Numbers were Liam’s toys. Ever since he was a little kid, when his mother brought home a pocket calculator, and he realized that he could do simple sums in his head faster than she could punch the numbers in, he’d felt like math was his language. He could have gone in all sorts of directions with it—programming, robotics, physics...but even more important to him than the joy of working with numbers was the need for him to convert that math into cold, hard cash. He always knew it was an MBA or nothing. He knew he would run a business, he didn’t really care what kind, just as long as he made a ton of money doing it.
It wouldn’t have surprised anyone who knew him to find him at a party on a two-hundred-foot yacht, hiding in the guest cabin, smoking a joint and running numbers for Harrington’s skyscraper job.
The Per Se dinner had paid off; the official request for proposal, RFP, had come in earlier in the day, and his chief estimator was already starting to put together the budget. Liam had hired an excellent chief estimator but he knew he wouldn’t rest easy until he double-and triple-checked every digit himself. In the end, he’d only trust his own numbers. They hadn’t failed him yet.
He took off his jacket and sprawled out on the bed, smoking and scrolling through charts on his iPhone, almost forgetting where he was, except for the mild bobbing sensation of being on the water. They were berthed in the Chelsea Pier. The developer who owned the boat never took it anywhere, just kept it docked, his own private tax break, and threw blowout parties every month so that he could write off the yacht as a business expense. They were always the same: Katz’s Deli and Jean-Georges would cater, pastrami sandwiches and half-sour pickles at one table and caramelized foie gras brûlée and egg caviar at the other, the open bar was all top-shelf and the champagne would be flowing. Little silver candy dishes of rolled joints, edibles, pills and coke were left out like so much potpourri, just there for the taking. Some B-list pop star would be performing on deck, and everyone who was anyone in the industry, plus a bevy of scantily clad models, actresses and socialites, would be there.
Liam had enjoyed these parties a lot more when he and Jay used to go together. In the beginning of their partnership, when Liam was still learning the ropes of the business, Jay used to force him to go to every party, lunch, golf game and strip joint that they were invited to. “It’s all about networking,” Jay had told him. “It won’t matter if you’re a financial wizard if these guys don’t like you. And they’re not going to like you unless they know you. You’ve got to show up and play the game, my friend.”
And Liam did. He showed up and, with Jay’s help, he pressed flesh and laughed at jokes and kept his secret derision for most of these guys buried. And if he ever got too quiet, or tried to retreat to some dark corner, Jay was always there to drag him back into the light again, make him rejoin the party and engage with the sweaty masses, as he jokingly called them.
Liam knew he should be doing the same thing right now. He should be up on the deck, getting coked up and dancing with a stripper/actress. He should be telling dirty jokes and bragging about his cars and beach house and his last trip to St. Bart’s. But he’d put in a good couple of hours already; he’d made the rounds, he’d shown his face, and without Jay there to tell him otherwise, he’d decided he’d earned a little bit of a break to do something he really enjoyed.
He took another hit off his joint, closing his eyes for a moment, and felt the sway of the boat, heard the thump thump thump of the bass playing on the deck and the sound of people laughing and yelling just outside the cabin in drug-and alcohol-induced glee. He wished Hana was here. She absolutely refused to go to these parties anymore after she had her ass grabbed by a local politician and Liam had tried to break the guy’s nose. But she understood that he needed to go.
Liam smiled to himself, imagining her sitting up in bed, wearing that long white nightie that he liked, thumbing through the stack of back issues of The New Yorker she kept on her bedside table. She wore her glasses in bed. They were big and clunky and constantly slid down her nose. Her feet were probably cold. She always complained that she couldn’t get them warm if he wasn’t in the bed with her so she could tuck them under his thigh. He kept quirks like this about her cataloged in his head and enjoyed pulling them out to examine every now and then.
He opened his eyes and sighed. It was near midnight, but really the party was just getting started. He should get out of this room and join in some more if he wanted to stay on the radar. After all, he still had the money he’d made with Jay, which was a fortune by most standards, but that didn’t mean he could sit back and relax while he was launching this new business. Never rest, stay on your feet, keep your eye on the ball, Jay had repeated it like a mantra. And Liam was sure his old friend was doing just that—maybe he wasn’t here tonight, but he was definitely somewhere, working the crowd, remembering everyone’s name, making sure everyone liked him. And Liam couldn’t fall behind.
He took one last toke and then stubbed out his joint and pocketed his cell phone. The cabin opened up into a huge room, complete with bar and lounge and a great view of the water. Everywhere he looked, overly tanned men with slicked-back hair and expensive suits sat with scantily clad women, drinking and laughing and groping. One guy was doing blow straight out of a woman’s cleavage. Liam would bet there wasn’t an actual wife or even a girlfriend in the place.
He grabbed a glass of champagne as he made his way through the room to the upper deck. Tonight’s pop star, someone he didn’t recognize, a young, pretty woman with a huge pink Afro of a wig, writhed on stage and shout-sang all about her broken heart as a dozen guys stripped down to their shirtsleeves and undershirts sweated and danced with a bunch of women who Liam was pretty sure were hired strippers.
“Hey, Maguire, what’s going on, my man?”
It was Sal Delmonico, the union head, smoking a fat cigar and wearing the ugliest tie Liam had ever seen. Liam bit back the urge to turn his back on the guy and walk away.
“Hey, Delmonico,” he answered instead, finishing his drink.
“So I heard you got the official request for proposal on the Harrington job?”
Liam shook his head. How did this guy always know everything as soon as it happened?
Delmonico grinned, guessing what Liam was thinking. “Just got my ear to the ground, my friend.”
“Apparently so,” said Liam. “You know so much—who else got invited to the table?”
Delmonico took a drag on his cigar and then let the smoke trickle out of his mouth. “The usual crowd.” He shrugged. “The only one I can’t figure is that Steele chick. Remember her? For some reason Harrington’s bringing her in.”
Liam lifted his eyebrows. He did remember Bridget Steele. They used to bid against each other before the whole Scarlett Hawkins thing hit the fan. He didn’t know her personally, but she was an outsider like him, and if the stories were true, she was funny and tough and a real boss lady, not afraid to mix it up with all the assholes in this industry. But if she was up for the Harrington job, she was just one more person he needed to get rid of. “She’s good,” he said. “Why shouldn’t she come in?”
Delmonico sneered. “She’s a bitch. Someone ought to tell Harrington that she’s poison to work with.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Don’t tell me. You must have had something to do with shutting down her work on Scarlett Hawkins’s project.”
Sal smiled and it was just about as ugly as his tie. “Maybe,” he said slyly. “But whatever happened, trust me when I tell you that the bitch brought it on herself.”
Liam once again held back an urge to walk away. He knew guys like this. He’d grown up with them. The kind of guys who simply didn’t believe that a woman, no matter how smart or accomplished, could ever be as good as a man at anything that really mattered. Women were bitches, whores or wives, and that was it.
Delmonico disgusted him, but he might be useful.
He flagged down a passing waiter and handed Delmonico a fresh glass of champagne. “Tell me more.”