Page 22 of Hating the Boss

There was a single doorman standing outside the iron door, a golden light glowing behind him. He looked at me disinterestedly.

“Hi. Er, I’m here to see Brad Ashcroft. I’m his assistant. Sarah. Sarah Atkinson.”

“You’re late,” he said, turning to open the iron door. He pushed it open with impressive ease and nodded for me to enter. I thanked him and slipped inside. In the dim hallway, I followed the sound of voices to a large lounge filled with men in impressive suits and women in gowns.

Gowns.

I looked down at my dress and suddenly felt like a peasant.

What was this place?

Chapter 10 Brad

The dull sound of slow jazz drifted down from the overhead speakers, drowned out by the clicking of heels and boisterous laughter of members of the club that surrounded me. Only in Manhattan would the richest of the rich gather for a formal ribeye lunch and drinks at 11 a.m. on a Monday. I would rather be back at the office, but turning down this invitation would mean turning down potential business, no matter how last minute the invite was. Being social was a part of the job.

I strode for the bar, politely nodding at those I recognized and trying to put faces to names. The lounge was dark, courtesy of the long, forest green curtains that hung from the ceilings, blocking out the early afternoon sun. The overhead chandeliers that lined the paneled ceiling were kept dim, a golden glow faintly beaming from their crystals, catching on the fleur-de-lis wallpaper that lined the walls. The air was hazy with the smoke from cigars and too much perfume spritzed on.

“What can I get you, Mr. Ashcroft?” asked the bartender who had served me many times before.

My suit would be a good start, but Sarah seemed to be late in bringing me my blacked out formal suit that was better suited for this event.

“Scotch. Straight up,” I said, drumming my fingers against the varnished walnut countertop of the bar.

“Of course,” he said, turning to reach for an ornate bottle that sat along the glass shelves behind him. There was only top-shelf liquor here.

The club kept their staff as exclusive as the members they let in. These bartenders and servers had seen more than their fair share of rich people antics and overheard their secrets. Each locked in on an ironclad NDA, no doubt.

“What are you doing?” asked the familiar, gruff voice of my father.

Internally, I grimaced. I knew he would be here, but hadn’t laid eyes on him yet. I was hoping by some miracle I could slip out undetected. But my father’s radar on me was strong, and this room was only so big.

“Ordering a drink,” I said.

“At eleven in the morning?” He raised a brow.

“Seems like you had the same idea,” I said, noting his empty glass clutched in his hand, lingering drops of brown liquor at the bottom. Most likely Irish whiskey.

“I’m off the clock this afternoon,” he said, signaling for the bartender to bring him another. “But you…”

“I’m here on business, Dad.”

Why did I feel like some petulant teenager caught in the act of going through my parents’ liquor cabinet?

“Did you bring anyone?” he asked, leaning his back against the counter and looking around the room. There were several members coupled up, the men in their best suits, their wives in dresses that matched their ties.

“It’s a workday,” I said with a shrug.

Just then, the bartender brought over my much-needed drink, along with my father’s whiskey. I took a long sip, knowing where this conversation was headed. Knowing there was nothing I could do about it.

My father was still part owner of Stellar Enterprises. I owned 49%, but that 1% he held over me stood in the way of me taking over the company completely. My father, no spring chicken, was stubborn. He couldn’t give up his glory days and just retire, despite my mother’s nudging.

My father took a swig of his whiskey, nearly draining the glass and finishing it with a deep sigh.

“It’s not a good look, son,” he said sternly, looking back to me.

“What isn’t?” I asked, knowing full well what he was getting at.

“This suit, for one,” he said, touching the fabric like it was a trash bag and not an Armani suit.