Boss

  BOSS

  SCARLETT ROSS

  Copyright © 2019 by Scarlett Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Personal assistant work by Savannah Richey

  Content editing by Mary Kathryn Billings

  Copy editing by Serious Moonlight Editing

  Cover art by Jaye Cox

  Formatted by Serious Moonlight Editing

  For my grandmother Marjorie.

  You were a true boss lady, a great writer and I will always love you.

  The businessmen are drinking my blood

  Like the kids in art school said they would

  And I guess I'll just begin again.... you say can we still be friends?

  “READY TO START” BY ARCADE FIRE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  MY CAP and gown feel like lead. The jubilation I’m supposed to feel is fleeting at best as the special guest speaker drones on about dreams and hopes. I try not to snicker knowing a thousand eyes are on me. I begged Dad to let me get my diploma in the mail so that I could avoid this whole farce. Why did I need to celebrate this day? What is there to celebrate, really? Four years that are supposed to be the best of your life, a day to celebrate your achievements and I just want to crawl back into bed.

  “Unheard of, young lady! You will stand proud and firm. This is your day. You earned all your accolades. I wouldn’t dare have you miss this. You’re an Adams, and by God, you will stand tall and proud like an Adams. Own your success and make a new day for us. Harvard is an accomplishment in itself. You sacrificed where we failed. This is your dream. Let them see all our dreams didn’t cease to be when our business did.” He was smiling so proudly at me, but it was hard to appreciate it. Dad was looking a little frail these days. A few bouts of bad colds had left him slightly shriveled which was completely out of place for his stature.

  Drake Adams was a behemoth of a man. Slouching, he was six foot five. When I was little I remember crawling up into his lap, his long legs like a ladder while he read in the library. He, along with my mom, was a voracious reader for as long as I could remember. He always smelled like butterscotch candies and Old Spice despite the wealth that could afford more of a refined odor. He would stroke my hair as I sat in his lap. My father was not the "Cat's in the Cradle" dad Harry Chapin sang of and many of my friends had. Home by seven every night and always kissing my mom, he put down whatever he was working on to give me his full attention. He worked to live, not lived to work. He cheered from the sidelines for every pitiful attempt at gymnastics and tumbling. He and Mom took turns putting me to bed, and he read tales like The Odyssey that had me dreaming of far off adventures we would conquer together. Now, I look at him in his seat, and I can’t even recognize the man who refused to let anyone but him teach me how to ride a bike or tie my shoes. This was his dream—another Adams going to Harvard. I appeased him because I adore him but for no other reason. He was like me; after the fall, the labels became expensive wallpaper we couldn’t afford and really didn’t need anyway.

  His sad smile made me feel a million years old. I feigned bravery after expressing my agreement in a simple exchange of okay, you win Dad. However, as I wait to cross the stage, crippling anxiety plagues me. My chest constricts to one eighth of its size, and I see blurry spots. This is impossible. I can’t be that strong. No one would ever describe me as an attention whore. I like fading gently into the background. Even before our family’s fateful downfall, I was on the edges. Ever so slightly enough in the picture to be seen but usually on the fringes with half my body showing. Mom used to tease that they had faked having a child just to make the gossip columns.

  “My stunt baby, that must be what they think, you shy, little doll, “Mom would stroke my hair and tease me.

  But that was me as a child, shy and a little insecure. Yet insecurity had given way to courage but not on this occasion. I have purpose fortitude; this splash of show doesn’t matter to my cause. What a joke.

  “Ainslee Agatha Adams.”

  Fuck, why am I always first? The curse of having an A last name, I guess. I hid in the bathroom during introductions in first grade because I knew I would be the one to stand up first. What I wouldn’t give for a bathroom to duck into now. No, Ainslee. Breathe. Okay, another deep breath, count to ten. It’s showtime.

  Shoulders back, head up, I walk my five foot eight frame across the stage. This is no different than a beauty pageant in my mind. Smile at the audience, wave to the panel, and generally look like you’re a hopeful queen.

  “Ainslee, congratulations,” Dean Scott says as he hands me my diploma. Two hundred thousand dollars for the prestige and a beautifully engraved piece of parchment paper. I almost laugh, but that’s not what the curious eyes want to see. I smile graciously and accept my glorified promissory note.

  “Thank you, Dean Scott.”

  I clutch the folder and smell the richness of new leather. A smell I used to take for granted but now take into memory.

  I cross the stage and see Dad smiling broadly. I did this for you, Dad, I think. We are going to make this count and see our wrongs righted. He looks too frail to be barely in his sixties. This man ruled the world ten years ago. Now, he rules a small cigar shop outside Cambridge. Tears prick my eyes. Never again, Dad, never again.

  I glide gracefully down the steps of the massive stage. Twenty-two more steps and I am home free. Dad stands to take a picture, and immediately a blinding light, or should I say lights, flash. The stadium fills with a massive roar of taunts and questions. Blinking as best I can, my worst fear has materialized. Twenty paparazzi have come out of the back of the stadium and are making a beeline to my father.

