If I’m going to get married – which is very unlikely at this point in my life – I want it to be an equal partnership. I want somebody who can challenge and push me. Somebody who can complement my strengths and offset my weaknesses. I want to be with somebody who wants to be with me for who I am. Not just for the sort of luxurious lifestyle I can provide for them.
But because of who I am, and my aforementioned notoriety, most of the women I cross paths with are of the latter variety, rather than the former. For me, that ideal life I used to entertain notions of is no longer a viable option. It’s something out of a fantasy realm that doesn’t exist anymore – if it ever really did. It’s a realization that makes me a bit melancholy; I’m not going to lie
“I’m more focused on the company right now,” I sigh. “I’m not looking to get involved with anybody, man.”
“You’re a smart, capable guy Sawyer,” he responds. “I know you can multi-task –”
“I’m just not interested, Rider.” My tone is harsher than I intended. “I don’t want to get involved with anybody. I’m trying to get my house in order and keep my priorities straight. Right now, I need to focus on growing and expanding Compass.”
He looks at me for a long moment then nods, knowing he’s not going to be able to change my mind. He wisely turns back to his beer and drops the issue rather than keep pressing it with me. Rider knows better than anybody that pushing me will only make the situation worse. He’s seen firsthand how much of a bastard I can be when somebody doesn’t heed that advice and keeps pressing an issue I don’t want to talk about.
Our conversation tapers off, and the sudden tension in the air between us casts a pall over the rest of what had been a good day.
Chapter Three Berlin
“You have to do something,” she cries. “You can’t let them just toss us out onto the street like garbage.”
“I’m going to do what I can,” I promise her.
“Please, Miss Roth –”
I take her hand and give it a tight squeeze. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep, Maria,” I reply. “But I’m going to do what I can.”
The older Hispanic woman looks up at me through eyes welling with tears as she nods and shuffles back to her seat. The desperation is etched deeply into her face – into the faces of everybody in the borough board room. The fear and uncertainty permeating the air is palpable, and I swallow hard. The chamber, which seats a couple hundred, is standing room only tonight, which for me, underscores just how important this issue is – there are literally hundreds of lives hanging in the balance.
The weight of the burden resting on my shoulders suddenly hits me, and it’s heavy. Though I’ve done advocacy work for low-income people ever since I earned my law degree, I’ve never handled an issue this important before. I’ve never had so many people depending on me. If I fail, there will be hundreds of people – families – who are going to be out on the street with little money and few options.
The borough president, a stately African American woman, named Margaret Carver, raps her gavel and calls for quiet. She and the other board members exchange curious glances with one another as they survey the crowd. Sessions of the local zoning board rarely garner a crowd this size. But I felt it important to show them just how many people this decision impacts, and to put a personal face on it, which is why I encouraged all the residents of the building to attend. And to my delight, it looks like most all of them have.
As I survey the chamber, my eyes fall on two men sitting well off to the side of the room, almost hidden behind the throng of people, who look way out of place among the blue-collar crowd. Both are in obviously expensive and well-tailored suits, have hair that’s perfectly styled, and just reek of money. The taller of the two – a large, fit man with dark hair, dark brown eyes, and sharp jawline I could see despite his facial hair – looks familiar to me for some reason. There’s something about him that calls to mind somebody I knew a long time ago, but I can’t quite grasp the foggy memory of who it might be that’s floating around in my head.
“We’re ready to begin,” Carver intones, her voice echoing through the speakers mounted around the chamber. “Everybody please find your seats and settle down.”
It takes a long few minutes and some impatient rapping of Carver’s gavel, but the room finally grows quiet as everybody settles in. I cast a look around, more than satisfied with the turnout, but as I look at the faces of the residents, I feel a flutter of nerves in my belly. The sheer weight of this responsibility settles down over me once more.
But I took this responsibility on, and I intend to see it through. I will fight like hell for these people because they don’t deserve anything less – and they certainly don’t deserve what Compass Development is trying to do to them.
I
