Collide Into You: A Romantic Gender Swap Love Story (33 page)

“Shush, Sergeant Walker,” the secretary says. I read the name tag on her desk: Claudette Atkins. She’s plump with white-gray hair, light blue eyes, and is about sixty or seventy years old. “Good morning, Staff Sergeant Holtslander,” she says to me in a much more pleasant tone. She must like Keira. And I must keep it this way. “The Historical Office of the Office of the Secretary of Defense called about five minutes ago. Seems like you’re late for your appointment. I told them that you were already on your way.”

Like I know where that is. I might as well walk to the moon.

“Thank you, Mrs. Atkins. I am indeed on my way, as you can tell.” I don’t move a muscle. I steal a mint from her desk. The secretary watches me like a hawk, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

“Oh, that’s right. The appointment is
this
morning, Keira?” Nebraska asks with mock confusion. “We better get going, then. I can show her where to go, Mrs. Atkins.” Nebraska stands up, ready to whisk me out of the reception area. I wonder where Justin is. His desk is empty.

“
Sit
down, Sergeant Walker,” Mrs. Atkins says in a deathly quiet voice. I have a feeling she could stop a human heart if she wanted to. She also possesses a backbone of steel. “The general has not dismissed you.” She turns to me and hands me a slip of paper. “Here’s the office number again. Don’t forget that you have a zero-nine hundred appointment with General MacWilliams.”

Then, without so much as lifting a finger, she kicks me out of the office.

Keira

I
FOLLOW
M
R
. B
ROOKSHIRE
DOWN
the hallway and into a massive corner office that’s nothing but floor to ceiling windows. His dark desk is clean and free of most things you might see in a desk, like a monitor, keyboard, and mouse.

He turns as soon as he reaches the desk and leans against the edge. One of his eyes twitches. I’m not surprised when he doesn’t offer me a seat in one of the two nicely upholstered leather chairs. I stand about halfway between his desk and the door. I’m favoring a quick exit in case he goes bonkers.

“Sheila has a boyfriend,” Mr. Brookshire starts, which baffles me as to why he would tell me—Dillan—this.
Doesn’t he hate Dillan?
“He’s a tattoo artist, and that’s what she wants to do with her life as well. I found out
after
I paid for a four-year graphic design and art degree.”

“I’m not sure how this is any of my—”

“She has talent. Buckets of it, in fact. But a tattoo artist? Sheila’s capable of so much more. I told her that if she worked for me for a year that I’d reconsider helping her buy her own tattoo shop. Of course, my goal was for her to see how prestigious Brookshire Mierkle was and that she’d change her mind about everything. Fucking kids these days. What do you think I should do?”

“Are you seriously asking me?” I don’t think I’ve blinked since I entered his office, and my eyes are starting to water from all the sunlight. Sunlight and shock.

He crosses his arms across his chest. “You’re a hard kid to read, Dillan Pope. Some days, when I look at you, I see a stupid, lucky-as-shit kid. And other days, like yesterday, I find myself smiling because you’ve taken charge of a situation like a sergeant at arms. That stunt you pulled yesterday was practically suicidal. It’s also something
I
would have done. My youngest daughter; I’m sure you remember Abigail,” he says this with one eyebrow expressively higher than the other, “is studying fashion design in New York; my son, Jackson, is a marine biologist; and my oldest, Sheila, wants to be a tattoo artist. It’s almost as if my children chose professions that would take them as far away from me as possible. Obviously I don’t have a fucking clue. LouAnn swears that you’re not as stupid as you look, so, yes, I’m actually asking for your advice.”

I feel like this is some sort of twisted job interview. Answer correctly and move on to the next round. Answer incorrectly and you get shoved down the garbage shoot and ejected from the building.

How would my own father respond? Or, better yet, how would I answer my dad if he asked me and Jon this question? After a half-minute, I think I might have a good answer.
 

“What’s more important to you, Mr. Brookshire: Happy children doing what
they
love, or miserable children doing what
you
love?”
 

I see the parallels between the Joy Fromm case and Mr. Brookshire’s personal question. Mr. Fromm’s children, Amanda and Ken, were eager to work alongside their father, even if that meant the destruction of Fromm’s business. Mr. Brookshire’s kids wanted nothing to do with their father
or
his industry.