  “Mr. Adams, do you have any comment for the hundreds of thousands who lost their homes due to your company?”

  “Mr. Adams, how did you manage to escape federal charges?”

  “Is it true you were estranged from Ainslee until recently?”

  Dad looks bewildered and tries to exit the row but falls over one of the chairs. A paparazzo thrusts a camera in his face as he attempts to get up. The throng of people around him stand, some trying to help and some taking their own pictures. Kicking off my heels, I run towards him only to be stopped by a security officer.

  “Let me go! Those assholes are attacking my father!”

  “Miss Adams, we are removing him now, and I suggest you come with us.”

  Standing on my tiptoes, I can see Dad being led out by two security officers. Behind him, several security officers escort the rest of the paparazzi as they make their way out. I follow closely, and I turn and see Dean Scott announcing over the microphone that commencement will begin again after a brief intermission.

  My chest immediately fills with precious air. I breathe deeply, and the tremors subside. Amazing how completely anxiety dissipates in a mere moment. I am back to my reserves of fortitu
de. Diploma in hand, I follow the officer. I can’t throw my cap off into the great wide open like the rest of my entitled peers will shortly anyway. No, sir, this was a loaner from my best friend Savannah’s older sister. Dad glances back at me, and I see a sheen of tears on his jowly cheeks. Fuck them for destroying this day for him. This was more about him than me, and they have robbed us of yet another joy. Instead, it’s another memory tainted with our past. I brush off the officer and sprint toward the courtyard on the side of the building. I can hear voices calling me back, but I run until my sides ache. Collapsing on the bench by the fountain, my feet sting from being barefoot, and my stockings are shredded. Another loss, I told Savannah not to loan my her Manolos and sincerely hope they were not one of her more favored pairs.

  My body continues to shake, but I can blame it on my lingering anxiety. Fresh air is my panacea. Everyone knows this, so I’m sure I’m more than excused. I used to escape to our backyard retreat and hide in the low-hanging Spanish moss limbs. My whole life was dreamed out under those comforting arms of nature. The day I saw them bulldozed, I let go of my dreams. I dream new dreams now, but none are quite so beautiful or inspiring.

  “Ainslee! My dear! How are you? Did those cretins hurt you?” Mrs. Oberson comes running forward, holding a pack of cigarettes. She usually sneaks around on the side of the building to indulge her forbidden habit, but today she seems too concerned about me to worry about being discovered. I love her. She’s a classic southern belle—the whole nine yards. Born and bred in Mobile, Alabama, she married at 18. At 23, she became a widow when her husband’s love of gin and gambling led to his demise—he was stabbed in the back of an old pool hall in Biloxi. She could have easily lived off of her fortune, staying on the veranda and watching the world slip by. But she’s a bit of a rebel, and she sold the plantation she lived on her whole life and traded her kitten heels for slip-proof ballet flats. By that point, she had managed the family funds for ten years for her absentee father and ostentatious mother. Business was in her blood. She decided to own it and make it a profession. After earning a business degree from Boston University, she went on to get her MBA from Harvard. She proudly proclaims to this day she was the first Confederate to take her plantation money to earn a living on Yankee soil.

  “Mrs. Orberson. I wanted to see you so much. I’m leaving tonight, but I wanted to thank you. You always believed in me. Your history really helped me establish where I wanted to go. Plus, you understand my anxiety. Thank you, thank you so much.”

  Tears fall out of my eyes unbidden as I recall her kindness when I panicked in class. She would send me to make fake photocopies, so I had a minute to breathe. I only had to glance her way, and she would suddenly be out of whatever copies she was going to hand out. She handed out so many syllabuses on my behalf that I heard the head of the department had been concerned she might be beginning to suffer from early onset dementia. Goodness like hers is a virtue, and ninety-nine percent I’ve met are without virtue.

  “Ainslee, my love, you are welcome. I will miss you so much. You’re a diamond in the rough, my sweet. One of the few kids who go here who really appreciate it.”

  “We’re hardly kids anymore.” I laugh.

  “Nonsense. You are always children until you find your true calling. We have nowhere to go until we find our way. Until then, we’re blindly led by our parents. Their hopes, dreams, and wishes define us. But you, my girl, are strong enough to define who you are. And I think you’re damn strong enough to find anything you’re looking for.” She stubs out her Virginia Slim and envelops me in a hug.

  What I’m looking for is retribution.

