Strictly for Now by Carrie Elks

CHAPTERTHREE

MACKENZIE

My apartment is small but perfectly formed and I feel lucky every time I walk inside. Finding somewhere to live in New York that’s not a rat-infested closet and is actually affordable is harder than finding a date after the age of thirty.

Maybe Allison’s boyfriend should develop an app for that.

My phone is ringing before I can even take off my stupidly high shoes. I kick them into the air and drop onto my gorgeous sofa that cost me more than three months’ wages but is so worth it. It’s cream and velvet, and sitting on it feels like a warm hug after a long day. Then I swipe across my phone to accept the video call and try to push my annoyance down because it’s not my mom’s fault that I have such a strong reaction to her.

Okay, maybe it’s a little bit her fault. But a lot of it is just down to circumstances.

My screen flickers into life and four boxes appear and it’s then I realize it’s a family group chat. In the top corner are my parents. They’re still both wearing make up which means they’ve only just stopped filming for the night. My dad looks like he’s wearing a kaftan. My mom is still wearing her skating outfit.

And of course she looks fabulous the way she always does, even though she’s almost sixty.

Nobody at work knows my parents are Nancy and Greg Gauthier. If I said those names I’d be treated differently. My mom was America’s skating sweetheart in the 1980s, winning the Ladies’ Figure Skating gold at the Olympics twice in a row. And then she fell for my dad, the captain of the US hockey team, and the rest was history.

The country swooned when she gave up competing to follow my dad around, getting married and pregnant with my sister, Isabella, within a year. I came next, followed five years later by Brad and Johnny – my twin brothers.

Or as hockey fans know them, the Danger Twins.

“It was a bad hook,” my dad is saying as I join the call. “But you gotta avoid those confrontations.”

“He was asking for it,” Brad says, looking angry.

“Doesn’t mean you have to give it to him,” Dad says.

“Anyway,” my mom cuts in, smiling widely. “How is the training going, Isabella?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.” My sister rolls her eyes.

Like my mom and dad, Isabella appears on Ice Stars, the latest reality show to rock the nation. But unlike my parents – who are judges – Issy is an ice dance partner to one of the celebrities who takes part. This year she’s skating with Justin Royle, an ex-boyband star from the early 2000s. I haven’t caught the show at all, but from what I hear he’s got two left feet and spends more time on his butt than his skates.

And I know exactly how that must feel.

Growing up in a third-generation skating family isn’t the best if you freeze – literally and metaphorically – as soon as you’re near ice.

They’re still talking among themselves, and I’m seriously considering quietly leaving the video call when I hear my name being said.

“Sorry?” I blink. I don’t even know which one of them said it. I’m so tired.

“Did you watch the game last night? What did you think?” my dad asks.

“The hockey game?”

My dad looks exasperated. “Yes. Was it a foul?”

I look from him to Brad, whose jaw is tight. He’s always been the more vocal of the twins.

“I had to work last night,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Well it was a foul,” Dad says to Brad. “End of.”

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?” I ask hopefully. “Because I need to go to bed.”

“Oh no, honey.” My mom shakes her head. “I told you it was about Gramps.”

I know she did, but I was really hoping whatever it was that Wayne Gauthier – my dad’s dad – had done, wasn’t going to affect my night.

“He needs surgery,” my mom says.

“Okay.” I nod. “That’s a shame. I’ll send him some flowers.”

Mom and Dad exchange a glance. “And he’s got a little trouble at work.”

Gramps is eighty-eight-years-old and is still working. He bought a hockey team in West Virginia twenty years ago, when everybody else his age was starting to enjoy retirement and taking cruises.

But hockey has always been Gramps’ life. The same way it’s everything to my dad and my brothers.

After years of being the most famous hockey player in Northern America he can’t bear to let go.

“What kind of trouble?” I ask.

“The IRS kind.”

I let out a low breath. “What does his accountant say?”

My dad shrugs. “He fired him. Says it’s his fault.”

