Rich and Bossy (Rich Boys)

23. Paxton

CHAPTER 23

Paxton

I’m going to have to come up with some legitimate reason to keep swinging by the Minnie warehouse. In all the years we’ve operated, I can count my visits on both hands. Even when it was the first warehouse. Now, I’ve been here multiple times in a matter of a few weeks.

If I’m not careful, Paul’s going to think I have a thing for him. I’m in the BMW once again to not draw attention to myself. Maybe I’ll check with Paul, ask him about the union rumors and see where we are with that, even though it’s all squashed. We did just have the meeting with the consultant, so following up on that is as good of a reason as any to come by. Then, maybe I can get a feel for the room and maybe have him ease up a little on the bathroom breaks, put an end to the bottle pissing. I gag a little just thinking about it. Jesus.

I still think maybe it was one person doing that and Hazel made it sound like some kind of widespread epidemic, but who knows. It’s unacceptable either way.

And after I make my brief appearance, I can do what I’m really here to do. Find a way to see Hazel. Sure, I saw her briefly, early this morning. She was up and out the door quick though. She briefly mentioned a test and something for work. I get it, she’s busy. I can’t get enough of her. To hell with everything—the enormous stakes make it ten times more exciting and interesting.

There is definitely something to be said about forbidden romances.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and notice I’m smiling. Smiling far more than I usually do. Not one of those reserved, I’ve got everything under control smiles, either. I look like a kid on Christmas. Hazel Strous makes me happy.

It’s kind of nice. It’s a happiness I’m not used to. A happiness I get when I play with my nephews and listen to my mom and sister give me shit. The kind I get talking to Dad while he works on the Corvette.

It’s funny. I always wondered what people were talking about when they acted like sex was some religious kind of experience. For me, it was always just about satisfying some biological needs that are programmed into us. Until now, I’ve never understood that shit, thought they were talking nonsense. Probably trying to sell something. Once or twice I’ve even wondered if something was wrong with me, like maybe they were right, and I would never get to know what it was like. The whole falling for someone. It seemed fantastical, like magic.

Now I get it.

And now, I’m afraid nothing else will ever be the same. It’s insane what I’ve risked, pursuing her. Friendships, family, business—everything, really.

Son of a bitch.

This thing is real, isn’t it?

Look at the way you’re grinning like an idiot.

Nothing about this makes any sense. She’s twenty-one for crying out loud. I’m not even going to think about how old she was when I blew out my knee at the Rose Bowl.

Still, she seems more mature than I am a lot of the time. She’s just—not what I pictured when I thought about falling for someone, being in a relationship. John and I always make fun of our investors, seventy-year-old and up guys, dating models who are clearly after some money, and they don’t even care. They’re smart guys. Surely, they know it’s basically legal prostitution.

I didn’t expect a potential partner to be a CEO or business exec like me. I certainly didn’t think they’d still be in college, and a damn employee though.

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, it takes me a moment to realize I’m stuck in traffic. And there shouldn’t be traffic, not right now anyway, not on this street. The shifts here started a few hours ago, and that’s when it builds up, when everyone is pouring in at once, and not even this far from the warehouse. It usually backs up on the cross street up ahead at the intersection, it’s the road ninety percent of the employees come in on.

Whatever is happening forces me out of my thoughts, to slow down and pay closer attention. “What the fuck?” I crane my head around, like one does in a surprise traffic jam, looking for a culprit. “There an accident or something?”

Soon, the problem shows itself as a few people turn and I make my way up the road.

Picket signs everywhere. People walking around with them. I squint, trying to see if I can recognize any of them. I don’t, but they’re still a ways away.

That’s hardly the worst of it, though. I mouth, “Son of a bitch,” while I count the number of news trucks situated on both sides of the road leading up to the facility. They’re parked bumper to bumper, from roughly a quarter-mile away from the front gate. Men and women carrying coils of cable over their shoulders dart back and forth, shouting to each other. Setting up their feeds, I guess. All I can do is sit and watch, still stuck behind a line of cars.

