With that Chuck returned to his hunched position, head in his hands.
What else could he say to the guy?
“Yo, Mr. Police Officer?” Jett peered down the corridor for a sign of deliverance.
A fellow inmate roused with a laugh. “You stuck here until they come for you.”
“What happened to swift justice?”
With a sigh, he sat next to Chuck, his ripped tuxedo collar dangling over his shoulder. He noticed two coat buttons were missing. And his shirt was torn and stained red. Wine. Not blood.
He needed to get home, showered, and to work. Put last night behind him. In the annals of yesterday.
He also had two classes this morning, papers to grade, a dissertation to finalize for publication and present to the Roth Foundation Reception in November. His boss, Renée, the literature department chair, had finally put her foot down. Her words, not his.
“The publication of that dissertation means a great deal to the Roth Foundation and the college, Jett.”
Showing up on campus meant he’d have to face Renée. Maybe the English department dean. He hadn’t read far enough in the faculty handbook to know what happened to delinquent professors. Especially ones who ruined another professor’s wedding.
So, this was life at thirty. A divorced man who couldn’t quite find his footing, his excuses no longer able to belay him.
Losing his brother, Storm, that day on the Eiger mountain was hard enough. But when the one person who made his very breath worthwhile walked out . . . well, sometimes it was just too much.
Jett sat back against the wall and succumbed to the fatigue of the past two years.
Could he be tired? Just for a moment?
As he exhaled, his eyes drifting closed, a buzzer sounded. A steel door opened and closed.
Jett sat forward, gently rousing Chuck. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I hear footsteps.”
“John Wilder and Charles Mays.” A uniformed officer swung open the door. “You’re free to go. No charges.”
Jett shot out with a curt nod. “Thank you, Mr. Jailer.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Prisoner.”
In the precinct house, another officer walked him out, handed him an envelope containing his things—imagine, his most prized possessions fit in a manila envelope—and he bolted for daylight. For freedom.
“Jett Wilder.” Chuck followed him down the courthouse steps, his smile burning away his former despondency. “That was lucky. No charges.”
“I’ll take it.” He offered the big man a hearty handshake. “Until the next wedding.”
“May it be a long time away. And about back there, in the holding. I got a bit emotional.”
Jett raised his palm. “No need. It was a long day.”
Chuck shot him a sideways grin and turned to go. “By the way,” he said, coming back around. “Are you any relation to Bear Wilder, the adventure guy?”
“He’s my father.” Jett walked backward toward the curb.
“Your father. What was that like growing up? And didn’t your brother—”
“Chuck.” Jett stepped into the street to hail a taxi. If he hurried, he could make his first class. “We spent one night together. Let’s make a note in our diaries and in years to come, we’ll look back on it fondly.”
“Just asking, man.” The big guy started off in the opposite direction.
“Sorry, but I’m in a hurry.” A cab pulled to the curb. “I have a class in two hours.”
“I was going to offer you a ride home. On the house.”
“Thanks anyway.” Jett slipped into the back of the cab, rattling off his Greenwich Village address.
He dumped the envelope’s contents onto the seat, and a thick, cream-colored card dropped out. He ignored it while he checked his phone for messages—there were forty—and fastened on his watch.
After tucking his wallet into his inside jacket pocket, along with his keys, he examined the card, expecting to find an inventory of the envelope’s contents.
Instead, he found an invitation.
You are cordially invited to the Fifth Avenue Story Society.
The Fifth Avenue Literary Society Library
The Bower Room
Monday, September 9 @ 8:00 p.m.
Jett laughed. An invitation? He flipped it over and back. There was no RSVP or return address. This wasn’t his.
He’d never even heard of the Fifth Avenue Literary Society Library. And in light of his night in a holding cell, he had no plans to say yes to any invitation any time soon.
Chapter 2
Lexa
Getting ahead required courage. All she had to do was muster some from the recesses of her being, walk into Zane’s office, and ask. Or better yet, tell him.
“I’m your CEO.”
He’d posted the CEO position nine months ago and had yet to interview anyone.
To be honest, on the org chart Lexa was nothing more than Zane Breas’s executive assistant. He’d hired her seven years ago when she moved here as a newlywed.
She was fresh out of Florida State business school. He was fresh out of Nebraska launching ZB Burgers, a fast-growing gourmet hamburger chain.
In those lean, early days, there was no organizational chart. From the get-go, Lexa functioned as the executive of the fast-growing ZB Enterprises, the parent company for Manhattan’s hottest new restaurant.
At her desk, she ate her power bar while combing through email. Hers as well as Zane’s. The coming fall season brought one of their biggest promotional events, Zaney Days.
ZB Burgers in cities such as Manhattan, Miami, Omaha, Dallas, and Denver sponsored a family day of fun and food at a local park.
Last year, videos and pictures from their big bash in Central Park with celebrities mingling with “ordinary” people went viral.
The idea began three years ago as her brainchild to marry food with community and to expose hamburger connoisseurs in those major markets to the quality and freshness of Zane’s family recipes.
And it had been wildly successful.
“Morning.” Zane stopped at her desk looking as if he stepped from the pages of GQ. A rich cloud of cologne wafted around him, and the New York Post was tucked under his arm.
“Morning.” Lexa stood, covering her mouth with her hand as she swallowed a bite of power bar. “Your iPad is on your desk. We have a Zaney Days meeting at ten.” She removed the pen holding her twist of damp hair on top of her head.
“What would I do without you?”
Was he charming? Yes. But his Nebraska farm boy swagger gave him an edge. An “it” factor lacking in most young, Manhattan entrepreneurs.
Everyone loved Zane. And if they didn’t love him, they liked him. Respected him.
Lexa considered herself lucky—no, blessed—to be on his team.
After her divorce, work kept her grounded. Sane. Able to breathe when she felt underwater.
Up at five, she exercised, then readied for work, hopping the short subway from her Greenwich Village apartment to ZB’s new Tribeca offices by 6:45.
At her desk by 7:05, 7:10 at the latest, she prepped for the day, cleaned up email, shuffled items from her calendar to Zane’s and back again, answered messages from managers at their more than twenty locations, and reviewed reports from every department.