Digging a Hole Read online

  “Please, Georgie? Please?” Abi begs. “We could eat lunch together every day. I can help you with anything that gets in your way, and you can help me.”

  Abigail is shy but doesn’t need my help. She’s been finding her way just fine this last year, heading up several organizations at the university we attend here in Houston. Shyness may have brought us together, but she’s left me in the dust. Still, just knowing she’ll be by my side if I get the internship might be the lucky charm I need.

  “Okay. I’ll interview,” I say, thinking I’m going to need to make an appointment for my hair tonight. My sister Claire, who’s a super-girly girl and summer-highlights addict, has someone on call—Fabiana—so I’ll try her.

  “Yay!” Abi cheers. “I’ll text you the details.”

  “Thanks, Abi. But please don’t get your hopes up.” I pause. “Well, unless you’re hoping I’ll pass out. Then your prayers might be answered.”

  “Georgie, just think—”

  “Sydney,” I correct. “You can’t forget to use my fake name.”

  “Sorry. Sydney, just think positive.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Not like anything could possibly go wrong with using a false identity to work at a company I practically own.” And if you believe that, I have a unicorn to sell you.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Four and a Half Months Earlier.

  “Dad, what’s happening?” my older sister Claire asks as our private jet, bound for Miami, seems to be dropping altitude quickly.

  I look up from my window seat, where I’ve been busy studying for my statistics final coming right before winter break in about a week. Honestly, I don’t even know why my father, the infamous Chester Walton, insisted we all come on this trip. I’ve got a ton of classwork, and it’s not like he needs me for any of these public appearances.

  I don’t speak.

  I don’t even appear.

  I just stand in the background, hoping to God no one notices me, and they usually don’t.

  Speaking of noticing, now that I’m paying attention, the plane is dropping a little fast, but we’ve been in the air for almost four hours, so it’s probably just time to land.

  My father, whose seat faces us, is relaxing and reading a paper, which only confirms nothing’s wrong. Except, when I glance over at Claire again, her usually pale face is terror-white.

  “Dad?” Michelle prods, looking equally petrified. She’s the second oldest and two years younger than Claire, who’s twenty-six. Henry comes third on the totem pole of siblings, though he’s off at some out-of-state football game. Not like he would’ve come had my father asked, since those two do not get along. My dad always envisioned all his children working by his side in the family business, but Henry has his sights set on the NFL.

  Sitting beside me and white-knuckling the armrest, my mother, Georgina—who I’m named after—looks worried too. For the record, my sisters and I all look like her with our brown hair, medium heights and builds, and big eyes, except mine aren’t brown. They’re green like my father’s and Henry’s, the two blonds of our family. Girls brown. Men blond.

  “Chester?” my mother says. “Go check with the pilot and see what’s happening.”

  My father keeps his perma-frown directed at the paper. “There’s nothing to worry about, dear.” He folds the paper in order to get at the lower half.

  “This is ridiculous.” My mother unbuckles her seatbelt and gets up to go ask the pilot herself. As she passes, my father’s hand whips out and catches her wrist.

  “Sit. Down. Georgina,” he growls. “I also suggest you fasten your seatbelts. Immediately.”

  Standing sideways and facing my father, my mother blinks. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but she must know something I don’t because she goes from looking concerned to looking petrified—brows pulled tightly together, brown eyes wide, face sheet white.

  “No. Chester, no. You promised,” she hisses.

  With a sinister look in his eyes, my dad beats her down with a single word. “Sit.” My father can say a lot with just his tone. It’s a skill he’s acquired over many years of cutthroat business tactics that have made our family one of the wealthiest in the country. These last few years he’s been diversifying into green energy and pharmaceuticals—miracle drugs specifically. But don’t let that fool you. He’s all about the money. It’s his life. And if he gets to crush skulls while making it, even better in his mind.

  I watch my mother return to her seat, pointy chin held high. She’s trying to hide her emotions, but the quivering bottom lip gives her away.

  “Mom?” I turn to her, speaking in my quietest voice. “What’s happening?”

  Her hand slides over the armrest and pats my leg. “Your father has lost his marbles, and I believe he’s kidnapping us.”

  “Huh?” I turn my entire body in her direction. I’m not sure I heard her correctly.

  “Children.” She clears her throat, glaring at my father like she wants to rip out his soulless green eyes. “Please know that I have nothing to do with this. Your father has not been feeling well lately and is supposed to be on medication. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but he promised to take his pills and apparently changed his mind.”

  Whatthewhat?

  “Mom? Dad? What the hell are you talking about?” Claire looks like she’s about to be sick.

  Meanwhile, I finally look out my window and notice the ocean. And I don’t mean it’s twenty thousand feet below us. I see white caps and waves almost at eye level.

  Oh shit! We’re going to hit the water.

  I open my mouth to say something, but the plane slams forward and everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Present Day.

  Don’t pass out. Your family needs you. Don’t pass out. Your family needs—

  “Sydney!” I hear Abi squeal from across the lobby, where I’m sitting with seventeen other applicants, who I assume are all students like myself, hoping to snag the coveted Nick Brooks paid internship.

