Monty Read online

  “I do this every morning,” I explain. “I—I just don’t—I don’t usually get caught.”

  “You lay out my suits every morning?” he asks.

  “Yes, and your necktie, shoes, socks and cufflinks, Sir,” I respond, wondering why he added the extra emphasis on you like I’m incapable of doing this for him when I’ve been doing it for two years, ever since Sylvia Hawthorne hired me and told me this was one of my many duties that would make her son’s life more comfortable.

  “I thought Paige was in charge of this?”

  Well, you thought wrong, wit’cho…wit’cho…good-looking self. Wait? What? How’s that a diss, Cherish?

  Paige – she’s his mother’s assistant – the privileged white girl who walks around here like she owns the place and calls herself wifey although she’s not Montgomery’s wife. Girlfriend, maybe – and I use that term loosely – but definitely not wife. Montgomery doesn’t wear a ring and Paige never spends the night. Besides, he’s too busy making money to be concerned with a wife and even if he had one, I doubt she’d be a little booty white girl who wears about ten layers of foundation on her face that’s slathered on so thick, you could cut into it like a slice of pie and not draw blood.

  “No, Sir. This duty falls under my umbrella.”

  “Well, go on. Do your job,” he tells me. His arms are still crossed as he stares. Muscles bulging.

  I take the Givenchy suit and lay it on the bench. Then I find the perfect tie, cufflinks, socks and shoes to match.

  “There you are. I’ll get out of your way now,” I say, trying to make my great escape.

  “Yeah, you do that,” he taunts. “Oh, and by the way, if you’re telling the truth and this is one of your duties—”

  “It is one of my—”

  “Do not interrupt me when I’m speaking,” he says curtly. Then he starts again and says, “If you’re telling the truth and this is one of your duties, I would suggest you have it done before I’m out of the shower. That way, we don’t have to have this extremely awkward exchange. I don’t have to see you. You don’t have to see me. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir. It won’t happen again. Sorry to have interrupted your morning.”

  I plaster a fake smile on my face and haul it out of there feeling small and stupid. That’s what Montgomery does to people – make them feel insignificant. I’ve seen him do it to his mother, his brother and the rest of the staff. We’re all insignificant compared to a man of his great wealth. That still doesn’t give him the right to disrespect anyone. We’re all here to serve him. To help him be comfortable so he can continue to amass his wealth. The least he could do was throw out a ‘thank you’ every now and then.

  I hold on to the railing as I descend the spiral staircase. My heart is still racing. Palms, sweaty. Feet, unsteady. When I make it to the kitchen, I drink water and double check the breakfast menu I supplied to Naomi. I don’t need any more run-ins with Montgomery today.

  Chapter Two

  Monty

  After breakfast, I head straight to the conference room in the common area. I have a meeting with my mother and brother to discuss private business matters.

  Mother walks in and I say, “Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

  She scoffs – hates it when I call her that, but I’m trying to keep things professional. If my father didn’t teach me anything else before he died, he taught me how to be a businessman. How to remain professional at all times in the way I dress and carry myself. I know how to rock a poker face. No one ever knows what I’m feeling. I’ve mastered the art of hiding emotions on both ends of the spectrum – from anger and fear to happiness and sadness. No one can read me. I take great pride in that. Vulnerability is weakness. Keeping emotions in check is power.

  “Good morning,” she grumbles reluctantly.

  My mother is beautiful. She has a full head of silver hair at sixty, but she takes good care of herself. Looks to be more in her fifties. She and my father were together for a long time – couldn’t have kids – so they became foster parents to me and Major. I was seven. Major was five. They’re the only parents we know. A few years ago, I found out my biological parents were deceased.

  “How’s life in the East wing?” I ask. We live in the same mansion and I hardly see her or Major. Our last meeting was two months ago. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen my mother since then.

  “Good. What about the West?”

  “Good,” I reply. “Before Major arrives, let me ask you something. Paige Marion—isn’t she responsible for laying out my clothes for the day?”

  Mother shakes her head. “Absolutely not. For one thing, she’s color blind. That girl will have you looking like a pure fool.” She chuckles slightly. “You haven’t seen what she wears up in here?”

  “No. As far as I’m concerned, the staff is invisible. I make it a point not to look at or engage with them in any way.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s business.” I lean back in my executive chair. Cross my arms. “Father used to say you can’t be friends with people who will never reach your status.”

  “Status and money isn’t everything,” she tells me.

  Sounds like the makings of a social media quote…

  I grin. I’m sure she’s making a joke. Has to be. Status, money, wealth and power is all this family has ever known. All I’ve known since adolescence.

  She adds, “Plus, how do you think it’s possible that you’re able to accomplish all you do in a day? Everyone plays a pertinent role in making this company a success, Montgomery. It doesn’t matter how big or small that role is.”

  “Yeah, well I have my way of doing things and you have yours. Now, back to my clothes—who did you put in charge of laying out my daily wardrobe?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “I want to know. I never asked you to hire someone to do that for me, so I at least I would like to know who the assignment belongs to.”

  “Why…does…it…matter, Montgomery?” she asks testily.

