Beyond Revenge

Chapter 1-2

He was, however, always fastidiously dressed and today was no exception, though his current ensemble was more toned-down than usual and consisted of a gray silk shirt, matching tie and black slacks. Even his perfectly-gelled hairstyle appeared to have less product applied. Maybe I should have been concerned about his mental state but upon further reflection, the absence of color led me to believe he was merely attempting to work his way back into Charlie’s good graces. At least his attire complimented the surroundings, meaning a global crisis had been temporarily averted.

Suddenly self-conscious, I looked down at my own clothing—boot-cut jeans, purple Chuck Taylor high-tops and a black Eddie Bauer Henley covered by a worn leather jacket—and wondered if Charlie would oust me for my inability to blend in with his environment. I chewed my lip as I noticed even Nicoh had me beat on that one, with his natural white, black and silver coat. Considering I was sporting my usual style, or lack thereof, perhaps Charlie had viewed Nicoh as my best accessory all along? I shrugged. There was nothing I could do about it now. Instead, I bit the bullet and attempted to make nice with Charlie’s assistant.

“Hey Arch, it’s great to see you.”

Arch sniffed after taking in my appearance again and glanced disdainfully in Nicoh’s direction before responding, “AJ, of all days you’d make Charlie wait on you, today is not that day.” He pointed toward the atrium, then turned on his heel and marched off in the direction of the kitchen. Nice to know Arch hadn’t changed much during his sabbatical.

Officially dismissed, I pulled Nicoh’s mat from my bag and placed it in the area Charlie had designated “for the animal.” Nicoh huffed as he grumpily climbed on and situated himself in the center. Once I was sure he was sufficiently comfortable, I scratched him behind the ears before making my way through the spacious penthouse—a study of glass and steel—with its luxurious open floor plan and modern industrial style. Charlie was strict with his color scheme, using only black and gray with an occasional white accent. The atrium was no different.

Charlie stood in the center of the seamless glass encapsulation—like a priceless treasure on display—though his current expression ruined that vision. A scowl formed as he perused the list on the iPad he clutched. I paused at the entrance, taking him in. He was tall and muscular yet lean, and impeccably dressed in a handsomely-tailored charcoal Armani suit and crisp white dress shirt that remained open at the neck. I was surprised by this last detail—Charlie was rarely without a tie—it was as casual as I had seen him since high school. His Berluti’s tapped impatiently as he read. He was model attractive, a cross between Matt Bomer and Ian Somerhalder—though there had been speculation in the tabloids that the two actors had actually been separated at birth—with dark hair, striking gray-blue eyes, a strong angular jaw and cheekbones most women would die for. He was a sight, indeed.

Unfortunately, once he opened his mouth, the illusion was destroyed. Even with all his pretty-boy features, Charlie’s personality and demeanor made him a less-than-likable human being. I wished I could say it was due to his privileged upbringing, but I had known his parents since we were children and they were everything he was not—kind, respectful, honest and above all else—generous.

Even Charlie’s grandfather, a self-made software magnate and source of the family’s substantial wealth and stature, had been a humble and gracious individual. Long after his passing, the senior Wilson had continued to leave his mark on our community through various charitable foundations. None of that had rubbed off on Charlie. Though he was smart and savvy, attending Harvard Business School and graduating with honors, he used all his privileges for his own arrogant, selfish gain.

A successful entrepreneur, he used his vast wealth to ruthlessly “collect” things and often took what others had acquired. When he was unable to do so to his liking, he simply one-upped them by obtaining something he felt was better than they had to offer. In the rare situations where he was unable to get what he wanted, he would throw legendary temper tantrums. And then, he’d get even.

Today, Charlie was in a wicked mood and just short of one of his tantrums. I noted his expression had grown a few shades blacker upon my arrival. On careful approach, I realized he had been reviewing the guest list, which I’d helped compile.

“What. Is. This?” he shouted, shaking the iPad at me.

For a moment, I was convinced his eyes would pop right out of his head. I chastised myself for thinking that might have been a blessing, if not so gruesome, as I gently removed the tablet from his clutches and glanced at the offending screen. It was a guest list, it just wasn’t the guest list he and I had so painstakingly developed over the course of an entire weekend.

At the time, I remembered thinking he wouldn’t be able to handle the intrusion of so many people in his home, but we managed to create a list of sixty-five close friends and business associates he claimed he felt comfortable with—meaning people who could actually stand to be in Charlie’s presence for several hours and vice-versa. Before I had a chance to respond, he continued to rant, stabbing names on the list with his finger.

“That woman uses a self-tanner. I don’t want that deposited all over my furniture.” He wiped his brow feverishly from some imaginary perspiration before stabbing at another name. “He has the audacity to wear knock-off Gucci’s, with tassels. Seriously, AJ, even in this economy, I just can’t have it. And this guy—well, you dated him, so you are well aware—is a l-o-s-e-r.” After squinting at the name beneath his manicured nail, I couldn’t disagree, I had dated the loser back when we were in high school but again, Charlie didn’t pause long enough for me to respond.

