At Mr. Cartwright's Command (17 page)

MR. CARTWRIGHT

“
Y
our breakfast, Master Cartwright.”

I groan as I roll on to my back.  It's dark in my room, but a sliver of light peeking through the heavy curtains tells me that the night is long over.  Looking up at Alfred and only seeing a blur of skin and gray hair tells me that I'm still drunk.

Ronald sighs.  “Sit up,” he instructs me.

“What if I say that I can't?”

“Then I would say that you're older than I am.”

I would laugh, but that would make my head throb even more.

“Here,” he says placing the tray over my lap.  “Eat this and drink the shake, all of it this time.  You'll feel better instantly.”

Not that godawful shake again.  I hate the taste but yet, I tell him to make me one multiple times a week for the past 8 months. 

As I attempt to pull myself up against the backboard, Ronald moves across the room and opens the blinds.  And at that moment I'm convinced he must have fucking dementia because who the hell thinks more light is a good idea at a time like this.  I feel like a vampire and I'm pretty sure the sun is going to make me melt and not sparkle.  I shut my eyes instantly, using my arm to block out the light.

“You crazy old man.”

“Indeed,” he replies.  “You've got to stop these self destructive habits or you really are going to age prematurely.  You're already sprouting grays.”

“What,” I mouth, looking upwards, as if I can see my own hair. Ronald just stands there, laughing at me. I swear only he can get away with shit like this.

“Eat.  Enjoy your breakfast, then get up. Exercise, maybe.  Just
do
something.”

“You get paid either way, why do you care?” I ask, my mouth half full of food.

He sighs in the doorway.  “Because somebody has to.”

I cock my head to the side.  “Fair enough,” I mumble as I take another bite.

I look down at my tray and realize something important is missing.  “Ronald,” I call out.

“Yes, Master Cartwright?” he replies from down the hall.

“Where's my newspaper?” I ask casually as I finish my food.  He doesn't reply, which I find to be odd.  “Ronald?”

I see his shadow in the doorway. “I... unfortunately it didn't arrive today.”

Oh really? My eyebrow arches high on my forehead.  Alfred is a terrible liar, but the question is, what exactly is he hiding?

“Ronald, please bring me my newspaper.”  Again, silence. “It's alright if you spilled coffee on it again,” I say.

He returns and his entire demeanor has changed.  Did he honestly think I wouldn't notice?  He knows better than anyone that the paper is essentially a part of my breakfast.

“Care to explain what's going on?” I ask him.

“I was hoping to hide it from you until after breakfast.”

“How long after?”

“A couple of years after, preferably.”

I hold out a hand as I chew.  “Bring it to me.”

He reluctantly makes his way back to the side of the bed, pulling the paper out from inside his sport coat and places it in my hand.

I glance down at it – it's in perfect condition – and then back up at him.  “Is there something else I should know?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

He doesn't look at me, he simply says, “Turn to the society pages.”

The Society Pages; the dregs of society, as they should be called.  I haven't set eyes on that section in years and never would care to again. But the look on his face makes me curious. With furrowed brows I flip through the newspaper, a lot more urgently than I'd care to admit.  My eyes scan the page for a moment until I see it. 

With my chin in my hand I sit, staring at that photo of her and I for far too long.  I'm suddenly more aware of how empty and cold the other side of my bed is.  Holding her, tasting her again, somehow completed me if only for a few seconds.  I was so close to getting her into my limo, getting her back into my bed, and then she just crushed everything again.

The alcohol was supposed to numb my pain, so why do I feel this goddamned swelling in my chest?

I ball of the paper in my hand and throw it to the floor.  My eyes meet Ronald's for just a split second, but he looks away.  Yeah, I can be fucking childish sometimes. No one knows this better than me.

“Tamara is a special woman,” he says.

My eyes flutter up to him again.  “I'm aware, why do  you think I keep trying to get her back?”

Ronald's face contorts a bit.  I study him confusedly for a moment because, probably for the first time ever, I don't understand what he's thinking.

“I think there's something you're not saying.”

“Master Cartwright, when I was a much younger man I met a boy, who was significantly younger than I was at the time.  He was very rich and had everything, and I,” he stops to chuckle,  “well, I had nothing.” Why he thinks this is funny I'm not entirely sure, but he continues, “But I was never envious of him. Do you want to know why?”

I'm about to roll my eyes – I don't exactly have time for story time right now, but I entertain him anyways.  “Why?”

“Because despite all of the riches he had, he had no freedom.  He thought he did, but at the end of the day, it was money that controlled him and not vice versa.”

“Thank you for sharing, Ronald.”

Ronald sighs, his eyes downcast. “Thank you for
listening
, Master Cartwright, I hope you take what I said to heart,” he says as he exits the room.

“Crazy old man.”

I shift on to my side and look down at the floor and that crumpled up piece of newspaper.  Someone is following me, spying on me.  And I know exactly who it is.

