The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

“Yes, I know.”

“And you expect me to find someone to give me, or loan me, fifty thousand dollars…in three days?”

Michael Bassett squirms again, like an impatient penguin. “Well, when you put it like that…” He straightens, clearing his throat. “Well, it was only a suggestion.”

Suggestion was right.

Because there was nothing real or actually feasible about finding one person to fund a new construction project in my bar for more money than I’d seen in a lifetime.

And without the construction, the bar wouldn’t be up to city planning code.

Which means, we’d be shut down.

Closed. Maybe permanently.

Like every other place with personality in this small corner of Manhattan.

I stand to my feet, feeling wobbly the second I make it there.

“Thank you for your help, Michael.” I extend a hand. “It was definitely eye-opening.”

The head of The Alchemist’s construction project takes it, shaking it, new sadness etched into his expression. “You too, Anne. By the way,” he hesitates—a heavy beat, “never got to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your father. I remember the first time he hired me. Good man.” He exhales. “See you on Monday.”

He turns.

“See you on Monday…”

I say the words to his retreating back. But he’s already gone by the time they stop echoing in the windowless office space.

The room falls silent, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.

The sound of Michael Bennet saying my actual name “Anne” still reverberates in my mind—remnants of days when my father was still around. I’ve never really been a Nancy—it was a nickname far too whimsical for such a serious child, but my father had liked it, and so I decided to, too.

Unfortunately, right now, both Nancy and Anne are screwed—the two sides of my personality not exactly playing nice as I put my head on my wooden desk in the aftermath of the disastrous meeting.

Removing my eyeglasses, I exhale against the desk, the slight grooves on the surface lightly scratching the surface of my skin…just as the sound of a knock taps at the door.

I don’t say “come in.”

The blackness in front of me swirls.

“Meeting went that well, huh?”

I groan at the sound of my best friend Sophia’s voice, the timbre of my tone foreign to my own ears, my hair sweating around the edges.

I thread my fingers through the rose gold strands, swiping them back.

“Yup. It went that well.”

I hear her take a step closer. “Red wine-well…or martini-well?”

“Martini-well. It went martini-well. Extra dry, three olives-martini-well, if you don’t mind.”

“Damn. Lucky for you, I already figured we would need the ‘dealing-with-bullshit’ kit. Sometimes I hate it when I’m right.”

The brunette sits on the other side of the desk, and I hear rustling—the rustling of what can only be the makings of the drink I needed two minutes ago.

Two minutes ago, when I realized that I needed to line up another wage cutting. Or meeting with the bank.

Or worse.

Possibly line up a meeting to put an employee on the chopping block.

YouTube owed me a sponsorship, I was using them so much.

I raise my head.

“Soph, you’re the best, alcohol-enabling friend that ever existed.”

She grins back. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Sure. I’ll tell you something you don’t know. How about this? My business is going to close by week’s end. I bet that’s something you didn’t know. Oh—” I raise a finger, pointing it towards the sky, “my brother and co-business owner is going to kill me. He’s going to kill me when he finds out that I botched the only project I’ve ever worked on my own.”

Pulling a martini shaker from a deposited bag on the counter, Sophia shakes it over her shoulder, her hazel eyes widening with each second that passes. She rushes to pour the heady combo of vodka and vermouth into my glass.

“Don’t say another word. I’m pouring. I’m pouring right now.”

“God,” I say as the intoxicating liquid sloshes into the cone-shaped glass, skillfully staying inside its confines. “Can anyone explain why making it in this city is so hard?”

“I think they design it that way.”

“I don’t know how you do it. Selling art to people whose bank accounts could eat mine ten times over.”

“Easy. I just nod, say ‘thanks’ and take the check. You’d do well to do the same.”

“I can’t. I can’t talk to really rich people. My foot’s always in my mouth when I try.” I nudge her. “And you’re probably getting all the practice you’ll ever need. You’re living with Mr. Money Bags himself. You have to talk to those people.”

Sophia scoffs, finishing the filling of her own glass, her pink lips twisted. “Oh, no, no, no. Noah keeps me out of all those real estate events as much as possible. He hates those Richie Rich-types almost as much as I do. And, seriously, I’m a Bronx girl. I’m not used to the Manhattan theatrics.” She pauses. “I take it from the enthusiastic look on your face that construction meeting was a bust?”

“Let’s put it this way: Tonight, I’m a snowball. And getting the repairs we need done to stay in business is a chance in Hell.”

“Ouch. That’s a nice chunk of change that Michael guy forgot to mention earlier.” Sophia frowns. “That construction head is an ass-clown. And you? You’re fabulous at your job. You’ve turned this place into more than anyone ever could have imagined. Fuck that guy.”

I take a sip of my drink. “That’s the problem. Maybe it would work in my favor if I would… Don’t get me wrong, business isn’t bad. But profit margins are low with restaurants and bars. Everyone knows that. I can barely hold on as it is.”

Sophia levels me with a hard stare, peering over the edge of her glass, hazel eyes hot. “Maybe Noah could give you the money…”

“Give me the money.”

As in an IOU.

I was familiar with the concept of IOUs. My father had taught me this lesson well.

I take another sip of my martini, but this one—this sip goes down like acid.

Almost as bad as the