Chapter 13 – Pleasing the Boss

“Modern marriage all around.” I smile at him, but it feels forced.

Hadrian seems to study us, as he’s seemed to study our every reaction throughout the meal. Probably, I’m being paranoid.

After a beat, he says, “And now here you are. Poised to be a power couple.”

“‘A power couple.’” Elvis raises his liquor glass. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

Hadrian smiles at him in a way that can only be called devilish. “Haven’t you heard, Elvis? God answers to Seymours.”

It’s a c**ky statement, one that would have me saying oh, please if it were uttered out of any other man’s l*ps. When Hadrian declares it, it feels somehow modest.

More importantly, the topic has been broached, and I’m sure the only natural segue from here is into discussions of what Elvis and I could bring to SNC.

Hadrian surprises me when, instead of continuing the conversation, he stands. “Would you care to join me for after-dinner drinks in the game room? I’m not sure if you’ve discovered it yet. It’s off the library.”

He directs the library comment to me, and I know he’s reminding me he saw me there last night. It feels like being scolded. Like I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, even though the library was never pointed out as off-limits. I suppose it wasn’t where I was that was forbidden, but the conversation I’d listened in on. I’d known it was private, and yet I’d stayed.

Is that why we’re still not talking about careers? Am I being punished?

Definitely still being paranoid.

“Love to,” Elvis answers for us, and soon we find ourselves leaving the veranda and heading inside.

The game room, it turns out, consists of a mahjong/card table, a shuffleboard, darts, and a pool table, as well as an antique pinball machine.

“We’re uneven in numbers. We could do cards or darts to be inclusive, but I have to say, I’m really in the mood for a nice round of pool. Do either of you play?” Hadrian looks at Elvis.

Pool is actually a game where my husband and I are evenly matched. But I understand what this is, the same way I understand why game rooms exist more often in rich men’s houses than women’s. This is a male honor thing, a chance for Elvis and Hadrian to whip out their dicks and measure.

Elvis knows it too, and is already going for the pool stick when I say, “I’ll watch and cheer on.”

“But who will you cheer on?” Hadrian stares at me, unabashedly. In a way that most men wouldn’t dare to stare in front of that woman’s husband.

The question is undeniably a challenge, and I’m wary of making the wrong choice. One is my husband. One is a king. In a king’s house, you should always cheer on the king.

But somehow I know that Hadrian doesn’t want flattery for the sake of flattery. “Whoever’s winning,” I say.

“Good answer,” Hadrian says. The right answer, I’m sure from his tone.

The first game goes quickly. Elvis plays poorly, on purpose. He misses shots I know he could make drunk. But he plays competitively enough to make it look close when Hadrian wins. I happily cheer on every sunk ball, no matter who shoots it in.

The second game is much the same, except that now Hadrian invites conversation to the match. “If you were given a time slot at SNC, what would you imagine you’d do with it?”

As producer, Elvis is usually the one of us who pitches, but as he’s concentrating on the balls, I jump in. “Much like New Jersey Now but on an international level. Spending time each night in different states across the U.S., giving national attention to local issues, and not just the issues that affect federal politics. I don’t think viewers realize how common some city level concerns are, whether you live in New York City or Portland or Atlanta. Likewise, I don’t think some viewers realize how national policies can affect communities so differently.”

“In a time when the nation is looking for unity, it’s exactly the show that should be produced.”

Hadrian takes his turn, asking his next question as he lines up his shot. “Same format? A team of regular anchors?” He makes the shot then lines up the next.

“No. Just one.”

Hadrian hits the ball then stands to deliver his full attention to me. “Just you?”

I hope I’m imagining the condescension in his exp**ssion. “Yes.”

“Brystin is why New Jersey Now works,” Elvis clarifies, eager to sell me “right.”

“Do you believe that?” Hadrian asks me, ignoring Elvis.

“Yes.” I answer boldly. I know I should say more, speak up for my chance. Convince him to give me this shot.

But I can hear my heart pounding in my ch*st, and my hands feel clammy, and all I can think about is how much Hadrian sees when he’s staring at me like that. How I think he can see everything. How I think he knows more from his eyes than from any words I could give him.

“You’re a local reporter, in a small state, with a small following, considering what larger states see in viewership. You think there isn’t another person with more experience who should do the job?”

“You need more women-helmed shows,” Elvis says. “That’s a fact. Your demographics are begging for it.”

“It’s your turn.” Hadrian barely gives him a glance before he’s back to me. “Jessa Jones, for example. She’s here this weekend because she’s bored. She wants something more challenging. This sounds like a perfect project for her.”

She’s my idol, a woman who would own any show she helmed. And I know how this business works. I know the reality of how people get promoted. I’m not at the level to be asking for my own show yet. Our best hope is for Elvis, a man with experience, to be asked to produce and for me to come on as one of the off-air reporters. That’s the realistic path.

But I have a fire in my belly, and this is my show. My idea as much as Elvis’s. It was made for me.

And I have the benefit of what I overheard last night. “Jessa Jones will draw viewers, no matter what show she’s anchoring. But she’s already earned her audience. She earned it with Samuel in charge, and so any project she’s on will succeed because of him. I would have to work to earn mine, and that’s what you need. Someone who comes in fresh so that any success will be attributed to Hadrian Seymour. If you want more of the same, sure. Go with someone more experienced. If you want to make your name, if you want people to know you’re more than just Samuel Seymour’s son, then you make me a star. We make me a star, and you’ll get all the credit.”

Hadrian’s exp**ssion is guarded, and I can’t read his reaction. Behind him, Elvis looks equally unsure, and I’m abruptly struck with doubt. My bravado is gone, and I hate myself for having spoken up at all. I should have left it to Elvis to sell me. He knows how to talk me up better than anyone I know.

After what feels like a lifetime, Hadrian turns so he can see both of us. “You make a good case. More for the position I’m in rather than for yourself, but a good case all the same. It’s still a gamble.” He glances down at the pool table. The game is even at the moment, each of them having sunk two balls. “Tell you what. We play out this game. Elvis wins, we can negotiate a show. I win, I go with the tried and true.”

He gives that f**king devil’s grin again. That grin that says he knows he has all the power. That we’re just entertainment. That things that would make a real difference in our lives are as trivial to him as a game of f**king pool.

I hate him.

I hadn’t known until just now, but I’m sure. I hate him. He plays the good host and makes my girly parts tingle when he eats me up with his eyes and flaunts his ability to make things happen, but I hate him. Part of me wants to tell him to f**k off. Wants to pack up my things and leave with Elvis tonight.

But the thing I hate most is that the other part of me, the bigger part of me, wants to stay. Wants to win. Wants him to give me this chance. I’ll even get on my knees and thank him. Every day of my life, if that’s what he wants.

Elvis doesn’t hesitate. “Sure. It’s on.” He doesn’t hold back any longer. He sinks three balls in a row.

Though Hadrian won the first game, he truly did seem the poorer player. Seems he was holding out as well, because he also sinks three balls. Then he sinks a fourth. He misses on the fifth, and the turn goes back to Elvis.

I no longer cheer for either of them. I sit quietly, my stomach in knots, my hands clasped in prayer position at my l*ps. Please, I say to the universe. Please, please, please.

Back and forth it goes, until all that’s left is the eight ball.

And it’s Elvis’s turn. One shot is all there is bet**en us and our dream future.

He lines it up, he shoots. The black ball goes in the pocket……immediately followed by the white ball.

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