“His office manager then?”

Mom wrinkles her nose. “He fired her, too.”

“And he’s about to have surgery? How long will he be out for?”

“At least three months. He’ll need to go into a nursing facility to recover.”

“Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry,” I say. “What’s he going to do about the IRS?”

There’s a little shift in everybody’s posture on screen. Like they’ve suddenly relaxed. It takes me a minute to figure out why.

Because I’m asking questions. They think I want to help.

Oh hell no.“Listen, I think there’s somebody at my door. I need to go…”

“You’ll help him, right?” Isabella asks. “It’s Gramps.”

I blink because Isabella and I so rarely interact. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me.

“Of course she will,” Brad agrees. “She knows we can’t do it.”

“We can’t,” Isabella says. “Not with our filming schedule and your game schedule.”

“And let’s face it, even if we were available we’d be terrible at it.” That’s Johnny. Okay, so he’s not my favorite anymore. “None of us know how to run a business.”

“But Mackenzie does,” Brad says.

I swallow hard. “I also have a job,” I say. One I’m hoping to get a promotion in as early as next week if all goes well.

“You could take leave,” Isabella says hopefully.

“I don’t have three months leave.”

“Pretend you’re having a baby. Or women trouble,” Brad says.

I roll my eyes at him.

“Honey, please.” My mom looks at me in that way only moms can. And yes, I’m thirty-six-years-old and a successful consultant in a dog-eat-dog industry, but it still works.

And I feel guilty.

“I can’t,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”

Five sets of eyes are trained on me, looking at me as though I just killed their favorite puppy.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. But I’m not giving in this time.

My dad breathes in sharply. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll regroup on this.”

It’s only when we end the call that I think about the expression that was on his face.

He looked exactly the same way he did when the US hockey team was down three-two against the USSR in the Olympic finals.

And then came back to win four-three and take the gold medal.

* * *

Every time I walk into Warner Power’s beautifully maintained lobby I feel like I should pinch myself. My shoes – not three inchers this time – make a beautiful clacking sound on the marble floors as I head for the bank of elevators, past the twenty-foot long reception desk manned with five assistants who all wave at me, and the thirty foot palm trees – real by the way – which are planted in huge terracotta pots a New Yorker could comfortably live in.

I hear my name being called out and I turn to see Rachel running toward me, her dark hair streaming out behind her.

“Wait up,” she says, leaning on me to catch her breath. Rachel and I met on our orientation day back when we first joined Warner Power as fresh faced graduates. We shared an apartment for a while, before she moved into an apartment with her first – but not last – asshole boyfriend. Not that I can tease her about them because I’ve had a few of them myself.

She’s the only employee at Warner Power who knows about my family. Mostly because Brad and Johnny knocked at my door drunkenly at three a.m. one night, and I had to explain why two six feet underage lookalikes were stumbling around our living room.

I was twenty-four then, and they were in their freshman year at college. Both with scholarships, and were celebrating a win against Cornell. When I’d finally persuaded them to sleep in my bed, I’d sat down with Rachel and admitted that I’d changed my name from Gauthier to Hunter.

And yeah, she knew the name. Everybody does. But she didn’t change her attitude toward me one bit the way people usually do.

Years later she admitted she Googled my old name. And found out about the incident that shall never be spoken about. And true to her word, she hasn’t mentioned it since.

Did I tell you that I love her?

“So how did the call with your mom go?” she asks when she finally catches her breath. She’s still leaning on me as I press the button to call the elevator.

“My whole family was there,” I tell her and she grimaces. “They want me to drop everything and go help my gramps in West Virginia.”

Rachel frowns. “Seriously?”

“Yep. He’s having surgery and the IRS is breathing down his neck. So they want me to make everything better.”

The elevator pings and we walk inside. “You said no, right?” There’s disbelief in her voice. I’d like to think it’s because she can’t believe they even asked but deep inside I know she doesn’t believe I’d turn down my family.

“Yes I did.” There. Take that. I feel powerful.

