Page 54 of Broken Brothers

Morgan wasn’t kidding or fucking around, it seemed. He really, desperately, truly wanted to get out of the family business—so quickly, in fact, that he’d already hammered out a deal with Claire on Saturday, she just wanted to see me face to face.

This, in turn, made me wonder if Morgan had given me something of an easy slam dunk to work with. Despite Claire’s cold stare, despite her probing questions, despite her hints at knowing what had happened, she was also surprisingly quick to decide to work with us. Maybe that was in keeping with her character.

In any case, though, things finally looked up—we had our first deal. I didn’t need any damn leader or connection to Edwin Hunt to make it happen.

I emailed Morgan the good news. By the time I got to my apartment, he’d already written back.

“Congrats. No resting on our laurels. Got another lead, and it’s much bigger—$5 million for 10 percent.”

It’s nearly like the Taylors all over again.

Good.

Redemption.

24

The numbers danced in my head as, at the time, I wished I had danced on Thursday.

When I thought of the original deal that Burnston Investments could have given me for the Taylors, I had visions of conquest and victory in my head. It seemed inevitable that I would emerge victorious, given how Layla all but loved me, Craig smiled and shook my hand, and even John Burnston liked me for that time.

And then…

Well, let’s just say that false hope had a cruel way of crashing down.

But no longer. That was in the past, done with, forgotten. Well, not forgotten, it was too recent. But new success had a way of pushing the negativity of the past behind in rapid fashion.

At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.

I knew that, like a schizophrenic just recently brought to medical care, I sounded delusional. One moment, I was on top of the world, happy as could be at the prospect that maybe everything had happened the way it was supposed to happen. Maybe this all was actually a blessing… and then, less than a fewmoments later, I was lamenting everything, the “truth” of the moment weighing down on my heavily.

But what was I supposed to do, pick a side and just go straight ahead? It felt like my world kept flipping because my world really was continuing to flip. Not even a whole damn month had gone by from when I told Layla I loved her to now. Everything that happened in between was so insane, I’d have to write a book about it someday.

I could stay grounded the only way I knew how—by doing work. Yes, even at Burnson Industries, when it felt like I would never get anything done, I could stay focused for at least a few moments at a time just by focusing at the work at hand. The problem with that particular deal was Layla’s name kept popping up, or at least her last name, and there just wasn’t a lot of work.

That wouldn’t be a problem here. This new lead that I would get when I got home would almost certainly be unaffiliated and unconnected to sex, romance, or even women. If the organization giving us this staggering offer was led by a man, that would be all the better.

The subway ride home went by like a blur, both literally in how fast the train moved and in how my mind processed everything. I only realized I had come to my stop after the doors had already opened and the sea of people piled on, making my movement off the train like trying to fight a herd of stampeding bulls rushing into a river the side of my apartment door. The PA announcer drolled on about standing clear of the closing doors, a voice I had long learned to shut out even at twelve years old.

When I got out, I continued to be in my own little world. The brisk fall sky of New York City did nothing to shake me from my thoughts. It seemed like nothing would.

Until I saw her.

Upon first glance, it just looked like a curvy woman from afar checking her phone, her professional attire blending in with the rest of New York City’s young professionals. But when I looked back ahead, I knew what I had seen, and I could not help but turn my head toward her once more.

Layla Taylor.

When I looked at her, I was surprised to feel like I wanted to approach her. I suspected this had less to do with sheer physical attraction—which I still had, though not to the degree I once did—and more because I had never gotten satisfactory answers to the one question dominating them all.

Why?

Why had Layla sold me out? Why had she manipulated me like that? Why had she cried when she insisted I say that I loved her no matter what?

Sure, she had given me some answers in the form of “I had to” or “it’s business” or “you wouldn’t understand.” I knew how the art of the deal worked. But even in that moment of unbridled rage, I saw them for what they are—deflections, attempts to avoid the tough questions, logical thought overrun by emotions I didn’t care to digest. They weren’t the real answers.

But right now, in looking at Layla—who looked worn down, wearing a weary expression and a hunched over body that suggested difficulty in where she was—I knew I was not ready to face her. I still felt visceral, real anger. I could not have an adult conversation without slipping into petty insults.

I walked ahead, keeping my eyes deliberately straight ahead, the better so Layla and I would not accidentally make eye contact. I put my phone up to my left ear so maybe it would block my features. I—