TAMARA

T
here's nothing I hate more than being a charity case. Funny, since that's practically all I've ever been my entire life.  I was one to Mr. Cartwright, and now I'm one to Melissa and Connor, even after my actions nearly ruined their business.  And sure, I worked for them, I earned at least part of that money, but the severance package they included on top of my regular pay is generous and I know it.  I felt disgusting when I deposited it this morning, knowing it would soon be gone with the rest of my meager savings.

I spend the remainder of the day at the library, updating my resume and looking or job openings online.  Positions are scarce right now, but oddly enough there's an opening at that same McDonald’s where I used to charge my phone.  I guess that's the universe's way of bringing me full circle.

I'm back in my apartment for less than 15 minutes before there's a knock at the door.  I'm not exactly sure who it is, but knowing my luck it's probably the landlord coming to say he's raising the rent or evicting me for some cockamamie reason. It sure as hell isn't a friend or a relative because I don't have any of those.

I say a short and silent prayer before cracking the door open with the chain still on.    When I do there's a man standing there in a black suit and tie, with a white shirt and sunglasses.  He almost looks like secret service, if it wasn't for the hat. 

“Can I help you?” I ask suspiciously.

“Tamara Pierce?” he asks.

How does he know my name?  “Um, yes?” I reply tentatively.

“Please follow me, there's a visitor waiting for you downstairs.”

Okay, he has a lot of nerve if he thinks I'm just going to follow him without any more details.  “Who are you?” he asks.

“I'm Mr. Cartwright's driver.”

Mr. fucking Cartwright.  Just hearing his name makes me see red.

“Nope,” I reply, slamming the door shut in his face.  Very rude, I'm aware.  The man is just doing his job, but I'm not here for that.

He's persistent, much like his employer. He knocks on the door again. And again after that, waiting a few beats each time.  When it's pretty clear I'm not going to answer he starts knocking repeatedly and it's damn annoying.

“Tell Mr. Cartwright he's the last person I ever want to speak to again,” I shout as I open the door once more.

The man looks to the side and says. “Uh, why don’t you just tell him yourself?”

Good point, I'll give him that.  “I don't want to see his face again. Ever.”

“He told me to come up here and knock until you speak with him.”

Can't say I'm surprised.  I groan, realizing this guy isn't going to give up. I think about threatening to call the cops, but honestly, I wouldn’t mind giving Mr. Cartwright a piece of my mind right now.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“He's out front, in his limo.”

I nod, thinking it over for a moment.  Is being seen with him publicly right now really the best idea?  Does it even matter either way since I don't have a job?  Beyond that, I'm worried that if I see him I might seriously try to kill him.  But maybe that's the motivation I need.

“Alright. Tell him I'll be down in five minutes.”

“Certainly.”

I close the door and put my game face on.

*

That familiar black limo is parked right outside the door of my apartment building, complete with the driver leaning casually against it with his cap low over his eyes.  As I make my way toward it he gives me a nod, opening the door wide for me.

Well, here goes nothing. I slip inside, more than ready to rip Mr. Cartwright a new one for messing up my life. But then I turn towards him and—

“Hello Ms. Pierce.  Let's go for a spin,” says Walt with a coy grin.

My heart nearly stops.   “What... how...?”

Oh, that's right. He
is
Mr. Cartwright.  Mr. Cartwright Senior. Clever.

Before I can appropriately react the door slams behind me.  My eyes dart between him and the window.  What the hell was I thinking just jumping in the limo like this?  It's a choice I instantly regret and I start to wonder if Walt is actually dangerous.

It only takes a few seconds before the car starts rocking as it pulls into traffic.  Walt is chuckling, seemingly self-assured about something; I'm not sure exactly what. 

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask tentatively.

He laughs a little too hard at that, his round stomach jiggling underneath his too-tight double breasted sports coat.  “Just what kind of man do you think I am?”

“I don't think you want me to answer that.”

He chuckles some more.  He sure is jovial right now, but why?  “I enjoyed the little blurb about you and my son in the society column today.”

I study his eyes for a moment.  “You planted that, didn't you?”

“Now why would you think that?” he asks, sinking back against the leather seats.

“Because you want the wedding called off.  You're trying to stop Mr. Cartwright from getting his trust.”

“And exactly why would I want that? That trust isn't my money, it was his mother's,” he says. 

My brows furrow and I ask, “Mr. Cartwright never mentioned her.”

“Hmm, that's probably because she's dead,” he says crassly.  Mr. Cartwright never mentioned that either. “You see, my son might project a certain air that grubby little gold diggers like you fall for easily, but he doesn't own one single thing that's actually his.  Not his inheritance, not his money, not that fancy house of his upstate or the even fancier one across the pond. Those all belong to me, and I intend to keep them that way.”

If anyone is a bigger jerk than Mr. Cartwright it's his father.  At this point, I don't even take his insults seriously.  But I do notice he leaves out one important property of Mr. Cartwright's.  “And what about the penthouse?”

He pauses, his arrogant demeanor cracking just slightly.  “Penthouse?”

I resist the urge to laugh—I guess Mr. Cartwright does have something of his own.  “Oh, nothing.”