“Please explain, AJ, after all I have done for you, why have you chosen now to do this to me? Did you think I wouldn’t notice this was not the guest list we discussed? That I would tolerate such…such disloyalty?” Though he was breathless, he was mid-boil, so there was no stopping him. “I just cannot believe you—of all people—would go behind my back and send out unapproved invites…to these…people. Are you…are you…trying to ruin me?” Finally, he paused for a moment, but not before delivering the final blow. “I fired Arch for lesser offenses,” he spat, tossing the iPod to the ground and stomping his foot.

It took everything in me not to snicker at his outburst. He was as red as a grape tomato and as ridiculous-looking as a petulant child used to getting his way. Instead, I patiently waited for the blustering to subside before attempting to respond. After fifteen years, I had plenty of practice dealing with Charlie’s outbursts and learned early on that laughing out loud—no matter how warranted it might be—was a bad idea. So I waited. And waited. And once Charlie appeared sufficiently calm—it typically took between three and five and half minutes, depending upon the circumstances—I finally spoke.

“Good morning, Charlie. Like the suit. While I have not had a chance to fully examine the list you are referencing, from the brief glimpse I did get, that is not the list you and I compiled and agreed upon, nor is it the one I sent the invitations from. If you would, quickly look at the dates. You will notice that—according to the date and time stamp on the document—the individuals you referenced were added days after you and I last met. Furthermore, I have not seen you or the list since that date.” I ended on that note, thinking it seemed as though Arch might be getting a bit of revenge on Charlie for terminating his employment and then hiring him back in time to assist with the party.

I decided to let Charlie draw his own conclusions, which he did, considering the rate at which his face transformed into a menacing grimace. Before stalking off to find Arch, he barked out a few directions about the setup. I blew out a long breath, thinking I was off the hook, when he surprised me by spinning on his heel and looking me over from top to bottom. His mouth took a severe downward turn as he reached my worn purple Chucks.

“Make sure you and Leah dress appropriately this evening. It’s called a White Party for a reason. I expect you to be dressed as though you were one of the guests.” His eyes narrowed, warning me not to test him. Before I had the chance to weigh my options, he was gone.

Charlie had reluctantly decided to allow guests to have access to the entire penthouse during the party, though the atrium would serve as the focal point for the gathering. Considering my colorful comments about serving the other white meat—in an effort to stick with the whole white theme, of course—had been met with a look of repugnance only Charlie could muster, I wasn’t surprised when he relegated me to overseeing the party’s decor in lieu of assisting with the catering selections. Therefore, my task this morning was to make sure white touches were tastefully integrated into the existing surroundings as we’d previously discussed.

I was reminded of the party planning meeting, when Charlie had felt it necessary to inform me that “tasteful” did not include papier-mâché streamers, posterboard signs or balloons. Since that also ruled out clowns and face-painting, I had jokingly asked if ice sculptures would be acceptable, to which Charlie had tersely replied that was “so five years ago.” Not to mention, completely unrealistic given the desert heat, though at the time, I doubted it had crossed Charlie’s mind. It was about keeping up with the Jones’, after all, or in this case, the Charlies.

In the end, it turned out that Charlie’s main priority was to ensure the room photographed well. Having designed several of my own backdrops, using lighting, a few faux structures and gauzy materials, I was able to fabricate an environment that warmed the steel and glass by incorporating a light, airy feel, giving it an open and inviting ambiance, without making it look like a boudoir.

Several hours later, I realized I had managed to avoid a check-up visit from either Charlie or Arch. Surely Charlie didn’t actually trust me, did he? Since my assigned tasks had been completed, I wasn’t about to sit around pontificating, so I gathered my belongings and proceeded toward kitchen, where I could hear Arch yelling at the catering staff. I glanced around the corner, where a dozen workers scurried back and forth like crazed mice at Arch’s direction, and noted that Charlie was nowhere to be found.

Sensing a break in Arch’s diatribe, I quickly announced my presence before he resumed. His head swiveled ever so slightly upon hearing my voice, though he refused to make eye contact. Ignoring the slight, I gave him a quick update and indicated I would return in a few hours—prior to the start of the party and the arrival of the first round of guests—to photograph the penthouse. I also confirmed Leah would be in attendance to work the crowd and obtain choice tidbits to feed to the society rags, as Charlie had requested. Arch begrudgingly nodded, but did not offer Charlie’s whereabouts.

Noting the time, I quickly collected Nicoh and drove home, hoping Leah had gotten her requisite hours of sleep. Anything less would result in a troublesome night and would most certainly get us both booted out of Charlie’s party.

One could only hope.