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  Chapter Two

  Marcus

  For as many hours as the interns—including myself—worked, you’d think that Clarymore & Toth, one of the most well-known financial firms in the world, could afford to spring for some damn walls. But no, they were all gung ho about the open-office concept, which quite frankly struck me as patently ludicrous. The last thing that increased my productivity was hearing seventeen other people yammering on about whatever the hell they were into on a Friday night.

  And yes, that made me the asshole, the Angry Black Man if you will, the cranky one who never wanted to be bothered, the one who didn’t smile enough, but I’d stopped caring years ago. If I occasionally missed the inside jokes that set people off in peals of laughter, that was okay. My mom always told me I didn’t go to work to make friends. Apparently she was the only one who’d said that.

  I was also apparently the only one who cared. Because I watched Harold Johnson, one of the only Black advisors—let alone partners—at Clarymore, follow our supervisor back into his office, and the noise didn’t seem to faze him at all. Harold sure was pissed as hell about something, though, and that was more interesting than anything else going on around me.

  I considered taking a risk and drowning out the chatter with some music, but decided against it. The one time I’d put on my headphones—those big-ass, over-the-ear behemoths that screamed fuck off to the rest of the world—that same supervisor unceremoniously snatched them off my head. Anywhere else, some shit might have popped off, no matter what school I went to, and the look on my face must’ve said what words couldn’t. From then on, he gave me a wide berth. So did most of the other interns. And I’d instantly become he-who-does-not-play-well-with-others.

  “Hey, Marc,” Brian called out from across the aisle, swinging back and forth in his chair. My stomach rebelled against the motion and I had to avert my gaze.

  “Marcus,” I replied automatically. Yes, some people called me Marc. I called them family. Not even that, because my parents hated nicknames and insisted on using Marcus. My friends, they called me Marc. These people weren’t family, damn sure not friends, and the familiarity grated, especially by someone I was convinced was trying to make me sick.

  Brian rolled his almost scarily blue eyes heavenward. Somehow, he made being bald with a full beard look jovial and not sinister, and he liked to fuck with me. He was about the only person here I could stand. “Marcus,” he said, then paused for effect. “Oh Maaar-cus,” he singsonged, channeling his inner Eartha Kitt. “What are you doing tonight, Maaar-cus darling?”

  I glared, while the other interns within hearing distance looked on in confusion. Had these white folks really never seen Boomerang? Jesus be a fence. Still, sleeping with your boss to get a leg up? Or, hell, your subordinate? Not a chance in hell, and I didn’t like the connection, even if I knew he was joking. I was maybe a little paranoid about what people thought of me, but I was the only Black person in this eighteen-intern class and yeah, stereotypes.

  I narrowed my eyes at his smirk and he laughed. He knew he’d gotten under my skin. “What do you want, Brian?”

  “We’re going out for drinks after this. Thinking about Waterfront. You game?”

  The Waterfront? Sequoia, Tony and Joe’s, Farmers Fishers Bakers? I was game, but not with them. I needed to be with my own people for a while.

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks for the invite, though.”

  “Aw, come on. You never come out with us.” Shelby walked by, highlighted blonde hair swinging, her heels clacking against the floor, and punched me lightly on the arm. I closed my eyes. Wouldn’t do any good to scare her, and opening my mouth would do that, but I wished like hell she’d stop touching me. I’d watched her enough to know it wasn’t just her personality, but she got close to me and acted like a kid at a petting zoo.

  “Maybe next time,” I grated out. Especially if the next time was the last one before the Apocalypse.

  The door across the hall opened and Harold strode out, looking remarkably calmer than he had minutes before. Our erstwhile supervisor followed more slowly. If I thought hard, I’d remember his name, but he’d asked us to call him Supe, like he was trying to be down. It was corny as hell, one of the only things me and the other interns agreed on. Yet and still, the stupid name stuck, especially since I’d already internally dubbed him that. He walked to the center of the open space and cleared his throat loudly. No one but me seemed to notice. He clapped his hands and waited until the din that was part and parcel of working here finally quieted. “I need everyone’s attention. We’re changing things up a little bit here, and it’s going to be a rapid start, so listen well, people.”

  I gave him half an ear, not pausing the status update I was sending to an advisor. “As we mentioned at the beginning of the summer, we’re doing some really heavy-duty collaborations with a couple of small firms in the area. Some of our clients, especially those with closely held or private corporations and a lot of intergenerational wealth, want the personal touch of a small firm to guide and lead their assets, but the maneuverability a large firm like ours can provide.

  “With one client, we solicited proposals from multiple smaller firms in the area for a partnership. We’ve narrowed it down to three and agreed to loan out one intern each to the finalists, so three of you in total. The remaining fifteen will stay here with us. We’ll still be your point of contact and will be furnishing your paychecks while you’re gone. The one provision of this arrangement is that you will be required to make a presentation to the prospective client while working with the firm, in three weeks’ time. Any questions so far?”

  I didn’t bother to look around. It all seemed fairly straightforward, and I wanted no part of it. I mean, it sounded cool and all, but I had no interest in a small firm. I never had, even if it meant I’d have more responsibility. I wanted the bigger clients, the name recognition of working for this company, the perks of being one of the big boys. Call me shallow, I didn’t care, but I wasn’t at Wharton to work for someone whose name didn’t show up on page one of the search results.