Her frown melts away. “Seriously?”

She knows I struggle with not being able to say no to my family. One of the reasons I avoid talking to them whenever possible. “I’m absolutely serious,” I tell her. “It was hard but I did it.”

She throws her arms around me. “I’m so proud of you.”

I wrinkle my nose but hug her back anyway. “Shaddup.”

We stop at the second floor and two guys walk in, blinking when they see we’re in the middle of an embrace.

Rachel lets me go. “Just making sure she’s warm enough,” she tells them, then pats my arm. “Yep, perfect body temperature.”

They give her a weird look then start a conversation between themselves about Bitcoin.

“Sorry,” she mouths at me.

“It’s okay. You give good hugs.”

She grins because she knows I’m right.

When we walk out onto the first of Warner Power’s three floors we’re faced with Carmine, our receptionist and security guard. He tips his head at us and then holds up his hand.

“Miss Hunter?”

“It’s Mackenzie,” I tell him for what must be the hundredth time.

He nods. “Mr. Power left a message. He’d like to see you at nine.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Rachel lets out a low whistle as I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter to nine right now. We usually get in at seven-thirty, but they gave us a late start after last night’s party.

“It’s gotta be your promotion,” Rachel says as we walk down the hallway to our offices. “The only reason Power sees people is for firing and promotions.”

“Who says he isn’t going to fire me?” He could have heard about yesterday’s debacle with the phone call. Maybe Mark even went to complain to him about me getting called out of the room during the biggest speech of his life.

“Of course he isn’t. You’ve been the biggest biller of the team for the last three years. You’re his cash cow. It’s a promotion for sure.”

“I hope you’re right.” I sling my purse onto my desk and shrug off my jacket. It’s not that I think I’m going to get fired. I just don’t like things out of the ordinary. Especially things that involve my boss’ boss. Kenneth Power doesn’t get involved in everyday things. He doesn’t spend much time with the staff that works for his company. As the outward facing owner, he schmoozes CEOs to win more clients. He’s been known to fly in spaceships with eccentric billionaires – yes, he was on that flight.

What he doesn’t do is make small talk with employees who aren’t even partners.

Even though every cell in my body is crying out for a caffeine hit, I don’t have time to grab a coffee. I head to the bathroom instead and grimace at my reflection, wishing I’d taken the time to do more than put a dab of concealer on the shadows beneath my eyes and slick on some lipstick.

Which thankfully hasn’t transferred to my teeth.

Small mercies, right?

Mr. Power’s office is at the far end of the building. It’s in the corner, which gives him two views of the city, both equally stunning. As soon as I arrive at the outer office where his three assistants sit, I’m ushered inside, and am absolutely relieved to see that he’s smiling at me.

People don’t smile before they fire you, do they?

Well maybe sadists do, but I don’t think he’s one of those. Oh god, now I’m imagining him in a leather suit holding a whip and I think I’m going to be sick.

“Take a seat, Mackenzie.” He nods at the leather chair on the other side of his desk. As soon as my behind hits the butter soft upholstery, it gives in an expensive way.

It’s not too hard, not too soft. Now I know why Goldilocks put up with the three bears.

“I expect you’re wondering why you’re here,” he says, steepling his fingers. He has these milky blue eyes that seem to bore right through you.

I don’t know how to answer this question. If I say yes, he’s going to know I’m anxious. If I say no, I’m going to look like I don’t care about my job.

“Well I—”

“You’ve been holding out on us,” he says, a smile still playing around his lips.

I shift on the chair. “I have?” Rachel wasn’t lying when she said I was the top biller of the entire team. What more does he want me to do, chop my fingers off and offer them as sacrifice?

“Yes you have, Miss… Gauthier.”

Oh. OH! How does he know my old last name?

His eyes haven’t left my face.

“I can explain…” I stutter.