This can’t be real.

Never in my life have I felt this out of control. I don’t even know what to make of this. Not even when I fucked up my knee on that play in college, and knew my days of playing football were over, did I feel this helpless and confused.

When I inch myself a few more car lengths after a couple people make U-turns, I’m still not sure these people with signs are actual workers. I’ve never seen them before, but then again, there are thousands of them. Are they paid protestors?

“An injury to one is an injury to all!” A woman passes dangerously close to my car, brandishing a sign overhead. She’s walking pretty close to cars to be so concerned about some fucking injuries.

I lower my head to avoid being recognized, and she passes without noticing me.

“The fuck do you know, lady?” I mutter the words.

Did Hazel know about all this? Even when we were on our date? In my bed last night?

I know the answer before I ask it, but I still refuse to believe it. There’s no way. This is the exact opposite of giving up. Was there an accident last night that triggered this? Surely I’d have gotten a call.

For some reason, the line I’m in is still barely inching forward. I might as well put the car in park. I’m a sitting duck and before long someone is going to see me. If I wasn’t sure I’d be executed on site, I would get out to see what’s keeping people from moving. Something tells me right now, it’s better to show a little bit of patience—even if patient is the last thing I feel like being, watching this unfold in front of me.

Eventually, I figure it out, after another fifteen minutes of waiting. For some reason the light in the direction I’m facing is stuck on red. Like it’s not changing at all, and across the intersection on this same street, the cars are backed up farther than I can see.

The road most of the employees use has cars breezing right through nonstop to the warehouse.

“Goddamn it. What the fuck?” I growl, gripping the wheel tight enough to make the leather squeal under my hands. That’s not enough. I want to break something.

I stay still and wait for the car in front of me to move forward enough for an opening and I pull out of line, turning around and haul ass down the road a ways, bringing the car to a stop in another parking lot, far away from the news vans and picketers. That doesn’t make the cacophony any easier to deal with, but at least I’m no longer in the path of marching picketers where one of them can see me. That was actually a little scary. These people do not look friendly, at all. And now that I’m afforded a better angle, I see how many people are clogging the intersection, compounding the problem already established by the broken light.

The hell is the media doing here like this? This has to be coordinated. Not just local channels, it’s big national news companies.

I pull out my phone and smash my finger against the screen. The fact that John doesn’t bother saying hello after answering tells me he’s already turned on his TV.

“You watching this?”

“I’m not watching on TV. I’m sitting here, outside the warehouse. I have a front row seat. The fuck is happening?”

He laughs, but it’s one of those crazy laughs, like he’s going insane. “The fuck you doing down there?” Rather than wait for an answer, he starts ranting. “Never mind, I know. This is a goddamn nightmare, Pax. Is this a dream?”

“I wish.”

He mutters something unintelligible under his breath. “Get to the office. We’ve got to get a handle on the PR and messaging.”

He doesn’t mention Hazel’s name at all. Maybe this wasn’t her. Something tells me we’re already too late on the PR front. The message is already beaming through those satellite feeds, loud and clear. It’s going to take some epic scrambling to explain this away to the shareholders and investors who I know are watching this unfold with the same horror I am.

I’m still not even sure what this is. Is it a strike? Usually negotiations happen before it gets to that.

“Be there as soon as I can.” I just sound defeated. I don’t have the energy to fuck with this right now. I know exactly why I’m so demoralized too, why this hurts so damn bad. Even if it is Hazel, I’d want to defend her. What the hell is wrong with me?

I get off the call, tossing my phone down on the passenger seat. There’s no doubt in my mind where this started, who’s behind all of this. I know it’s her. It has to be.

“Goddamn it.” I shove the car into drive and haul ass the other way out of the parking lot. “What the fuck did you do?”