Chapter Twenty

GRAYSON

There's no worse feeling than a cigarette filter burning the insides of your fingers. Well, second to losing the love of your life. Or third to almost being taken advantage of when said lover's still in the freezer. Fucking Jeffrey Horton. I flick the fiery hot remnant out the window, all the while shaking my fingers from the slight but searing pain. Yes, I probably look like some spaz right about now. It might be illegal to do that in Tennessee, much as it is at home. But I'll take my chances, since there's not a goddamn thing out here for days.

I've been prisoner to my own thoughts for the last five miles. Just thinking about what a piece of filthy rich trash Jeffrey is. Console me? That's borderline predatory behavior if I didn't know any better. It takes every ounce of energy I have to stifle a fleeting yawn from my yapper. Luckily, I was able to find a gas station on the verge of closing as I hit the outskirts of Nashville. Apart from my serious lack of caffeine, my adrenaline shot into overdrive will keep me alert for at least the next sixty miles. I reach over to the messenger bag to grab yet another smoke and my lighter. If I will be driving most of the night, I might as well do it comfortably.

My arms lean over the steering wheel as I hunch over, lighting the stick of natural stress relief. A plume of smoke wafts toward the windshield upon a large exhale. My left elbow returns to the base of the open window, before planting my head into the palm holding the cigarette. It's become clear now that my smoking habit has permanent plans. Oh fucking well. Twenty years was a good run. As I continue due West, my mind relives a prior memory marking my first smoke-free year.

It was seven in the evening, and I'd just arrived home from a long day at work. My overworked ass was already on a second Smirnoff Ice, planted firmly in the cushions of our sofa. Our TV clicker within grasp. The episode of Ghost Whisperer I'd TiVo-ed from the previous night was just returning from commercial break.

Julian rounded the corner of the kitchen, which led into our living room. "Get your charming ass dressed, Saccharo Ferre," he barked cheerfully.

I raised an eyebrow in the same motion as the upturned glass bottle. "And why is that?"

He grinned mischievously. "Because we have plans."

"Oh, is that so, huh?" I replied.

It was obvious Julian had torn a page from my own book of tricks and arranged a special night. But when my lover suggested I do something, I wasted no time hopping to it. I stood from the couch as I extended the television remote in front of my stomach to turn off the TV. My mind bidding adieu to David Conrad's beautiful mien in the process.

"Whatever you have planned Momo," I said, turning the bottom of my Smirnoff bottle above my nose. "You're gonna have to drive us."

He leaned in closer to plant a tender kiss on my lips. "I assumed as much, ya fuckin' lush," he joked, slapping my ass cheek as I turned in the direction of our bedroom.

At our open closet in the bedroom, I hollered out to Julian. "How fancy are we talking?" I asked. "Blazer—black tie and top hat?"

I could hear his footsteps clanging against the hardwood floor on the trail through the hallway. He stopped at the door frame and leaned inside with a raised eyebrow. "Anything that isn't those pajama bottoms or a bare chest," he replied.

A grin warmed over my face as I dangled a long, silky red tie from my neck. "This doesn't make my chest totally bare," I shot off with a wink.

Julian laughed as he shuffled to emend my snark. "Do I need to dress you like you're six-years-old, meus amor?"

My thoughts lusted about how fun a moment of role play would be. "Please do," I replied shamelessly.

Julian retrieved a mint green button-down shirt with a navy-blue tie, then a pair of grey slacks. He placed them on the top of our bed, firing a silly perturbed look. "You're gonna make me do it aren't you?"

I grinned widely. "It was your idea, Momo."

"Tsk tsk," he clicked his tongue. "As you wish."

Julian proceeded to remove my flannel pajama bottoms, after sending my arms through the shirt sleeves. Then his fingers nestled under the elastic of my underwear, when he steered his whiskey-stained gaze up in my direction—just as sweet as sin.

"Go ahead," I said.

"Nah," he replied, pulling against the elastic to let it slap against my waist like a rubber band. "We have eight-thirty reservations."

The hint of reservations piqued my curiosity to which restaurant he was taking me to. In fact, I couldn't imagine what special occasion we were about to celebrate, since we'd already commemorated his latest New York Times best-seller accomplishment the week prior. Julian tended to the buttons on my shirt, starting below the collar. After stepping into each hole of the pants, I felt his finger slide the zipper up my crotch. My thoughts insisted that the night had better end with my dick in his mouth.

A half-hour later, we found ourselves opposite each other at a square table on the rooftop of Beekman Tower. Strings of lights dangled from one column to the other, much like garland during the holidays. And the perfect volume of music boasted Andrea Bocelli's tenor vocal range. His alluring melody drowned my ears, while my focus danced between Julian's suave brown hairs rustling around in the gentle wind and the majestic views of East River.

