Chapter One.
As a relative newcomer to the world of big business – no scratch that, a total newcomer – one of the elements that had caught Mike by surprise was the strange parallels created by money.
The men at the top were millionaires, multi-millionaires and a few more than that; they were men at the crest of the global economy and yet every last one of them yearned for the past.
The Corinthian Club summed that up perfectly; a visual representative of the paradox of fortune that had stood in New York for over one hundred years. From the outside the club had looked impressive – a stone megalith in Italian-Renaissance throwback style – but on the inside the impression had easily doubled. From the walls, to the stairs and the columns in between everything was carved in warm-hued woods and broken by paintings and glossy antiques. Had it not been for his otherwise firm grip on reality, Mike might have felt liked he'd stepped back in time; which was precisely where the paradox lay.
He found Tucker Stemmings installed at the bar, the red velvet jacket swapped out for royal blue and further embellished by Persian-style cuffs although sadly the man himself was unchanged. On seeing Mike heading towards him he instantly slid from the red leather stool and crossed the distance between them with a grin,
"Michael," he beamed, taking the associate's hands in his own and squeezing them tightly like a girl at a sleepover; since he looked half-dressed for bed it wasn't a totally random analogy, "I'm so very glad that you could come."
"Uh, no problem. I mean, all I'm doing is delivering the papers but – ,"
In a vague attempt to conceal his unease Mike offered up a casual chuckle which promptly caught at the back of his throat and forced him into a volley of spluttering. Not picking up on the wild discomfort Tucker gave him a sympathetic pat,
"Oh dear, let's get you lubricated, hmm?"
It didn't help matters.
"Did you say, get me – um, what?"
Tucker held up a pink gin with lemon, sliding back onto his vacated stool. Considering that he was by no means a small man it was an impressively delicate maneuver.
"A drink my boy. So what will it be? Sex on the beach, a slippery nipple or are you more of a screaming orgasm?"
The gaze in the millionaire's eyes was intense and adding to the flush that was roasting Mike's cheeks. Tucker Stemmings was goddamn creepy. It was a sentence worth saying twice if not more.
"Uh, none of the above I'm sorry, but I'm kinda technically still working so – ,"
"Nonsense," Tucker scoffed at once, waving over the barman with a flick of his fingers. 'Andre' – as his nametag said – bustled over like a well-trained poodle, "I know how these business meetings go, it's cabernet and champagne galore, all at the expense of the company of course. So the very least you can do is have one teeny, tiny drink with me, hmm?"
As he spoke he patted at an empty bar stool, caressing the leather under his hand. Mike watched him do it dubiously,
"Well – ,"
"Otherwise," Tucker continued with a sigh, "I might start to doubt my choice of law firm. After all, what good is a company that doesn't share my zest for life? I need people who understand me Michael. Do you understand me?"
Mike blinked back. Somewhere in his head he knew Harvey was screaming – pretend – and taking off his messenger bag he dropped onto the bar stool,
"I'll have a soda,"
"I suppose that's a start."
"And in the meantime," Mike continued smoothly, pulling loose a blue-coloured file, "I need you to sign these papers, since – as you pointed out just a second ago – this is a business meeting, after all."
Tucker eyed him back with a smile; an unreadable expression crossing his face. Mike frowned. It seemed almost hungry. The arrival of his drink proved a welcome relief and no sooner had the crystal ware hit the counter then he began to gulp like a dehydrated camel. The bubbles felt cool at the back of his throat.
"Do you have a pen?"
"Huh?"
He looked up; Tucker was staring back at him, one hand outstretched.
"A pen," he repeated, "To sign the documents. I find that these things usually help."
"Oh," Mike fumbled, patting his pockets, "Uh, of course, give me a second, I'm pretty sure I've got one somewhere."
Except that he didn't which was kind of annoying since he always usually carried a pen. It was what lawyers did, including the fake ones – or apparently not, as it turned out.
Damn.
"Not to worry," Tucker grinned, taking an easy sip of gin, "Someone will turn up with one I have no doubt and in the meantime you and I can have a chat."
Mike shut his eyes and turned back to his soda,
Damn. Damn.
"So tell me, what do you think of the club?"
"It's very historic,"
Tucker barked,
"You mean it's old and I agree. The place is like a goddamn museum and the same goes for the membership as well. We're a group of old men clinging onto our youth and trying to achieve it through a hundred year old club. It's lunacy really but what can you do?"
As Tucker took another long sip Mike looked up with a blink of surprise. In one short and damning statement the millionaire had summed up his own exact thoughts. He had known the club was a paradox but he hadn't realised the members did too. Or maybe only one of them did.
"So why stay here?"
"Tradition, I suppose. I've belonged to this club for twenty-eight years and although I can tell you all of its faults they're my faults – like children, I love them regardless. Of course my idea is to ease off the rules, open it up a little, let new faces in. You see all these private clubs these days and they're different, they're vibrant, they're full of young people. That's what I need Michael, young blood."
"Like a vampire?" Mike chuckled before frowning in shock. Where the hell had that come from? Fortunately Tucker simply smiled,
"Yes, in a way, they make me feel alive. Although naturally that will never happen, this club has a way of doing things and it does not take kindly to talk of change. Which means – I guess, that I'm stuck like this – in limbo; neither young nor old."
But more old than young. Mike almost added, stopping himself at the very last second and instead turning it into a cough. As Tucker turned to look at him he stifled it quickly back into his drink. He felt weird and giddy; he almost felt drunk. But that wasn't possible on one lone soda. Maybe it was the fact he'd skipped lunch for their meeting. That was it; hunger. No way was he drunk.
"Are you alright?" Tucker asked and as Mike looked up at him his whole head spun. He was dizzy now? Yeah, definitely hunger. The millionaire was still peering in concern.
"Oh, yeah," Mike nodded, "I'm fine, just light-headed, I don't think I ate enough today."
"Harvey's got you working too hard, you need to relax, take it easy."
It took Mike a second longer than usual to realise that Tucker had one hand on his knee. When did that happen? Why was it there? He slid off his stool in sudden alarm and his head spun again and nearly betrayed him. Tucker simply continued to stare,
"Michael?"
"I'm going to get some fresh air,"
"Do you want me to come with you?"
"No," Mike replied, far too quickly but trying to sound much brighter than he felt. He picked up his bag and almost fell over. Had it always been that heavy? Trailing it along the ground behind him he indicated the folder still lying on the bar, "So, why don't you take a look at the papers and I'll find a pen on my way back in."
Tucker took a sip of his drink,
"If you're sure?"
"Yeah, just – just give me five minutes,"
His heart was starting to hammer in his chest, sweat prickling at his hairline and around the collar of his shirt. What was happening to him?
"I'll be waiting," the millionaire replied, his tone sing-song but his gaze unblinking, "Five minutes Michael, then I'm coming to get you."
Okay, so I was going to be cruel and wait a few days but I had this ready so I thought why not, especially since the prologue was a shorty. Thanks to those who have left reviews - they make me smile over my cornflakes in the morning before I dejectedly trudge my way into work!
Okay, okay...you got me, I meant Frosties...my cereal habits resemble a child.