  “So, Boston, I’m guessing? I could pull a few strings at BU if you wanted an adjunct position. Lord knows you know more about business than those phonies I’ve seen with master’s degrees. I’m all for a master’s, but I know when you bought it and when you earned it. Your leadership on our Future Leaders of Enterprise fundraiser this year was stellar. Imagine Marvin Barry wanting to do a silent auction and sit-down dinner? How passé and bland! We lost our asses last time when he decided to invite the new girlfriend and twenty of her dearest friends—not one barely over twenty-one. They had the open bar on lock-down and practically booed the chef when he came out because he didn’t offer a vegan selection. Your idea for an amateur cooking cruise with Gordon Ramsay? Brilliant! It was ten thousand a head, and we sold out in two hours. Eva Faulkner was bidding on eBay against Angela Marstens! That harlot can’t cook grilled cheese, but she loves him. Not that I can blame her; what a hot Scot he is!” She waggles her eyebrows.

  “He’s actually British and an old friend of the family—one of the few that are left. And thank you, but no. I have an employment opportunity. I’m heading to New York.”

  Mrs. Orberson seems taken aback, understandable considering my background.

  “Why ever New York, my dear?”

  I smile mysteriously. Why ever, indeed?

  “A little unfinished business.”

  She smiles sadly and gives my shoulder a comforting squeeze. She knows what’s about to happen; we may not have discussed it in detail, but she’s been around enough to see how I’ve plotted. She and Savannah have been my touchstones this entire time. Yes, I have made friends and acquaintances along the way, but playing everything close to my chest has just been my style. No stranger to scorn and sneers, I learned early on that it’s best just to toe the line. Giving away too much would lead me to be noticed, and I preferred to escape quietly. My biggest regret is that I'm leaving here virtually a ghost. But time will show I had an ulterior motive for saying no to invitations, other than my anxiety. I outgrew—learned to cope is more accurate—the anxiety by having a mark to focus on. Too much time on my hands to think was never a good thing. I would feel the past seeping in, and then my chest grew heavy. But my touchstones were always there, whether to help by taking me out for pizza or having me make endless copies.

  “You know, my dear, I thought you might. Forgive an old lady for giving you one last piece of advice. I know as a strict Catholic what I am about to tell you may get me sent to purgatory. Alas, I haven’t seen the inside of a confessional since the Reagan administration, so I will gladly take my chances. We are told the meek will inherit the Earth. Ainslee, in my sixty some odd years, I can tell you undoubtedly this is not the case. The meek will always be meek. They are who they are, and God bless them. But to truly show them the guile you want, it takes guts. The ability to look back and say I did what I needed to for myself and my destiny. The meek don’t inherit the Earth, my dear. The audacious do. They know the difference between silence and calculated anarchy. Don’t be afraid to be who you need to be in the moment. You deserve your success, at whatever the cost.”

  Tears begin to form, and for the first time in a long time, I give in. I’m terrified. I want nothing more than to accept the adjunct position and live another four or more years in blissful solitude. But I just can’t be who they expect me to be. It’s time to show guts and guile. It’s the time to take back what was ours. There is no going back in my heart or my soul. I’m ready to start.

  Mrs. Oberson touches my cheek and winks. “Go get ‘em sugar.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEW YORK,the city of my birth. The place I left to escape my past. The center of everything I hope to accomplish and fear I will fuck up. I step off the bus—thank you, Greyhound—and I’m bummed. I need to have an orgasm of all my senses; this is NYC. Hot dogs from Grey’s, pizza from Little Italy, cabs that terrify and defy death with their moves. People rushing toward their futures, everyone hoping they make it, not everyone succeeding. A dreamer’s paradise. I visited Los Angeles many times in my youth. I hated the innuendo the city gave me. I didn’t see a movie star, the Hollywood sign was unimpressive, and I honestly think tacos are better on the East Coast. Dad once told me you knew from birth if you were East Coast or West Coast. I imagined a big war amongst the coasts, and I wasn’t far off. Real estate was cutthroat on both sides.
I loved the bustle in New York City and hated the lackluster mood in Los Angeles. Everything is so graphic in Los Angeles. I admit I subscribe to an air of mystery. But I feel like they put it all out there, hanging it on a clothesline with business in the tabloids before you know your stance.

  I mulled this over as my cab speeds away. I’m not going to lie. I’m terrified. The city is crazy, my thoughts are all over the place, and this driver seems like he has a vendetta against NASCAR drivers that may have bested him.

  “Sir, do you know exactly where I need to go?”

  I hear a grunt and hope for the best. Did I not tell you my family refuses car services? Maxwell, our former private chauffeur, was a constant in my life. I remember seeing the limousine, sleek and comforting, every day when I would descend the steps of home or school. Maxwell would occasionally attempt to keep me in a real-world scenario for children by taking me through the McDonald’s drive-through to let me savor a secret treat like a Happy Meal. We stopped our ritual after Dad found out and barred me from eating fast food. I splurged on a Big Mac last night; now, it doesn’t matter what I put in my body if it helps stretch pennies.

  I glance idly out the window and see memories everywhere. We pass through the Holland Tunnel, and I heard my mom.

  “Look, Ainslee! We’re like Alice going through the rabbit hole. When we pass through this tunnel, we’ll arrive in the magic wonder of Wonderland.”