  Supe waited a few moments, then cleared his throat and continued, “So, the person going with...”

  I finished my email and sat back, arms crossed. I knew the quality of the work I’d done. I didn’t need to hear more about the virtues of small-firm life. It was wrong, but I couldn’t help my smirk when first Shelby, then Brian’s names were called. Which should’ve been a clue.

  When he called my name, my head jutted back to the front. “Excuse me?”

  He grinned, a sly thing I immediately hated. I’d never made a big secret about my occupational goals, and this was a slap in the face. “Yes, Marcus?” Could I pop him for that emphasis on the us? “You’ll be interning with Ellison Financial Services.”

  I stared. This could not be happening.

  A retort sat on the tip of my tongue, but I was acutely aware of the curious looks my colleagues were giving me. I clamped my mouth shut and smiled. “I look forward to the opportunity.”

  He nodded once, like he knew I wasn’t leaving there without having him answer some key questions, namely what the hell he was thinking. Supe went over a few housekeeping items, mainly telling those of us he was siphoning off to other companies to check our emails for the address and point of contact, then strolled back to his office, whistling.

  Brian walked up and slapped me on the shoulder, and I was still too in shock to say something. “Don’t worry, Marc, I think the big man on little campus thing will work well for you.” My glare must have spoken volumes, because he laughed and moved away. “Best get that look off your face. You’re going to need to polish up those people skills you got buried under a rock somewhere.”

  Fuck. I waved him off with a short, sharper-than-I-meant-it-to-be goodbye, then collapsed into my chair. Walls would be a godsend right now, so my overwhelming disappointment could be handled in private. I smi
led as nice as I knew how until the remaining interns had cleared out, then beelined to his office.

  “Come in, Marcus.” His voice held a hint of humor that only ramped up my irritation.

  “I guess you were waiting for me?”

  “I figured you’d swing by.” He motioned to a chair, and I sat. I wasted no time.

  “Supe, what’s going on? You know I’m not interested in solo practices.” I didn’t tell him it wasn’t in my plan, because that just begged for nosy follow-up questions.

  He leaned back and steepled his fingers. In an instant, he’d gone from his tragically bad efforts to be one of the guys, to being the shrewd shark he was billed as. “One, because you need the experience, and two, before you ask, because you don’t get to pick your assignments every time. We want people who can talk to clients, sell the product, be more than the grunt with the headphones on.”

  I ignored that last quip. He was still salty, even though he’d won the battle and the war on that one. No, I was stuck on the word grunt. As much as I worked, as hard as I worked, that was all they thought of me? Why? Because I didn’t want to drink myself into a stupor during the week like my colleagues? Wasn’t that about a bitch?

  “I’m good at what I do. And I’m good with a career of that. What’s the problem?”

  “And yet your best-reviewed assignment was one with a small family and modest assets.”

  “It was a one-off. Easy. I didn’t break a sweat.”

  “Protesting a bit much there, aren’t you?”

  I bristled at the amusement in his voice. “I am not Lady Gertrude, and you’re no Hamlet.”

  He burst into full-on laughter, which didn’t help. I hated that he was right. I’d kinda kicked the Abernathy project’s ass. The advisor I’d worked with wanted me on everything else she did. Knowing someone had that kind of confidence in me? It compensated for a lot of the bullshit. But not all.

  Supe finally quieted. “Hamlet, huh? Didn’t know that’s where it was from. But it doesn’t matter,” he said, getting back to the real issue. “The point is you did well with that project. This is the same, on a grander scale. You’ll be working one-on-one with the advisor, on this and anything else he needs. His recommendation of your work will probably count more than anyone here, given the time and depth of the project.”

  So...he wanted me to kiss someone’s ass for a few weeks. Over and above what this job already required. A small throb started in the back of my head but would absolutely get worse if I didn’t wrap this up and find some way to pound out my aggression. Preferably on a willing body. A much better end to my evening.

  With nothing left to say, I stood and walked to the door. “I need to make sure all my status updates are done before I go. Have a pleasant weekend.”

  “You have a good three weeks,” Supe said in response.

  I grunted.

  “And Marcus?”

  I paused with my hand on the handle. “Yes.”

  “Don’t think of this as a punishment. It’s not. It’ll make you better.”

  I didn’t believe that for a minute.

  * * *

  The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Supe’s bastardization of that line barely resembled the original, but I got the gist. I didn’t do all the extra shit that counted on the evaluations. The long lunches, the happy hours, the sucking up to the partners and advisors above and beyond doing my job. I wasn’t particularly interested in exploring Clarymore’s different divisions. I’d been perfectly happy in my international corporation division, and while the Abernathy matter had been a nice little break, it’d been good to get back to what I wanted.

  But Supe was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that to lock in an offer, I was going to have to prostrate myself to someone for three weeks, get myself a standout letter of recommendation, get an official offer, and then I could focus on the reason I’d come here.