"Happy one year of not smoking," he said, hoisting a spoonful of panna cotta in front of my lips.

My tongue granted the dessert access to my tastebuds. Its silky smoothness satiated the yearn for relief in my mouth from an overly salted entrée of lasagna. The fact that he remembered such an accomplishment, when even I'd lost track, meant the absolute world to me. I thought in that tender moment, how very lucky I was to have bumped into his much younger incarnation at the end of a bookshelf at Felton High School.

The whirr of an oncoming semi-truck buzzes past my car heading Southwest, causing my body to jostle in the seat. It's for the best that I pay attention to the road, since this terrain is getting quite rocky. Despite it being a quiet and peaceful improvement over the pandemonium from Jeffrey's place, music will help me stay focused as I forge ahead.

"Hey Siri, play Spotify," I shout.

After a few seconds of even more silence, I realize that Siri is still not properly set up on my new phone. I form a grimace while unclasping my device from its dash clip. It's asking me to grant special permissions for Siri to access my Spotify data. Since I already have the device in my hand, I just thumb over to the app myself, pressing play on whatever song played last. No matter how familiar I am with a song, I've never been the kind of person to enjoy a song from halfway through. So, I press the left arrows, replaying "New York" by Snow Patrol from the start.

Just before returning my phone to its spot on the dash, I'm reminded of two unread texts from earlier. I briefly study the road ahead to ensure it's safe to read a quick text or two, before opening them. They're both from Phoebe.

Whatever you do, don't check your work email until you get back home.

Also, the Starbucks account is empty, and the company AMEX card keeps declining. I see you've stopped into a few on your trip. So if you need something between now and Tuesday morning, just use the star balance. We only have 731 of them!

My sight returns to the interstate as I find myself wondering why on Earth the Spellman & Associates card would be declining. It's American Express. There isn't any logical explanation, and I'm sure Sue in accounting pays it in full each month. But now I'm curious why Pheebs told me not to check any emails until I'm back home. Much like anyone else in the natural born world, when someone tells me not to do something, it's precisely the first thing I feel compelled to do. Muscle memory tells my thumb to tap on the Mail icon, though I remember this is a new device. And I don't have the technical info to set it up myself.

There's another way to read them but doing so would take too much focus away from driving. A growl in my stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten a damn thing since Salem, Virginia. But at this time of night, I doubt there's even a fast-food chain within a couple hundred miles that's open. I return my phone to the dash before reaching over for another cigarette. It lights quickly so my right hand can return to the steering wheel. It seems tobacco will be the closest thing to food that I'll get tonight.

Another mile down the road, my headlights bounce against a green sign announcing upcoming towns and their distance. Dickson, Tennessee, is just ahead in another eleven miles. Perhaps there will be an all-night gas station where I can grab a snack. Although they've since dried, my feet are itching like crazy after slipping them into shoes without socks. Snacks and socks. The mental list in my head starts as I think of everything I need to do on my next stop. And find a toilet. I seriously must get my prostate checked.

M y night hasn't been completely devoid of luck. In fact, I'm at a truck stop on the throne, in one of the cleanest bathrooms since Greencastle, Pennsylvania. And I've just finished sliding a fresh pair of socks over my tootsies. Now with the phone square in the palm of my hand, I thumb across the screen to the web browser. I search Google for Corpmail Web Client to find that the first result is precisely the page I need. Once it loads, I enter my user id—essentially just my first initial and last name followed by the @ symbol and the company's web domain.

Though I can focus on retrieving email this way, the lackadaisical cell service has me squatted here scratching my head while it loads too damn slowly. Finally, the inbox refreshes after a couple of minutes. This is where I'm reminded of what it's like to abandon work emails for longer than a day. There's a whole list of messages in reply to one single email, appearing to have been sent from Roger Spellman. That's Roger Spellman—as in my direct boss who founded the company in 1985. This strikes me as peculiar since he never sends out his own correspondence. It's always from his assistant, Amanda. Before I entertain the replies from my fellow partners, I figure I should read the original message itself. My hunger pains evolve into tiny stabs of dread the moment my thumb taps over the button to open it.

FROM: R. Spellman

SENT: Sunday, June 19, 2022 11:17 AM

TO: Company-All Recipients

To my esteemed staff and partners:

In light of the recent news on ABC7 NY, it is with my deepest regret that I send this to all of you. As a result of our pending Chapter 7 bankruptcy, Spellman & Associates will be ceasing operations effective sometime in January. With immediate reductions in our workforce beginning immediately. After meeting with the board, our company is unable to recover from the damage that's been inflicted upon it. I'm well into my seventies, as you know, so I won't be doing this again. But if there's one piece of advice that I should impart on all you younger folk, I'd urge you to be careful with the people you entrust with proprietary positions.

