CHAPTER TWO
“What time is it?” Mason asks me.
I’m wearing my grandfather’s watch. It’s as uncomfortable on my wrist as the dress shirt and jacket on my shoulders. It’s as uncomfortable as these stiff dress shoes. I wonder again if I should stay where I am in the company hierarchy, where I could keep wearing jeans. But thinking like that, here and now, is avoidance. Self-sabotage, according to Bridget.
I was even dumb enough to ask Bridget, yesterday, about the whole jeans-versus-suits thing. She told me it wasn’t even a real distinction. If Mason gives me the promotion, I’ll probably only have to wear nice clothes when I’m in the office or have meetings, and the rest of the time I can dress casual like I do now. Then she told me to stop being a whiny fucker. Those were her exact words: whiny fucker. Then she punched me in the arm. The arm punching didn’t have anything to do with me self-sabotaging — she’d already berated me about that earlier. It was just because she’s a bitch. Which is why I love her so much.
“It’s 12:45.”
“Okay, good.” Mason grins. He’s not a jovial man, so I take this as a good sign. Mason is loud, and most of what he says is barked. I get the feeling that if you’ve known him for long enough, those barks carry a lot of affection, much like the way Bridget keeps kicking me for my own good. But for three years now I’ve been one of the grunts, and the few times I’ve been on the receiving end of Mason’s barking, it was obvious I needed to snap-to. I’ve never been talked to as an equal by Mason — probably because I never have been. Although maybe he’s always this way and I’ve been taking it personally. Maybe I’m not a fuckup. I’m here, after all, aren’t I?
I don’t know what Mason thinks is good about 12:45, so I tag along behind him like a dog and say nothing.
The Life of Riley office isn’t large, but Mason’s bustling manner makes it feel like a labyrinth. Most people could tour the well-appointed but contained building in five minutes, but Mason strikes me as the sort of man who prefers to solve a maze by trying every path. We went through a large room filled with cubicles ten minutes ago. There was one main hallway down the center plus all the little alleys between the cubicles themselves, but we walked each inch of every alley. I now know every person who works at HQ, from the receptionist to the guy who empties the garbage. I don’t remember anyone’s names. I’m trying to keep up and pretend these nice clothes suit me, to not look like some sort of brainless meathead who deserves to live and die in construction.
“This is Margo,” Mason barks then grins. “Be nice to Margo. If you get the vice presidency, she’ll be your Gal Friday.”
“Not literally,” says Margo. She’s a tall woman with jet-black hair and glasses that seem like a fashion accessory rather than a necessity.
“Not literally,” Mason repeats. “She works Monday through Thursday too.” Mason barks laughter and I try to play along, but he’s not looking in my direction, so I feel stupid. “Nah. I mean she’s our site coordinator.”
“Also not literally.” Margo seems good-naturedly annoyed with Mason. I get the feeling that’s a common reaction to the company’s boisterous, somewhat domineering owner. Mason has always struck me as the kind of man who loves you when he loves you but won’t hesitate to tear the head from your shoulders if you screw up. A good ally, and a terrible enemy.
“Well then, how would you describe your job?”
“Think of me as a project manager.”
“Gal Friday,” Mason says, nodding, as if Margo said the same thing.
“Fine.”
“Anyway, Margo, this is Brandon Grant. He’s applying to be our new VP.”
“Land Acquisition?” Margo says, and her eyebrows go up.
“Right.”
“So you’ve decided?”
“I said he’s applying.”
Margo rolls her eyes at me when Mason looks away. I get the feeling this might happen a lot but that no one lets him see it. An obvious move, but dangerous.
“I meant, you decided we finally need someone to head Land Acquisition.” Margo turns to me. “I’ve been arguing that we need this position for years.”
“Yes, yes. It’s all Margo’s doing.” Mason shifts his weight, moving from foot to foot, then gestures at me. “Brandon is currently project head on Stonegate Bridge.”
Margo nods, her lips pressed together. “Nice community. Who did you work with on the land for that one?”
“Terry.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’d have helped you out if I’d known, but I’m stretched thin.”