Is this why he passed the case onto Dillan and LouAnn? He didn’t want to be reminded of his own failures as a father? It’s a long stretch, but it might be true. It also gives me an idea of how to help Amanda Joy and Ken Fromm while keeping them on the Brookshire Mierkle portfolio.

“You know what they say about fathers, right?” I ask him after it appears he doesn’t plan to answer my first question.

“What?”

“A father’s job is to give his children wings.”

He stares at me for a few seconds. “Thanks, Dillan,” Mr. Brookshire says noncommittally. I can’t tell if he means it or not. “The client should be arriving soon. Why don’t you go downstairs and meet them in the lobby? I’ll ask Sheila to open the conference room.”

Dillan

I
ENTER
AND
EXIT
THE
Historian’s office in a matter of minutes. I have no idea why Keira scheduled an appointment with them and they didn’t know either, so after a few awkward conversations regarding the weather—remember, I’m now a weather buff—and how the Washington Nationals are doing and whether or not they’ll make it to the East Division Series, I leave and start back toward General MacWilliams’ office.

On the way, I see someone on an adult-size tricycle. I try to stop them so I can ask where I can buy one, but I suppose running after them and yelling wasn’t the best method for achieving the information. Those things can get up and go.

I can see it now:
Sergeant Keira Holtslander, who happens to be the woman behind the recent scandal regarding Nats pitcher Alec Huffman, was arrested today for harassing a Pentagon mailroom delivery woman for no apparent reason. Find out more tonight during the entertainment portion of the six o’clock news.

One minute, Keira’s a respected soldier, the next she’s a walking punch line for entertainment gossips. Let’s not let that happen on my watch, especially not after this morning’s letter.

I walk through a few more turns, hallways, and corridors and finally arrive at Mrs. Atkins’ desk with three minutes to spare for my appointment with the general.

“Mrs. Atkins,” I say sweetly. Nebraska’s gone and I have yet to see Justin. “Do you know
why
I’m meeting General MacWilliams?”

What I want to ask is if Keira is in trouble. I start moving things on the secretary’s desk. The candy tray. A notepad. She smacks my fingers and puts them back where they were to begin with. “Sorry,” I mutter. Stupid nerves. I’m worried about saying the wrong thing to Keira’s boss. What if I screw up the rest of her life?

“The general’s just returned from an overseas conference. This is your introductory meeting with him, Sergeant Holtslander.” She smiles at me as if she suddenly understands something. “First time meeting a four-star general?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. It’s definitely true in
my
case. For all I know, Keira routinely hangs out and is on a first name basis with lots of four-star generals.

“Thought so. When you speak to him, speak loudly. He’s a bit on the deaf side. Try not to act like you know more than he does, because I can tell you that no one does, and no matter what, don’t
ever
try to clean his desk. You keep those three things in mind, you’ll do fine, honey.” She hesitates for a second. It doesn’t look like she’s finished giving me pointers.

“Is there a fourth point?” I ask.

She smiles knowingly. “You certainly are a smartie. Yes, but I’m afraid it’s a point you’ll have to discover on your own.”

I nod. Someone calls out Keira’s name. He’s in uniform and the name on his chest says BENSON. I try to find what his rank is, but I don’t know what the spread-out bird on his uniform means.

I walk toward him when Mrs. Atkins says, “Colonel Benson, please give this folder to the general. The President’s staff would like him to review it before their thirteen-hundred video teleconference call today.”

God
, I think,
I can’t mess this up for Keira.
If her boss has meetings and video teleconference calls with the President of the United States, then she isn’t some regular soldier off the streets. She’s the best of the best.

But then I remember that Nebraska won a bet off the general. If the man’s making bets with a goofball like Nebraska, how bad can he be?

Colonel Benson shows me into a busy-looking office. The walls are covered with frames, pictures, plaques, and artwork where a lot of people have signed the matting. The general’s desk is just as busy. Multiple piles of folders, books, and stacks of papers sit precariously close to the edge. A large computer monitor sits smack in the middle. I notice that the base of the monitor sits atop a red dictionary. I suppose this is to elevate the monitor to his eye level. Pink, yellow, blue, and green Post-it notes are littered everywhere.

