April 14, 2019

Hard Truth - Stephen

Another excerpt from my first fiction novel, Hard Truth. Available now from Amazon (.com or .ca), Barnes & NobleIndigoWalmartiTunes, and Google Play

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Stephen was a short man with thin shoulders, pointy elbows, and a ferocious comb-over. He sat in a leather guest chair and picked at his cuticles. He suspected the chair alone cost more than one of his mortgage payments. The monstrosity looked like it would swallow him at any second and his knee bounced up and down in quick staccato pulses. His business partner, Thomas, if you could call him that, was on the phone with someone who, based on the end of the conversation he could hear, was not his wife.

"Listen, babe, I’m going to have to call you back, all right?" There was a pause and then a high-pitched squeal. Thomas moved the receiver away from his ear and when the squealing subsided but the phone back in the crook of his neck. "Listen, babe… babe… babe, listen."

His voice rose with each syllable. He pressed the mute button and muttered expletives directed at no one in particular. Stephen folded his hands in his lap and looked over his right shoulder out at the vast expanse of New York City. He tried to envision what the home of the mistress of a wealthy businessman looked like.

Unmute. "No, I’m sorry I raised my voice, it’s just that I have a client here and it’s important…" Pause. "No, you’re important too. It’s just that..." Pause. "I understand." Pause. "I love you too, babe. I’ll be over after I hit the gym so you can get all sweaty and wet after I get all sweaty and wet." Thomas hung up his phone, raised both his hands palms up, and shrugged. "Chicks, eh?"

"Yeah, I hate it when they get all up in my grill like that," Stephen deadpanned.

Laughter echoed off the windows of the large corner office. "Did you seriously just say ‘get up in my grill’?"

"It’s urban. I can be urban."

"No, Stephen. No, you can’t be urban. You’re about as urban as John Deere. You’re a wet noodle, man, but that’s okay. You’ve got a great idea and we’re going to make a green and yellow truck full of money together. Then we’ll get you a protein shake, a gym membership, and a high-priced whore. You’ll look and feel like a million bucks!"

"Only a million?"

"Now that’s the fucking spirit, Steve-O! Smack the table and yell it."

He shrank into the chair. "What?"

Thomas slammed both of his hands down on the mahogany desk. "Only a million?" He brought his hands down onto the hard surface again, this time with a loud smack that shook the Tiffany lamp and elicited a flinch from Stephen. "Only a million? Come on, do it, Steve. Show me what you’re made of!"

Stephen reached out and smacked his palms down on the hard surface. “Only a million?” He sat back a concerned look as he stared down at his palms.

"Don’t worry, buddy, the cleaning ladies do a great job here. The best job. Now look here at the contracts and tell me what you think."