Mason seems bored by this apparent insult to Terry. He keeps looking at his watch. I think he has an appointment at 1 p.m., but that’s an assumption. We met at 11:30, and lunch took about an hour, but time has been dwindling during what probably could have been a much faster tour. Now, he seems distracted. Knowing Mason, his appointment, if he has one, could be at 1:07 instead of one sharp. No fewer than three times during lunch, he told me that if he wanted to do things the way others did them, he’d have looked for a job instead of starting a company. He told me that an intelligent person has to be flexible, able to think outside the box and, perhaps most importantly, recognize and readjust when they make mistakes.
Mason nods at Margo, who tells me it was nice to meet me and sits. Apparently, our conversation is finished.
But so is the tour, it seems, because the next time I peek at my watch it’s nearly one, and I’m sitting in Mason’s office without specifically remembering taking a seat. He’s still standing because that’s what Mason does, and I’m still juggling that curious mix of awed, eager, nervous, and intimidated.
“I’ll be honest, Brandon,” he says. “Like Margo said, we’re at the stage where we really should have had someone dedicated to Land Acquisition for a while now. Until now, we’ve just had … well, you know, you scouted Stonegate. But that’s not the job of project head, and it’s sure not the job of foremen. So we’re ripe for this, and I’m down to a short list of applicants. You’re a good candidate. I like your ambition. Most of all, I like what I hear about your integrity, which is rare, and your solid ability to make smart decisions, which is even rarer. But you’re still new to leadership and untried as an executive, and my records keep reminding me that you were swinging a shovel just two years ago. So I don’t know. There’s a few other people internally who’ve been looking for something like this — it’s a wheeling-dealing job that means getting a lot of new connections. Have you considered the connections you’d get as VP of Land Acquisition here, Brandon?”
“Not really.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I like you. I don’t think you’re angling for something better. It doesn’t feel like a stepping stone for you from where I’m sitting.”
“Okay.” I’m unsure how to respond. Is my lack of ambition a good thing?
“How long have you been with Life of Riley?”
“Three years, sir.”
The “sir” feels a bit phony on my tongue, but the moment seems to demand respect. Luckily, Mason doesn’t mock me.
“You strike me as two things above all else. I think you’re loyal, and honest. Land Acquisition is a perfect position for a sniveling, oily shit, but I don’t think that’s you.”
“Um … ” Again, I’m not sure if I’m being insulted or praised, if I’m being given pros for my candidacy or hearing cons.
He picks up a file — my file, apparently — and starts flipping papers. “You started laying bricks. We kept moving you up, though. Three years to project head is fast, given our size and rate of expansion. If I may be frank, you’ve had chances to screw us when you were shoved in to negotiate things that were above your position, and again that’s our fault because we’re growing quickly. But you didn’t screw us, even though you could have. You did your job. And you stayed where you were without complaint, content to pay your dues.”
“Thank you.”
“The mark of a good second man is the ability to make hard decisions. That’s even truer for the big boss, and it’ll be a few weeks before I make mine. I like you, Brandon, but don’t want to say anything either way, so let’s just leave it at that. I’ll talk to the others; you keep impressing me in the meantime. Make me believe I can’t not hire you. Does that sound like a deal?”
I allow a smile to form on my lips as I nod. It’s a small smile, but now that I’m here, I’m wondering if Bridget was right. Maybe I don’t give myself credit for all I’ve accomplished and what I’m worth. From where I’m standing, I’ve always been a normal working Joe. At first, I mixed concrete and operated big machines, then I started working with surveyors and architects, walking land for possible purchase. I used to only talk to the other construction guys, but then I started talking to bankers and investors. I’ve taken it for granted, but the way Mason talks, that’s not how things usually go.
“There’s just one problem,” Mason says. He sits behind his desk in what I suspect is meant as a power chair. He’s not a master manipulator but does manage to intimidate people by default, as if he has a gift. Right now, his face is serious. I don’t see any more praise or complimentary words. Now I only see gravity.
Something is wrong.
“What’s that?” I ask, my breath going shallow.
“That beard. I don’t know that I can have a veep with a beard.”
I’m about to respond seriously when he laughs and stands. His hand is out, presumably to shake goodbye, when the office door rattles.
I figure it’s Mason’s assistant, but instead the newcomer turns out to be the most breathtaking girl I’ve ever seen.