “Good luck with that.”
I did not confide in him that she was fast approaching her goal, prancing around our home in barely-there nightgowns and constantly trying to seduce me. “At any rate, Mrs. Costa isn’t my concern right now.” I finished my beer in one gulp, disposing of the bottle on the alcohol cart. “Licht Holdings went public today.”
“I saw.” Zach stroked his chin. “Their stock is predicted to skyrocket through the roof.”
Which meant it was time to step forward and start meddling with their company.
“I’ve gone through their audits.” I picked up my Burberry coat, sliding it on. “They’re not bulletproof. Their revenue hasn’t grown exponentially in the past couple years.”
“That’s because they were working on the technology side of things, not production.”
Oliver ran his tongue over his upper teeth, lips tugging up. “And because they still haven’t officially stolen your grandfathered agreement with the DOD.”
If it weren’t for the fact that I, myself, wished to see Costa Industries burned to the ground, I’d find my friend’s glee distasteful. Nevertheless, for me to inherit the CEO position, I needed to take care of this matter. No small feat, seeing as Senior had been quite successful in ruining his ancestors’ profitable organization.