  We’re all wearing our best ill-fitting adult clothes—you know, the kind most students buy off the rack from a discount clothing store that makes us cringe because we’re spending what little we have to look like our parents. Or at least to look responsible enough to convince someone to give us a job. But, of course, my clothes are Neiman’s finest from my sister Claire’s closet—her hand-me-downs. Not that I can’t afford expensive clothes, but she loves to shop and wear nice things. Once. Whereas I must be forced to buy clothes, and when I do, they never meet my mom’s approval. Long comfortable knit skirts or jeans, T-shirts, flip-flops. I’m an Old Navy poster child. Cheap Target sweats and shorts are great, too. “Not to Walton standards, Georgie,” my mom always says. But she knows the only way I’ll wear mom-approved clothes is if they come from Claire since I hate waste. I’m so green that the trees are jealous, a result, no doubt, of my guilt over our oil fortune. Okay, and maybe watching WALL-E too many times when I was about ten. I figure, though, that someday I’ll get over this curse of being overly self-conscious and timid, and when I do, I’ll use my wealth to do something good for the world.

  I stand and watch Abi sashay across the white marble floor of the sprawling lobby that has huge windows and pale gray walls. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s in a plain black suit and white button-down blouse. Coincidentally, my exact same outfit and hairdo. Only now I’m a honey blonde.

  “Hi, Abigail.” I extend my hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  She catches on that I don’t want everyone to know we’re close friends. Because we’re not. Georgie is her friend. I’m Sydney Lucas. Smart, outgoing, and from a regular family who is not currently trying to have their father declared legally insane for kidnapping his children and wife last year and then subjecting them to cruel and very unusual yoga.

  Abi winks. “Yes. Such a pleasure to see you again, Miss Lucas.” She shakes my hand, stifling a smile. “Please follow me.”


  I notice the other interviewees discreetly sizing me up. And cue jitters, stomach cramps, and rapid breathing. It’s all part of this big, glorious, scary-ass package known as me.

  I follow Abi past the turnstiles, where she scans in, and we head to the elevators. There are five on each side, ten total.

  “Jesus, this place is huge.” Much bigger than I’d imagined and almost the same size as our corporate headquarters across town.

  We step inside an empty elevator, and the moment the doors close, Abi turns and grabs me by the shoulders. “Get a hold of yourself, Georgie.” She gives me a hard shake. “You’re turning green.”

  “I can’t breathe,” I rasp out.

  “Well, you’d better, because I spent twenty minutes this morning telling Mr. Brooks all about you. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me?”

  “No?” I whimper.

  She shakes me again. “I almost peed myself!”

  “Oh no. Is he that bad?”

  She blinks. “No. Okay. Yes. He’s the worst. And on top of that, he’s hot. Remember Mike from our junior year?”

  How could I forget? He was six two or three, with the body of an Olympic god, and hazel eyes you could get lost in. So beautiful… I sigh and nod.

  “Well, Nick Brooks is ten times hotter. But he’s sharp. And he’s a fucking ogre—makes the Grim Reaper look like Professor Booboo the hipster guinea pig.”

  For the life of me I can’t understand why she’s ambushing me with this information.

  “I can’t do it.” I start hyperventilating and poking the Open Door button so I can run away and hide on whatever floor Mr. Brooks isn’t.

  “No! I stuck my neck out for you, Georgie. You can’t bail.”

  I turn with clenched fists. “Why did you do that? You knew I’d fuck this up!”

  “Shut your piehole, girl. We’re in this together now, and in ten seconds those doors will open, and you have to nail it.” She shakes me again so hard that my teeth clack. “So get your shit together!”

  I nod dumbly, trying to absorb the magnitude of the situation. For whatever idiotic reason, Abi has hitched her wagon to mine. Blind faith? Stupidity? Doesn’t matter why now; what’s done is done.

  “Okay. I can do this. I know I can.” I pant.

  “Good. But whatever you do,” Abi adds, “don’t look at the floor, okay? Direct eye contact only. Brooks has a reputation for weeding out the weak from the herd.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?” Because we both know if we were a herd of elk roaming the tundra, I’d be the limping doe trailing a mile behind the rest with a giant “eat me” sign on my ass.

  “Look,” she says, “if I can handle speaking to him for twenty minutes, you can handle ten. Just breathe through your nose, smile, and remember that if you fuck this up, I’ll look like an imbecile.”

  The elevator slows, and I feel my stomach tightening. My head starts to spin. Oh God. But I know how badly Abi needs a full-time job after college. Her father died years ago, and her mother’s interior design business isn’t doing so well. She mortgaged her house to pay for Abi’s tuition, so Abi can’t afford to be unemployed when she graduates next year. This paid internship is her gateway to an impressive résumé, solid reference, and a good-paying job to help her mother.

  “I won’t let you down,” I say, wondering why the hell I let her talk me into this. It’s a horrible risk for her. But that’s Abi; she’s always stuck her neck out for me, yet she refuses to take help from anyone. Stubborn to the core.