How on earth does he find anything?

Some people work well in chaos. I’m sure a four-star general can do more than most. I study the man currently staring at the monitor.

“Would you like something to drink, Sergeant?” General MacWilliams asks me once Colonel Benson walks out and shuts the door. “I’ve got fresh coffee, soda pop, and those tiny bottles of water.” He has a New York accent.

The general is about the same age as his secretary. He’s a tall black man with very little hair, a hooked nose, and thin, gray eyebrows above lively eyes. The grin on his face suggests that he always has a joke at the ready.

I laugh a little at the
tiny water bottles
remark and sit down in the chair in front of the cluttered desk.
 

“Coffee, if you’re offering, sir.” Mrs. Atkins was right: I force my fingers
not
to pluck the colorful Post-it notes stuck to the side of the desk. There are a couple near my feet, too.

“I must warn you, Sergeant, that when I make my coffee, it’s about as strong as tar. It has the same consistency, too. Still interested?”

“Sounds like a challenge to me. How can I refuse?”

“That’s the spirit!” He pours black lava into two Styrofoam cups and hands me one. I’m slightly worried that the coffee might actually eat through the Styrofoam and attack my hand. Obviously, I’ve watched way too many old science fiction-horror movies.

With both of his eyebrows at attention, General MacWilliams gives me a pointed look. He’s waiting for me to take a sip.
 

“Cheers, sir,” I say and take a sip. It touches my lips and my body does a little shock-shiver. The coffee is like a thousand degrees. “Hmm, good,” I say without trying to scream. I can no longer feel my lips or tongue as I scan the room. I’m hoping to find a place to put the cup, but there’s no clear space. The general’s desk is way too occupied and the small table next to my chair is more or less a repository for more precariously stacked books. And of course the trash can is on the
other
side of the room. So I hold onto it like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Keira’s boss retakes his seat behind the desk, turns his monitor sideways so he can actually see me, and asks, “So, Sergeant Holtslander, tell me about the letters. What have you discovered so far?”

Leaning forward, I say, “That depends, sir. How fond are you of romance stories?”

“How can I resist such an opening?” the general asks cheerfully.

Keira

A
FTER
GREETING
THE
BICKERING
BROTHER
and sister in the lobby, I bring them into the same conference room as yesterday. This time, it’s empty—except I notice that a small bouquet of flowers sits at the front-middle of the table. The same flowers I gave Sheila.

I have to admit, it’s a nice touch.

“Are you going to show us another blank screen presentation, or do you have another trick up your sleeve?” Ken Fromm asks as we sit down.

“No tricks,” I answer. “I want to talk about your father for a moment.”

“What about him?” Amanda Joy asks.

“Was he a difficult man to work for?”

“No, he was just the opposite. I think Ken would agree with that,” Amanda says.

“So he didn’t have a spine or a backbone?” I ask, looking down at Dillan’s notes. I’m not really reading anything, I just want to give the impression that I’m asking standard questions.

Ken hisses. “He was not a weak-willed man,” he says through clenched teeth.

“I see,” I say without much conviction.

“Dad was a master of his domain,” Amanda says fiercely. Her face is white, her lips thin and bloodless. “He was firm in his decisions and not easily swayed by others.” She’s just as protective of the senior Mr. Fromm as Ken is.

“It would appear that both of you inherited this trait from your father,” I say. “It’s no wonder you find it difficult to work with each other. Here’s what’s going to happen. Minus my fee, Brookshire Mierkle will return your retainer. You will not be billed for the remaining three million. I thought I could work with you and turn Joy Fromm into a successful business again, but it cannot be done. Before you storm out of here, I want you to know that this assessment actually comes at the expense of my own job. I can’t fix you. Therefore, I’m out of a job. So it’s an honest assessment.”

“You’re giving up on us?” Ken asks me. It warms my heart that he said the word
us
. So maybe there’s something that can be done. I need them to be desperate.

“Brookshire has never lost a client like this before. I mean, you’re not even trying, young man,” Amanda says. She closes her day planner with a loud snap.