  I glare at her. For us to not have any biological connection, we have similar mannerisms no matter how much she gripes about me being just like my father. My personality encompasses both of them. She has the same stubborn streak I have.

  This time, I offer the explanation she seeks by saying, “If you must know, I caught somebody snooping around in my closet this morning and I want to confirm she’s not lying to me.”

  “You caught somebody snooping around in your closet?” Major asks amused as he steps into the conference room. He pulls out a chair. “I didn’t know you were letting in thots on the west side.”

  “Letting in who?” Mother asks, looking confused.

  “Thots,” Major says.

  Mother frowns. “Thots?”

  “Yeah. Them ho—”

  “Major, chill,” I say interrupting.

  “You chill and loosen up a bit. You’re always so uptight. Jeez.” He rolls his eyes and slouches in his chair.

  Dismissing him as I always do, remembering he’s younger than I am (and we have completely different personalities), I return my attention to Mother and ask, “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to find out on my own?”

  “Tell you what?” she asks as if she’d forgotten what we were talking about that quickly.

  “Who’s in charge of my wardrobe?”

  “You should be in charge of your own wardrobe,” Major says under his breath. He speaks up when he adds, “Just because you fart hundred-dollar-bills doesn’t mean you need someone to be at your beck and call.”

  He’s one to talk. He’s a millionaire although you’d never know it. He doesn’t buy things. He lives life ordinary.

  Mother finally answers, “Cherish Stevens—she’s in charge of your wardrobe.”

  So the girl was telling the truth. Lucky for her. She was a breath away from getting fired.

  “Poor Cherish,” Major says. “It’s funny how I knew that already but
she works for you and you didn’t know it. Figures. Anyway, what do we need to talk about? I got a full schedule today and the quicker I can get to it, the better.”

  “I wanted to take a few minutes to give you the details of the patent I’ll turn over to the lawyers soon. To be clear, no one knows about this and no one else will know until the first prototype is completed.”

  “We get it,” Major says. “It’s top secret. What is it?”

  “It’s a new, police-grade taser.”

  “A taser?” Mother asks. “Do you know how many different tasers are out there on the market. It’s saturated with tasers.”

  “Mom’s right,” Major says. “I don’t see the relevance in yet another one.”

  “You will if you keep your comments to yourself and give me time to explain.”

  Major gestures for me to have the floor. “All the time we hear on the news about how police are in pursuit of someone and they pull the gun instead of the taser. The results are usually fatal. They end up killing a suspect who they wanted to tase. Many in law enforcement claim the handles of both weapons feel the same. I’ve done the test myself and they do feel the same. In the heat of the moment when adrenaline is pumping and there are only seconds to make a decision, the wrong weapon gets pulled. This new taser is designed so that when its handle is grabbed, it emits a hard vibration that alerts the officer it’s the taser their actually pulling. If it doesn’t vibrate, it’s the gun.”

  “Good idea, brother. I didn’t know you could care so deeply about anyone’s life besides your own.”

  “Enough with the sly comments, Major. Just let me know what you think about the idea since you’ll be the one marketing it.”

  “I said it was a good idea, but it has to be perfect. I can see the lawsuits rolling in now from officers who claimed their taser didn’t vibrate.”

  “Good point and that’s already one of the guidelines I have the engineers working on. What do you think about the idea, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

  “Will you stop calling our mother, Mrs. Hawthorne?” Major asks.

  “Who runs this company? Me or you?”

  Major glares. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, standing up. “I’m out.”

  “Look what you’ve done,” Mother says to me. “You know what, Montgomery, I may not be your biological mother, but you can still show me a little respect.”

  “What makes you think I don’t respect you?”

  “Look at the way you speak to me. You’re frowning right now and you call me Mrs. Hawthorne like I didn’t spend my life raising you.”

  “Since father hired me on at the company, I’ve always called you Mrs. Hawthorne. It keeps things professional between us. You never had a problem with it before.”

  “That’s because I’m always trying to keep the peace, but enough is enough. I deserve your respect and I shouldn’t have to ask for it.”

  “I do respect you.”

  “Then you have a heck of a way of showing it!”

  I glance over at her. She’s a strong woman. Had to be strong to be with a man like my father, but she’s not like him, nor is she like me. She’s more in tune with her feelings. That’s precisely why she can’t run this company. Why father left me in charge.

  I give her a minute to cool down, then jump right back into business mode and say, “A year ago today, you came to me with some paperwork I needed to complete to get my hands on the trust fund father left me and secure my role as CEO of Hawthorne Innovations. Has it been completed?”

  “Yes, it’s been completed. It still baffles me how quickly you signed it without even reading it over.”

  “Why wouldn’t I sign it? It’s five-billion dollars.”

  “So what? You’re already rich.”

  “And now, I’m richer. Whatever those documents state wouldn’t change my mind. Five billion is five billion. I can handle whatever comes along with it.”

  She shakes her head. “Your father sure did a number on you.”

  “You’re right, mother. He did. He taught me how to be the man I am today.”

  “No, he taught you how to love money. Money ain’t everything, Montgomery.”

  “You’ve said that already.”

