Page 4 of Over the Edge

I turn as a tall brunette in a gray pantsuit and dagger sharp stilettos strides toward me. “It’s a wonder. You were in the hospital only what, five hours ago? And you still manage to come to work early. Wow. Really setting a high bar for all of us,” Calista Holt muses, maintaining a neutral mask. But based on the fact that I'm locked out and she’s one of a select few with the authority to block my entry to the building, I doubt her expression is concealing delight.

“Expected me to stay home?” I ask.

The guard stops typing next to me. Holt is one of those people authority rolls off of in waves. When she tells you not to bother, you don’t.

“No, that's why I’m here earlier than I’d like to be to haul you and your Armani suit to breakfast. We should hurry, we have a reservation.” She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she turns on a heel and heads back toward the bank of windows at the entrance. After I take a beat to register the massive pile of shit I’ve found myself in, I follow, closing the distance between us in time to catch the door.

Her driver is already holding a door open for the sleek Rolls Royce from the company she hires.

“You have to understand—” I start.

“Not a fucking word until I have another coffee,” Holt says, holding up a manicured finger. “Or you will never see your office again.”

I slam my mouth shut, knowing that given the chance, Holt will follow through on her threat.

It’s another twenty minutes before we arrive at the breakfast spot Holt selected. Fern. A sun drenched restaurant draped in so many vines you’d think it was an upscale Rainforest Cafe. The host seats us along the wall of windows then promises our serverwill be with us shortly. Unable to wait much longer, I flag down a passing server with a carafe of coffee to fill Holt’s cup.

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to get back to work today.” I jump right back into my defense from earlier. This breakfast is a waste of both of our time.

“You must have hit your head quite hard,” she says as she pours cream into her coffee. “Remind me, whose name is on the wall the moment you walk out of the elevators?”

“Walker’s.”

“Funny, so glad you think it’s the right time for jokes,” she says. “My name is on that wallfirst.A name that means something in the world of entertainment labor law. So, imagine what would happen if it came out that one of my employees had worked himself to the point of collapse? Not any employee, either. One of my most public-facing senior associates.”

In my late teens and early twenties, I was headlining international tours and writing platinum records. Now at thirty-three, I have a conventional career working as an entertainment lawyer and leveraging my old connections. But there are still eyes on me, reporters more than happy to make a paycheck from a whiff of gossip. I’m not just an employee who fainted on company time. Up until now, being a public figure has been an asset. But after last night, it's turned me into a liability.

“Okay, so I'll take a few days off.” I shrug, trying not to show my distaste for the idea. Time off just means time to fall behind. It means I’ll send myself back into a spiral with even more of the episodic migraines I’ve been apparently failing to manage.

“Two weeks minimum.”

“No,” I bark, immediately shutting down the idea. The longest I’ve ever been away from the office is a few days. Two weeks? Forget that.

“You fainted in my firm. Atmyfirm.” Iron strikes through her words. “If you had done so in the comfort of your own home,sure, you could avoid this. But that would imply you spend any time at home. You take two days of PTO every year around this time, and you have weeks you can use. So this is me approving your request for time off.”

“I don’t need it,” I bite out. Tension starts to build behind my eyes. I can’t have another migraine here. Not when I’m supposed to be proving I’m good to get back to work.

“You do, and your denial of it makes me think it’s been long overdue.”

“I take two weeks off and then I get to come back?” I ask.

“You take two weeks off, then I’ll determine if you seem like you’ll repeat the same mistake.Thenwe move on from there.” For the first time this morning, Holt smiles and it has everything to do with the platters being carried toward us. She raises her mug to her ruby-painted lips and says, “Now we’re going to enjoy a meal celebrating the start of a well-earned vacation.”

My best friend, Wes, is a dick, but that’s common knowledge. Buying the security footage from my little accident at the office and playing it on my eighty-inch TV when I walk into my living room, is just an unwelcome reminder.

“I’ve watched it ten times already. Gotta get my money’s worth,” he says as he kicks his cowboy boot clad feet up on my coffee table, sending a dusting of dirt onto the glass tabletop. He loves those damn boots. Grew up on a ranch in rural Tennessee and brought them with him to boarding school in Nashville, pissing off our teachers with the blatant breach of dress code.

In addition to the boots, he’s wearing a faded, cropped sweatshirt and jeans. His overgrown brown hair is tucked under a backward baseball cap.

“Do I want to know how much it cost you?” I glare at my TV where I’m met with the image of me at my desk tapping away at a keyboard.

“Less than it should have. I would have given the guy three grand but he settled for one. Your firm should invest in better security.”

“You could watch this at your own place.”

Wes shakes his head. “Too many paparazzi.”

“Bullshit. You have four places to pick from in Manhattan alone,” I say, knowing the reason Wes is here is because he’s bored. The guy is rarely ever satiated by what’s in front of him, and more often than not this becomes my problem.

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