He studies me for a moment.  “I don't know what kind of games you're playing, Ms. Pierce, but you aren't going to ruin my family legacy with it.”

I roll my eyes at him.  “Well then you'd be happy to know that I dumped him. Again,” I say with plenty of disdain.

“I'm not surprised; my son has never been terribly smart.  And you seem to have some sort of weird hold on him that I just can't figure out.”

“Did you bring me here just to insult me?”

“No, that's not the
only
reason,” he says.  He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his smart phone, complete with a stylus. He doesn't take his eyes off it as he speaks.  “Let's play a little game. The name of the game is called, how much does it cost to keep you away from my son for good? And by 'for good', I mean forever.  I'm going to let you pick a number, if it's reasonable, it'll go straight to your bank account today.” He looks up at me and continues.  “Shall we begin?”

I shake my head.  “I don't want your money.  I'm not some charity case.”

“Indeed, you're not.  This isn't charity, it's a business deal.  Not that you have particularly solid business skills considering the fact that you can't even hold down a minimum wage job.”

I'm instantly defensive.  Minimum wage? I made more than minimum wage at the flower shop and—wait, how does he know I got fired? 

“You don't even have a job, you're already living in a dump, and you're refusing money.  You think it makes you noble but all it makes you is pathetic,” he continues. I swear, this asshole makes me want to stab things.

“I don't want your money,” I repeat, emphasizing each vowel.  “So are we done here?”

“No, we're not.  You aren't thinking straight, Tamara.  You're always so worried about pride, and what exactly do you have to be proud of?”

I'm at a loss for words. 

“Go ahead and answer me. What do you have to be proud of, Tamara?” he asks, scanning me from head to toe.  “Your mother was a junkie, your father is non-existent, you have no education, no job, and no money.  What do you have to be proud of?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Oh look, I found some.

He laughs.  “There she is.  There's that little spitfire.  Now name a number and we can end this.”

“Pull over and let me out.”

“No, this is New York traffic, sweetheart.  Even just once around the block is going to take a while.”

“You can't keep me here against my will. I'll go straight to the police and tell them you tried to kidnap me.”

“I'd love to see you try.  I'd love to see how they react when you tell them one of the richest men in the city attempted to abduct you and give you money.”

I don't condone murder, but I've never wanted to wring someone's neck as much as I have Walt's.  And that's saying a lot.

“You're trying my patience.  Name your price.”

“I don't want your fucking money!” I shout.

“You see, that, my dear, is why you will always be poor. You will always be broke and you'll end up right back on the streets where you belong, because you don't know how to do what it takes to pull yourself out of that little hole you're in,” he says.  “Name your damn price, Tamara.”

“Ten million dollars,” I throw out arbitrarily.

“You're losing.”

“Should we make it twenty?” I reply sarcastically.

“You need to take this seriously.  What you say next is going to determine your future.  Which door are you going to choose?”

The car bumps and hums beneath us.  He's an ass, but he isn't wrong.  The devil on my shoulder tells me to take him for all that he's got—it's not like he needs the money and he'll probably just use it for evil any ways.  Is it really worth going back to the streets, just for my pride?

But what about my dignity?

“One hundred thousand dollars,” I announce. My voice is small and defeated. I feel like I'm selling a part of my soul the second the words leave my mouth.

“Now that's more like it,” he says as he turns back towards his phone.  “However, you short changed yourself a bit.  So let's make it two for good measure.”

Two hundred thousand dollars? I'm not even sure how much money that is.  My brain can hardly process the number.  I remember a time when just $200 was a goldmine to me.

I sit in disbelief and watch him punch a few numbers into his phone.  Surely this is some kind of trick. I'll get home and find my back account to be the same, if not less than it was before.

“Done,” he says, closing the case and stuffing his phone back into his pocket. It can't be that easy, can it?

“Now this comes with a few simple conditions.  You leave the state until after the wedding.  Take a vacation or a trip somewhere—God knows you've never done anything like that in your life.  Hell, leave the country, you could use it.  And
if
you come back, don't so much as
think
about my son.”

“I can do that.”

“You better, because if you don't, I'll have that charge reversed in an instant.  And if you've spent a portion of it by then that will put you in some deep shit.”

I nod slowly as I listen to him. I should feel good and I should feel free, but I actually feel like absolute shit. Not because I have to stay away from Mr. Cartwright—that I had planned to do anyway.  But taking this blood money makes me feel like I'm validating what a horrible person he is.

“Can I go now?” I ask.

“Sure.  I'll have the driver pull right back up at your door.”

“That's quite alright, I'm sure I can walk.”

He shrugs.  “Suit yourself,” he says, tapping on the divider.

The car instantly slows and I pulls up to the curb.  As soon as it's at a full stop I reach for the door.

“Don't forget, out of town, ASAP,” he says.

Like I could ever forget that.  I push the door open and exit on to the street.  But then I pause for a second and peep my head back inside the car.

“One more thing,” I say to him.

He looks up at me.  “What would that be?”

“Mr. Cartwright's first name.  I want to know what it is.”

He looks amused, and well, I don't blame him.  “It's Owen.”