  She blows an irritated breath. “My goodness—what happened to you?”

  “Nothing’s happened—”

  “Where’s the sweet, shy boy I raised? The one who handmade cards and picked wildflowers for me. The one who would give his last to help anyone. Where’s that boy?”

  “I’m not a boy anymore. I grew up.”

  “You grew into your father. That’s what you’ve done.”

  “You act like that’s a bad thing. He was your husband.”

  “Yeah, he was. A husband I was going to divorce when I saw the influence he had on you and Major, but—” Her lips tremble.

  This is news to me. I had no idea she’d entertained the thought of divorcing my father. I take a hard look at her. She bites back her emotions and reconsiders what she wants to say. I’m not a cold-hearted person. I’m not so calloused that I don’t feel anything for my mother. I do. I appreciate her in more ways than she knows, but what exactly does she and everyone else expects me to do when I have a billion-dollar empire to run? My father’s legacy is at stake. I won’t let him down under any circumstances.

  “The money should be wired to your account in the next five business days.”

  “Good. I assumed you’ve already told Paige about this.”

  She frowns. “Paige? Why would I tell Paige anything?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  She throws her hands up then pushes away from the table. Leaves me there. Alone. Fine by me. It’s how I spend most of my time.

  * * *

  After working in the office for a few hours straight, I get up and stretch like I don’t have a care in the world (because I don’t) and walk to the kitchen in the common area.

  “Naomi, get me a bottle of Voss,” I say, holding my phone, flipping through emails.

  “Yes, Sir. Coming right up.”

  She screws off the cap and hands me the bottle. I take it to the patio and drink most of it before I can sit down. It’s hot today. Early summer. The temperature is already eighty-five degrees. I glance at my watch. It’s close to noon – too hot to be out here in a full suit. I step back inside, watching Naomi, the cook, make meal preparations. She’s a short, heavy-set woman. Always sounds like she’s running low on oxygen but she knows how to cook.

  I usually wouldn’t bother, but since mother called into question my interaction with the staff, I take a stab at communication.

  “Naomi.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “What’s for lunch today?”

  She looks surprised I asked, then says, “I am making you a club sandwich—fresh tomatoes, turkey, ham, bacon and lettuce on wheat bread. And, I got you some fresh deli-style pickles. I know you’d rather have those than fries.”

  “I would,” I tell her. “I’m curious…how do you know what I like without consulting me first?”

  “Oh, Sir, I’m just the cook.” She chuckles. Her pot belly jumps. “I can’t take credit for the menu.”

  “Menu? There’s a menu?”

  “There showly is a menu. Looka here. Lemme show you it.”

  She walks over to the refrigerator, hikes her weight up on her tiptoes to take a notepad from the top and hands it to me.

  “She does a good job with this thing. I tell you, it’s my cooking bible when it comes to making your meals, Sir. That girl spends so much time trying to get this right, she looks like she’s doing calculus and all she doin’ is figuring out what you want to eat. That’s all. Making sure the same meal isn’t prepared too close together. Checking nutrition content, protein, sodium, exaggerated fats—”

  “You mean saturated fats.”

  “Yeah, yeah—all that stuff. She checks it all. Me, personally, I don’t care nothing ‘bout no calories. You can look at me and tell I don’t know nothing �
�bout no calories.” She chuckles again. “But she does. Guess what, Mr. St. Claire. Guess what?”

  “What’s that?” I drawl out, but this woman reminds me of why I don’t talk to the staff. Other than it not being necessary, they work my nerves with their ordinary speech, incorrect pronunciation and misuse of words. And who in their right mind brags about being overweight?

  “I came in this world with high cholesterol and I’m leaving up out of here with high cholesterol. I’d rather be fat and happy than skinny and miserable.”

  I rub the back of my neck. I can feel my forehead tightening. I regret ever saying anything to the woman.

  “Anyway, she must be doing a good job ‘cause you never complain about the food.”

  “Who is this she you’re referring to?”

  “Cherry.”

  I frown. “Cherry?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I don’t have anyone on my staff named Cherry.”

  She chuckles again. “Sorry. Her name is Cherish, Sir, but I calls her Cherry. Takes too much effort to add the ish on the end. I gots waay too much stomach to be expending extra air like that.”

  I think about how Cherry and Cherish are both two-syllable words and her real name doesn’t require an extra expenditure of air but I don’t call Naomi out on it. I’m too busy thinking about the content of what she said. I ask, “Cherish Stevens makes this menu?”

  “Every week, Sir.”

  Imagine my surprise to learn not only does Cherish handles my wardrobe – she also controls what I eat. All this from a girl I’ve hardly said a word to. “Would you happen to know where she is right now?”

  “Probably somewhere messin’ ‘round in some flowers. That’s usually what she does ‘round lunchtime. A lil’ gardening.”

  I leave out the back door, in search of Cherry.

  Chapter Three

  Cherish

  Gardening doesn’t fall under my job title, but I have an innate love of flowers that’s borderline sickening. At home, my front yard looks like an outdoor florist shop. My neighbors come over all the time to prune, pluck and separate some of my plants so they can grow their own. I don’t mind it. It’s just that many.