Page 1 of Van Cort
CHAPTER ONE
EVERETT
“Goodbye, Serena.”
Pocketing my phone to end that discussion, I slide into the car and nod at Andre to get us out of here. He pulls into heavy Seattle traffic and I stare out the window. At least I’ll have fifteen minutes of peace while I’m in here, rather than the usual torment of constant, draining needs. Serena was another vein of that. When was she seeing me again? She wasn’t. Isn’t. It was one night. Dinner, a few drinks, and a lay. Not a good one either.
She must have tracked my number down from a colleague because I certainly didn’t give it to her. I take what I need when I need satisfying. Some part of the urge gets taken away after that, and then I move on until the need arises again at some point. It does seem to be arising too often lately.
The car screeches to a halt, breaking my thoughts.
My feet brace the floor, arm against the door to stop me shunting forward.
“Sorry, Sir. Delivery guy.”
I scowl and settle back into the seat, scanning the motorcycle as it weaves past us. If I wasn’t who I am now, I’d open the goddamn door and knock the guy off the fucking thing. I am, though, and this company needs running with the precision of a blade, not the immaturity of a college senior fuelling his desires.
The rest of the ride across town goes by too quickly, and before I’m ready to acknowledge another round of board meetings and obligations, I’m walking for the elevator and straightening my tie.
A raft of employees and colleagues from several companies I own meet me in the lobby, all of them trying to hand me documents to sign. One finalises the deal to secure air rights over Missoula - too much money, but it will make me, and the other board members, more. Another starts the process of a new power grid on land out in Whistler. The energy sector is new to us - another company I've bought - but it's worth every damned dime I'm spending. And the only other one I’ll take notice of this early in the day is the full block I’m personally buying on Madison Park. I sign them all.
Flicking my hand at the rest of them, I keep walking, only allowing Devon Elliot, my PA, to keep moving with me. She talks the entire way up to the twenty-fifth floor, informing me of more things I need to sign and more meetings I need to attend to keep varying board members happy. I couldn’t give a fuck about anyof them, but I do give a damn about my own name, even if it doesn’t sit loudly and proudly on everything it’s part of.
The elevator opens, and I’m finally greeted with silence. Nine calls already this morning and it’s not even eight-thirty. Something needs to change.
Devon knows her place well enough and moves away from me at that point, straight to her desk just outside of my office. She’ll give me half an hour now before she comes in with my coffee and breakfast, and then we’ll set to discussing my day in more detail. But, for now, I get to check the stocks and shares to see if anything else has cropped up overnight that I need to deal with first. Nothing has.
An hour’s worth of time spent with Devon and then three lawyers on a video call, and I walk out of my office to head over to the other side of town again. More meetings. More responsibility. More order to create. I’m smiling by lunch time, though. More mergers are secured. And more property has been bought and sold.
At two-thirty, Andre pulls up by the small bagel store I always use, and I jump out to grab something to eat and a coffee. The new server asks me how I am and what my name is for the cup. I scowl at both questions, wondering why I’m being asked anything at all considering my regularity here.
“He’s fine,” the store’s owner says quickly, cutting across her. “And put Van Cort down.”
A woman beside me turns sideways to look up at me, trying her best to flirt. Won’t work. The only blondes I like are ones who were born that way. This peroxide tramp is far from fragrant enough for contemplation, let alone physicality.
“Here ya go, Mr Van Cort.” Ya? What the fuck is ya?
An irritated breath blows out of me as I grab my coffee and bagel from her and head back to the car. There are many things I despise in life, and the inability to speak correctly, irregularchaos to my day, and lacking manners are at the top of the damn tree. That new little server just pissed on two of the rules I use to stay sane. I should have her sacked.
“Where to, Sir?” Andre asks as I get in and close the door.
“Home.” At least the home I have here.
My actual home, the one inherited along with the company structure I now run, is twenty miles out from Vancouver. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. It reeks of Father still, and life before now. The heads of dead animals look down on anyone who enters. Trophy hunts, he called them. I’m surprised he didn’t ask me to hang his dried-out carcass up there with them, a rifle in his hands and a smile on his dead face. Even in his last months, he still talked of bear pelts and antlers rather than discussing the actuality of this company. The doctors said it was the meds and morphine that made him seem psychotic. I’m not so sure it wasn’t family genes, considering my proclivity for keeping my mind ordered, and his proclivity for violence. Maybe one caused the other, though, so there’s that deliberation to consider occasionally.
“Sir?” I look up to find we’ve arrived. “Do you need me before four? I’ll go get the car cleaned if not.”
“No. Four is fine.”
I get out, grumbling to myself about another engagement I need to get to. I don’t want to be there in the slightest, but along with this wealth and accountability comes social schedules that demand my time. Who knows, maybe I’ll make some profit out of it. Or find something to fuck.
The penthouse elevator opens straight into the lobby. I take a minute to appreciate the clean lines, the silence, and the dark, modern fixtures I renovated into this place after he died, but with only an hour before four, I dump my wallet and head straight for the shower. Barely any spare time passes in relativepeace before I’m fully suited in my Tuxedo and heading back out the door again. A wedding, how delightful.
Heavy, frustrated footsteps take me down to the foyer, where I wait for Andre to pull up. Long, slow breaths get levelled in and out of me, each one pulling in some calm meditation to counter the constant aggravated energy that still lives inside me. It works. I’ve become good at controlling that vigour. I’ve learned to keep it in check and occasionally enjoy the serenity that can be found in normal adult behaviour. Things like smiling, and conversation, and pretending to care. Albeit, a fucking bow tie and full straight jacket at four pm is pushing my mood.
My hands find my pockets, and a final breath eases a wry smile onto my face. Cool outlook. Controlled conduct. Minimal emotional requirement. It’s all a game in reality. It’s all a fucking show.
CHAPTER TWO