  Knowing that did little to knock out my current frustration, and since I had no willing body, I found myself checking out of the grocery store with the last few ingredients I needed to make meatloaf and dumplings. My two biggest stress releases: sex and food.

  The row house I was staying in with my boy, Jake, was walking distance, but I was tired and it was hot, so I indulged in a car ride for the less than seven blocks home. Jake sat sprawled on the couch, channeling his inner Al Bundy with one hand down his pants and a beer on the coffee table in front of him. His mama would whoop his behind if she saw his feet on the table or the water stains that the coaster—which was right there—could prevent.

  “‘Sup man,” he said when I walked in. He caught a glimpse of the bags in my hand and jumped up, but I waved him off.

  “I’ve seen where that hand’s been, and I don’t want you anywhere near my food.”

  Jake laughed, a rich, hearty sound that made me shake my head. “I was wondering what was keeping you,” he said. “But if you’ve gone out to get ingredients for a full-on meal, I know some shit must have popped off.”

  We’d started Jack and Jill together as kids and had been friends ever since. His family had moved from Connecticut down to DC some years ago and we’d kept in touch long-distance, as much as possible for two teenaged boys who didn’t like to talk. His parents were out of the country this summer, and I got to stay with Jake rent-free as a result. Blessings upon blessings.

  I carried the bags back to the galley kitchen and took out what I needed, setting the items on the counter and putting away the rest. When I wiped the counters down with a rag, Jake snorted. He knew I was stalling.

  “Shitty-ass day at work,” I said, finally responding to his remark.

  “Yeah? Why? Talk to me.”

  So I did, while I made the dough, which gave me the benefit of keeping my back turned to him. I told him about the new assignment and my conversation with Supe. I added his comment about me trying to tell myself I didn’t like small firms, laughing as the words fell out of my mouth. Jake didn’t laugh.

  “He’s right, you know.”

  I paused in the middle of kneading dough, then kept going. I wasn’t making this twice. “What do you mean?” Why’d I asked that? I didn’t want his answer.

  “Look, man. I know you set out your life’s trajectory when you were nine and all, but you talked about the Abernathy project for days after you said it was over. You ain’t talked about any other project you been on like that.”

  “I did not set out my life’s plan at nine years old.”

  Jake snorted. “Okay, maybe you were eleven. And good way to miss the point. But, what I’m saying is you decided you were going to do X, and you never let yourself consider doing Y. No deviation from that path.”

  “Doing that has kept me on the straight and narrow and out of trouble.”

  “Which explains why you’re the most boring motherfucker I know.”

  I paused. Jake was joking, but as I stuck the dough in the fridge to let it rise, my gut still clenched from his slicing words. I hadn’t always been like that. Dad told me I used to be a terror, rambunctious as hell, and wore on his last nerve. He loved it, he said. Then Mom got sick.

  I was nine, and she’d stopped working for a bit. I tried to do things to make her life easier, and at that age, it meant writing down exactly what I had to do so no one had to tell me, in my fourth-grader’s scrawl. I’d always assumed she’d go back, and as an only child, I’d spent more and more time with her. Which was fine for the most part, but at some point both of my parents had been uncomfortable with how much. They never actually said anything that I could remember, but I recalled those looks. The ones from Dad to Mom that felt at that young age increasingly like anger, even without the corresponding words.

  At the same time, Dad—well, really both, but I distinctly remembered Dad—started praising everything I did academically, but being noncommittal at best, slightly mocking at worst, about
what he considered “the woman’s domain,” which came to mean anything inside the house. So I focused on that to keep him happy, earning academic awards out the wazoo, kept the “women’s work” to a visible minimum, and moved on. I shifted my attention from one victory to the next, determined to stay under Dad’s radar. Only the biggest and best for Maurice Thompson’s son. This upcoming assignment? It screamed FAILURE, etched across my forehead.

  I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms and ankles, trying for nonchalant. “Having a life trajectory set out for me hasn’t been the worst thing I’ve done.”

  “No,” Jake said with a shrug, “it hasn’t. You’re at an amazing school and you’ll be a great advisor. But you know damn good and well what you do doesn’t bring you joy.”

  I laughed. Jake was all about some higher calling, finding and fulfilling that deep-seated need that made life worthwhile. My dad had told me long ago our Black asses didn’t have time for that level of wishful thinking, and I knew Jake’s dad agreed, but Jake acted like he’d shredded the memo.

  “Yeah?” I said. “What do you think brings me joy then?”

  Jake pointed to the counter. “Cooking. I still don’t know why your ass ain’t go to culinary school. You’d be an absolute menace in the kitchen.”

  I stared at him, and he eyed me back boldly, daring me to disagree with his words.

  And I could. Because as much as I loved to cook, that wasn’t my life’s passion. I wanted cooking to stay in the realm of things that were genuinely a release for me, not have it turn into another pressure point.

  I shook my head. “Cooking at that level is way more intense, and I’m not fucking with my recipes because some folks can’t handle the heat.”

  Jake laughed. “True that.” I’d moved on to throwing items into a bowl for the meatloaf and he eyed me. “How long’s that gon’ take?”

  It took me more than a second to realize he was talking about dinner. I lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I don’t know. An hour?”