At your earliest convenience on Monday, please see Angela Moore in our Legal Department to sign a non-disclosure agreement as it is my hope that each of you can refrain from speaking to the press, or anyone. I appreciate your discretion in this matter. Forward all inquiries from news outlets to Stephanie in Public Relations. Please see your immediate supervisors to request a glowing letter of recommendation as none of you are at fault for this decision. If anyone's to blame, I'll shoulder it all by myself.

Respectfully,

Roger A. Spellman

President & C.E.O.

I have no fucking clue how to process this. As fast as the gears in my brain are turning, nothing comes to the surface. But my heart feels the major blow to my chest. I've just lost my one true love. And God damn it, soon I'll be losing my job. This is a place I've dutifully been employed for the past twenty-one years, when I started out as a BIM Manager in 2001.

My thigh muscles spasm down my legs once I try to stand. I'd been sitting on the toilet for the last ten minutes, so it's no surprise as to why I'm sore. Outside the stalls is a long counter full of sinks, complete with the sensor technology which that wretched truck stop in Carlisle could have benefited from. I nestle the phone in my pocket while washing and drying my hands, before striding out to the store.

The reality of being jobless hits me as I wander these aisles, trying to remember what the ever-loving fuck I'm searching for. I'm finally reminded that I was hungry. That definitively being past tense now. Especially now that my nerves feel like they did on Tuesday night, when the doctor came out to tell me what I'd already known. Oh, for fuck's sake! I should have listened to Phoebe. I don't need this extra worry right now. If ever.

Back out in my car, I'm sitting here behind the steering wheel paralyzed with grief. I can't imagine what Roger meant by being careful who to trust . But I recall he mentioned there was a news segment on ABC7. I waste no time unlocking my phone to pull up their news website in my browser. Once it loads, I type the company name in the search bar to see if it populates anything. One solitary search result displays under a barrage of incredibly annoying internet ads. Though, it's a video.

If I barely had enough signal to load my work emails, I struggle to imagine a video will stream seamlessly. But I tap on it anyway because my curiosity isn't easing up. After a minute of buffering, it plays while I turn the volume as loud as it will go.

"A man has been arrested in Midtown East today on allegations of embezzlement and other illegal activities. Forty-eight-year-old, Kraig Winslow of Queens, was booked into the Manhattan Detention Complex for theft of company funds from Spellman & Associates on East 49th…"

I tenaciously yell at my phone, which has frozen and began re-buffering. "Oh—come on!"

After waiting for a minute longer, the webpage seems to have stopped responding. Now I'm not going to fucking know what happened. And there's no way I'm calling Phoebe, since it's almost two in the morning back home. But knowing all this is Kraig's fault seems to boil my blood—thick like jam. How he could steal so much from the company to result in its bankruptcy—let alone at all—is ludicrous. All my sentiments of the dipshit must have been my gut warning me of his true nature this whole time. And right now, I'm feeling pretty goddamn irate.

A quick glance into the rearview mirror summons the demons dwelling within my chest to speak through my enervated pupils. With these thoughts of pure disdain and anger, comes a deep thirst for something strong to take the edge of this bitch. I climb back out of my Black Beauty, my feet meeting the concrete. There's no time to waste heading inside to purchase whatever the hell they have which is at least eighty proof.

Back inside, a clerk standing behind the counter nods in my direction as I approach the counter. My head creeps over my right shoulder to study the booze selection behind him.

"If you're looking for liquor, I can't sell it to you," Chris advises me.

My right eyebrow raises just enough that the pain from my gash forces me to grimace. "And why the hell not?" I ask just as rudely as I know it sounds. "I'm obviously old enough, thank you very much."

He shakes his head. "It's not your age," he replies. "It's the law," he adds, pointing to his watch. "If it was tomorrow morning after eight, I could."

Fuck me! Fucking Tennessee. Annoyed and incredibly inconvenienced, I turn around to storm outside. As soon as the back of my wrist touches the germy push-bar, I hear Chris shouting out to me.

"But a bar can still serve you!"

That certainly catches my attention. I twist my head back around, at the enticing thought of a large gulp of scotch sliding down my pipes.

"And where's a bar around here?" I ask, now feeling foolish that I treated him poorly before realizing he's just rescued my night.

Chris points at the window. "Take this road here North a ways, then turn right for another bit and it's on the left," he instructs me. "If you see the Burger King, then you've gone too far."

I processed maybe one coherent thing from his instructions. "Okay thanks," I reply.

No sooner do I plant my ass back in the driver's seat, when I light another cigarette. I take a hot minute to search Apple Maps for the closest bar from my pin's location. According to GPS, it seems Chris was right. I take another long drag from my smoke, flicking the ashes out the window. Within another minute, I'm already cruising down State Road 46 on a quest for a satisfying taste of Glenlivet.