Page 9 of Takeover
How long would he pay the price for having trusted his former friends and cofounders—and in Rasheed’s case—former lover? He’d stayed, despite them selling the company out from under him. Oh, he still had some shares, but not nearly the portion he should have had as the third founder—hell, he wasn’t even considered that. Just employee number three, Susan and Rasheed’s first hire.
Bullshit. All of it. He should have left when Susan and Rasheed fled to California to play family, but he couldn’t let what he’d worked so hard for shrivel and die and leave his team behind with no continuity, no transition. So here he was, three years later.
Michael set the cuff link down in front of his monitor. He hadn’t been this angry since they’d left.Shit. The past was unchangeable. Focus on the now.
Wasn’t much better. Today, the crappy code Vince had released was decidedly less messy but still not working correctly. Worse, the board was bringing in a new CEO to “fix” things. Like that would happen. Taylor had worked outsowonderfully. This time, they hadn’t even asked for Michael’s opinion.
Probably because the new suit would take all their hard work and turn it into a lovely pile of cash for the board. Sell the company—that’s what the board members wanted—get a stable release, get some cash for the intellectual property, and get out. Never mind all the folks who’d lose their jobs and years of hard work for a pittance.
Damn, he sounded bitter. Michael scrubbed a hand over his face and put his glasses back on. Time to think about retiring. Or perhaps changing careers to something that didn’t keep him up until four in the morning or give him ulcers. Fly back to Curaçao and find Sam.
Except those people he hired—the ones who trusted him—they’d still be here. And those early designs still bore his name, even if he’d been sanitized out of the official history of Four Rivers.
Sam? Sam was long gone. A memory, like everything else.
Michael’s computer chimed at him.
New mail. Another meeting, this one a one-on-one with the new suit later in the afternoon.
Apparently, he was some super-amazing technical snot of a CEO who liked to get his hands dirty. He’d been scheduling meetings all morning with everyone. There was a meet-and-greet at eleven, then meetings, meetings, and more meetings.
“Yes, I’ll accept the meeting request from S. Randell Anderson,” he muttered at the screen, then clicked send.
He glanced at the time. Fifteen minutes until the meet-and-greet. He probably ought to head to the lunchroom now and get a seat in the back before they were all taken.
He hadn’t bothered to search for info about the suit because everyone else on his team had. Undergrad in engineering at MIT, an MBA from Yale. Anderson had bailed out a dozen failing companies and turned them either into thriving businesses or sweet fruit to be plucked and devoured by a larger company. He had a good track record. Some said he was honest and fair. Others that he was ruthless and driven.
Michael snorted at that. He’d never met anyone at the executive level who didn’t lie through their teeth, even the few he’d counted as friends. He suspectedruthless and drivenwere closer to the truth.
He pushed himself away from the computer and headed toward the back of the office.
The lunchroom walls and floor were dotted with primary colors like some kid’s crayon box, but it was the only space in the office large enough to hold all-hands meetings. People had already claimed most of the seats in the too-bright room. Some folks, mostly marketing, sat in close to the front. Several more employees were scattered at the lunch tables. Michael joined his team against the large windows in the back of the large, echo-prone room, but didn’t sit, though folding chairs had been set out from the rack that sat in the back. Instead, he leaned against the windowsill and waited, watching the door.
No sign of the new CEO or of William Vandershoot, the head of the board. They must be holed up somewhere. Maybe nursing jet lag.
Ganesh from development weaved his way through the tables to join Michael. “Hey, when this is done, can you help me with that bug you sent? I can’t seem to reproduce it on my environment.”
“Sure. We can run it through on my box. I know they were seeing it intermittently in the field, but I can reproduce it fairly easily.”
The sounds in the room changed, became more hushed. Mike looked at the door and stopped breathing.
He knew the man following William into the room. The dark hair, the lean face, those pale eyes.
Sam.Holy fuck.It was Sam.
Michael leaned against the windowsill, digging the sharp edge of the marble into his back. He needed something to keep him upright because his legs weren’t doing a good job.
S. Randell Anderson. Sam. The rat-sucking board had hiredhisSam as CEO. The fantasy-fling he’d relived dozens of times so he could forget this mess walked in behind William.
Sam’s gaze met his, and for a split second, the lunchroom vanished. Sam’s lips parted, as if to speak Michael’s name, but he turned and offered William a professional smile, as though Michael didn’t exist, as if they hadn’t fucked in Curaçao.
This was not good. Michael bit his tongue and forced his heart rate back to something reasonable. He wanted to run—escape the room, find his car keys, and get the hell out of downtown.
Sam could not be his boss, not after Michael had spent a night fucking and spanking the man. No way in hell.
But there Sam was, taking the microphone from William. He tapped the top and spoke. “Good afternoon.”
That silenced the rest of the lunchroom. Michael sucked in a breath. His heart still beat a mile a minute, and hearing Sam amplified didn’t help. That same voice had begged Michael to take him harder.
