Her eyes move over me, that smile wavering, but she manages to keep it in place, which is commendable. “How can I help you, Mr.…” She lets the question hang.
“I’m late for a meeting.”
She blinks a few times. She has to be wearing fake lashes. No one’s eyelashes are that thick or long if they’re not fake. “And who do you have a meeting with, Mr.…” Again she waits for me to introduce myself.
“I have no idea. I assume it’s with whatever pompous douches sit around a conference table and circle jerk each other.”
Her right eye twitches, and she blinks about fifty times in a row.
This is fun, a lot more fun than the meeting I’m going to have to sit through. Hopefully they’ve started without me. I’m late enough that there’s a possibility it’ll be over by the time I arrive and all I’ll have to do is sign a few papers. Then maybe I can book a flight out of this concrete hellhole.
Her right hand moves slowly across the desk. I bet she thinks I’m some whack job who managed to get by security.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I nod to her hand creeping toward the phone like a five-legged spider.
She raises it in the air. “Please don’t hurt me. You can have whatever money I have in my purse.”
I bark out a laugh that makes me sound unhinged, although this building will do that to a person. “I’m Lincoln Moorehead, son of the guy who used to run this nightmare. If you’d be so kind as to point me in the direction of my shit stick of a brother and his team of lemmings, that’d be great.”
“Oh my God. Mr. Moorehead. I didn’t know you were on your way up. Security usually calls.” The phone on her desk rings.
“That might be security now. Go ahead and answer it. I can wait.”
I lean on the desk while she picks up the phone with her perfectly manicured nails, hand shaking. I almost feel bad, but then she’s one of my father’s drones, so I get over it pretty quickly.
“Moorehead Media, Lulu speaking, how may I help you?” She’s silent for a moment. “Yes. He has arrived. Thank you, Bob.” She hangs up the phone and gives me a wide-eyed, terrified smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Moorehead.”
I wave her off. “It’s fine. The longer this takes, the less time I’ll have to spend in my brother’s presence, which means I might be able to refrain from punching him out. Again.”
She seems like she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. I’m not.
Eventually she stands and comes out from behind the safety of her desk. “I’ll show you to the conference room, then.”
“If you must.” I study the art on the wall behind her desk. It’s a picture of a tree without any leaves. Kind of depressing, like this office. She walks briskly down the hall, and I fall into step beside her, rather than follow along behind. We pass glass-walled offices with pristine desks on our way to the conference room. I wonder if working here feels a lot like an upscale version of prison.
I spot my brother’s blond hair and tailored suit. He’s pacing while a woman stands with her arms crossed over her chest about ten feet away from him, gesturing stiffly.
The clip of Lulu’s heels on the hardwood draws their attention. My brother spins around, throwing his hands in the air and shouts, “It’s about time! Where the hell have you been?”
“Sleeping off a hangover and avoiding you.”
“Must be nice to have no responsibilities and no one to answer to. There’s a room full of people waiting in there for your sorry ass to show up.” Armstrong flails dramatically and wrinkles his nose. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes. Need me to go home and change into something that costs more than most people’s monthly rent so I can fit in better?”
I glance at the woman beside him. Her left cheek tics the tiniest bit, but otherwise her expression remains placid.
Armstrong ignores the comment and runs a hand down his tie, his attention shifting to Lulu. His eyes rake over her. “Lulu, you lo—”
The woman behind him clears her throat, and Armstrong jumps, almost as if he’s been tasered.
I give Lulu what I hope is a polite, non-leery smile. “Thank you for your assistance, Lulu.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Moorehead.” She nods at me and then at Armstrong, repeating herself. “Mr. Moorehead.” She does an about-face and strides down the hall like her shoes are on fire.
Armstrong watches her as if she’s a steak he’d like to stab with a fork. Or his needle dick.
“You’re a creepy bastard, you know that, right?” I tell him.
He frowns. I’m fairly certain he’s been getting Botox injections based on the lack of movement in his forehead. Must be one of his mother-son bonding experiences. “You look like you’re homeless.”