“No need. Your father told me all about it last night,” he continues, tapping the tips of his fingers together at the top of his spired hands. “I have to say it’s admirable that you don’t want to succeed because of your family name. So many people today expect to get a leg up on the corporate ladder just because their parents are rich or famous.” He smiles benevolently. “Of course you could have confided in me. I would have kept your secret. I’ve been a big fan of your grandfather and your father for years.”

Of course he has.

“My father called you?” I say, my voice thin.

“It was funny, actually. We were just getting ready for bed. He was lucky we weren’t already asleep. My wife likes us to retire early.”

My mind does a quick calculation. Our family call ended at ten-thirty last night, and I’m almost certain my dad didn’t have Kenneth Power’s direct phone number in his little black book or Rolodex or whatever the heck he stores numbers in. Which means he probably phoned my boss’ boss after eleven last night.

Oh the mortification of it.

“I’m so sorry he called you so late,” I say. I can’t wait to tell Rachel about this. The anticipation of her appalled expression is the only thing that’s keeping me going right now. I’m thirty-six years old, why is my dad calling my boss?

Except deep inside I know. And that makes me even more embarrassed.

“Oh don’t be sorry. It’s not every evening that you get a phone call from the amazing Greg Gauthier.” Mr. Power is beaming. It’s scary. “He promised to send me a signed photograph from your grandfather, too.” His voice lowers. “By the way, I’m so very sorry to hear about your grandfather’s health. I grew up watching him play. Every boy in my school wanted to be Wayne Gauthier when we were playing hockey.”

I’m smiling but it hurts.

“Anyway, enough fan boying.” His cheeks are bright red. “Your father told me about your predicament.”

“My what?” I ask, my voice strangled.

He doesn’t seem to notice. “He explained all about your family problems. That your grandfather desperately needs you.”

I open my mouth to reply but no words come out.

“And that you said you couldn’t because you were worried about your job.”

A sense of doom is pushing down on me. Of course my dad called my boss. Nobody says no to Greg Gauthier.

Or rather he just chooses not to hear when they do.

“So we came to an arrangement that I think will make you happy.” Mr. Power smiles.

That’s when the fight goes out of me. They’ve made a deal. Dad’s probably offered him an executive box at his favorite team, or something like that. He’s the best at giving out favors when he needs something from somebody.

When I graduated college he kept wanting to find me a job with one of his ‘friends’. And no, that’s not a backhanded way of saying he’s pimping me out. He genuinely loves being the one that connects people. Add that to the fact that he’s a man who always gets what he wants and my fate is sealed.

“You’ll still be a Warner Power employee, of course,” Mr. Power is saying. I can barely hear him over the rushing of blood through my ears. “And when you’ve finished the project, we’ll definitely be looking at a promotion. It’s great publicity for the company. We’re lending one of our top consultants to help save Wayne Gauthier’s team. Pro bono. I’ll talk to the PR department to see what we can do to leverage this.”

“Oh God. Please, no publicity,” I say.

His smile finally wavers. “What?”

“I don’t want people knowing who I am,” I tell him. This is my hard limit. “I worked hard to get to where I am today. I don’t want anybody knowing that I’m part of the Gauthier family.”

He looks like a wounded puppy. “But it would be so good for the firm.” He runs his fingers along his jaw then looks up at me. “How about we don’t tell them who you are but still get the publicity? We’re still lending our best consultant to a team in need. I’m sure the PR team can make that work.”

But that’s not how publicity works. I know that all too well. Journalists don’t stop sniffing around, not when they sense a story.

And I don’t want to be anybody’s cheap enjoyment over a coffee. Not again.

“I don’t think that would be possible.”

“We’ll see,” he says, and I know that this is already a done deal. I’m going to West Virginia whether I like it or not.

And I don’t. I hate it. I’m furious at my father, and at my mom for not stopping him. Hell, I’m also angry with Isabella, Brad, and Johnny because they have jobs that mean they can’t easily be moved to help Gramps.

I’m the odd one out. The anomaly. And this is really, really bad.

Note to self. Get horribly drunk tonight. Because next week everything changes.