The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

when I ordered the car—just as the funeral procession begins.

I shake an avalanche’s worth of rain off my suit, approaching the small gathering. With wet hands, I slick my dark hair back, doing my best to blend in.

I join the rest of the mourners without another word. Mouth dry, my shoulders slumped, I stare everywhere but inside of the coffin.

Everywhere but where my dad lays.

It’s too much. And he’s too dead. But so is the future of my real estate company, unbeknownst to my brothers.

And I stare back at the damn green grass, hating it.

I wish I’d brought my Stephen King novel from the car instead of the flowers. Because fictional horror was better than this factual one any day.

I made it to my “meeting” on time. But in the back of my mind, I know I’m still too late.

The past I’ve tried to escape is like a stain; it settles on my skin like a tattoo. Staring at my father’s coffin makes sure of that.

Coming back home bloody drunk wasn’t as hard as I thought; coming back home when it’s too late to say goodbye?

That’s the worst part of all.

Chapter 1

NOAH

PRESENT DAY

Manhattan, New York City

Friday evening

I found out there are worse things than being a dead man walking. And that’s being a dead man walking with no money.

I never thought I gave a shit; I really didn’t.

But when the company you inherited was on the brink of collapse, and the life you’d known was slipping out of your hands, as a man? You only had two options to cope.

And I was already knee-deep into choice number one.

You could drink as much as you could take. Consider that choice checked.

Or you could fuck the most beautiful woman you could find.

And I thought I was close to doing that. But then the woman I’d found spoke.

Becky Callahan clearly never learned the beauty of silence, and as she sprawls in my hotel bed’s thousand-count sheets, half-naked, it is all I can do not to carry her off.

It’s still early evening, the sun barely set.

As a chilled sleet settles over the city of New York, I sit in the seat opposite the bed, my hands wrapped around a scotch, tuning out the pixie’s pleas to the sounds of Frank Sinatra on the stereo. I sigh.

“So, you’re, like, really rich, aren’t you?” The blonde sprite yabbers.

I blink. “I do alright.”

“The size of this hotel room tells me that you’re doing much more than alright. Just look at the size of that bathtub!” she exclaims, pointing a finger towards the tub. “You can fit three of me in there.”

Not with the size of that mouth.

I let Frank drown her out.

Truth is? I didn’t need Becky for the night. Just for the next few hours while I wait.

But that wait is over the second my cell phone rings, and I stroll over into the bathroom while Becky and Sinatra keep singing in the background.

I close the door behind me.

“Quinn here.”

“You sound like shit.”

I grunt. “G’day, Cynthia. Nice to hear from you, too. Please. Feel free to verbally kick my teeth. I may have some wounds that need salting, if you’re free tomorrow.”

“You sound like sexy shit. Is that better?”

“Much.” I sit on the edge of that gigantic tub, the room swaying as the scotch works its seductive magic.

I give into it, needing it more than my next breath. Needing it more than I need a Becky blowjob or anything else.

I’ve been waiting for Cyn’s call all day, and I can’t wait any longer.

My two months is almost over, and if we don’t have a partner to invest in our latest deal, it’s a certainty: The Luxe Manhattan co-op building will go belly up and bring our company with it.

The scotch is still in my hand, settled on my knee. I sip from its dark edge, swallowing the bitter bite, still trying to calm down as I wait for my attorney to give me the news it took two months of negotiations to find.

I already know the answer is not going to be good.

I finally ask. “Have the Knudshorns called at all?”

She sighs. The sound is loud in the empty bathroom and I shift on the edge of the tub, wishing I could stick my head inside of the scotch glass. Cynthia at last responds.

“No. They’re like all the others. Disappeared. And trying to recover after Chris Jackson and Jackson Enterprises’ indictment for fraud and money laundering.” She scoffs. “As if we knew he was defrauding every damned company on the East Coast. Including us.” She pauses. “You’ve been asking about the Knudshorns a lot lately. Anything new going on with them?”

“Not particularly.”

Other than the fact that they backed out of partnering with us for the only deal I need to keep Quinn Real Estate afloat. Just before signing the contract.

Without another investor to finance the debt we took to buy The Luxe’s building, we’re on our own. We’ll have to pay the debt ourselves.

A subtle detail I don’t tell my company’s top lawyer.

And Cynthia exhales, her raspy voice tight, taking on that same schoolmarm strict tone that I know so well. I batten down the hatches for the barrage of scolding to come.

“‘Not particularly’? That’s quickly becoming your favorite two words. Seems you’re not particular about anything these days. Except for the why’s, when’s and where’s of how to get your dick wet.”

“Come on, Cyn.” I sigh immediately, a migraine circling the edges of my head. “I’ve been having a shit day already. Don’t even start.”

“I didn’t start with you, Noah. And that’s the problem. I didn’t start when you came off the plane two months ago half-drunk. I didn’t start when you showed up completely bombed, smelling of scotch at your brother’s engagement party. And I didn’t start yesterday when you snapped at another client. Now I could start with you today. But then I’d have to finish…with the better part of my heel up your ass.”

She bites the words off like