  If Mr. Brooks is anything like the scent in his office, I’m in trouble. Imagine the smell of power—leather and expensive spices—mixed with the light earthiness of an unlit cigar and the faint aroma of coffee, no doubt from the steaming cup sitting on his immaculate, solid oak desk.

  Wait, is that a hint of blood I smell, too? No. Just my imagination. And right now, it’s visualizing a horrible beast with dripping red fangs coming my way.

  As I wait and wait and wait some more for Mr. Brooks and his devil horns to make an appearance, I distract myself with taking inventory of his office. I’m surprised to see he has no personal effects except for a small plant on the windowsill behind his desk. On one wall he has a large clean whiteboard and some framed degrees and awards.

  I walk over to check them out. Wow. Impressive. MBA from Yale, degree in finance from Northwestern, and a salesperson of the quarter award. Abi wasn’t joking. Nick Brooks hasn’t been with the company even a year, and he’s already their top sales VP.

  I turn on my heel, wondering what makes a man like him tick and what might possibly make him go easy on a weak elk. I turn to face the shelving at the far end of the room near the open door. There are lots and lots of white binders, likely filled with reports or something, but again I see zero personal photos.

  Not even of a pet? He’s either antisocial, very private, or intolerable and no one likes to be around him.

  Suddenly, outside the open door, I hear a deep voice yelling in the hallway.

  “Ask me if I fucking care!” the man roars in a deep, authoritative voice. “I’ll give you until five today, and then we’re pulling every pill, bottle, and goddamned sample from your shelves, got it?”

  I’m standing smack in the center of his office when the silhouette of a tall man fills the doorway. The hard planes of his cheekbones give his gorgeous face a European elegance, but his unshaven jaw gives off the air of a rugged mountain man. And while he’s wearing a sleek black suit and burgundy-colored tie, there’s something about him—perhaps the way he’s standing with a ramrod straight back and a noticeable bulk in his arms—that tells me he is not a fine-suit man. He vibes ex-Marine or some other tough-guy type profession.

  Our gazes lock, and it’s then that I notice his unusual light gray eyes. They’re stunning, and I can’t look away. Surprisingly, he seems equally mesmerized, because he’s just standing there with an odd expression.

  Lust?

  No. Not possible. Maybe he recognizes me, though that isn’t likely.

  Abruptly, the moment shatters, and his expression shifts to a nasty scowl like he’s caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.

  “What are you standing there looking at?” He shoves his cell phone in his pant pocket.

  I attempt to open my mouth, not that I expect actual words to come out, but he cuts me off before I’m allowed to blubber. Thank God.

  “Oh. You’re that intern everyone’s been pushing up my ass.” He sails past me, going to his desk, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, which smells like leather and sage, which is oddly fitting. He looks to be in his early thirties. Leather is classic while sage is a trendier scent this year.

  “Well, can you type?” he asks with a curt tone, riffling through his desk and not bothering to look at me.

  “Ye-yes?” I manage to squeak out.

  “Can you pour coffee?”

  “Well?” he grumbles, pulling out several manila folders and plunking them on his desk next to the coffee.

  “Uh, yes. I p-pour coffee.”

  “Then you start Monday. Now, get out. I’m busy.”

  “Uhhhh…I got the job?” But he hasn’t asked me anything about my résumé.

  Slowly, those silvery cold eyes lift from the folder in his hands. The stark bitterness in his gaze makes me want to run for the hills and forget I ever met him. No. Your family needs you. And now, Abi is counting on me.

  “Why are you still standing there?” he rumbles quietly.

  I begin backing out of his office, palms raised in the universal gesture of “don’t hurt me.”

  “Close the damned door on your way out.” He picks up the phone on his desk, and the moment I shut the door, that deep, malevolent voice roars through the walls. His door does nothing to mute the thunderous tone.

  I whoosh out a breath. What the hell was that? I feel like my heart’s about to explode, it’s beating so fast. And my head is spinning like a clothes dryer on the hyperventilation cycl
e.

  “Sydney?”

  I turn to see Abi standing there, a hopeful look in her light brown eyes. “So? Did you get it?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

  She jumps and squeals. “Yay! Yay! I knew it.”

  While she’s rejoicing, my mind is catching up to the reality of the situation. I grab her by the elbow and drag her down the hall to the first open door I see, marked conference room 1230b. I yank her inside and give her a shake. “What the fuck, Abi! Why would you set me up for an interview with that monster?”

  “Calm down. I mean, yeah, the man is a giant medieval barbarian masquerading as an underwear model, and most of us would like to scratch his eyes out. But! But! We’d equally like to fuck the hell out of him, too, and no one will argue that he isn’t a genius, so the kind of stuff you’ll learn is immeasurable.”

  “While I’d gladly give up my virginity or sit on the face of a man who looks like him, he seems to be lacking a fucking soul! I can’t work for him—he’s horrible.”

  She snarls with her light brown eyes and bellies up. “You can and you will.”

  I press my stomach to hers with equal measure. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  The door flies open, and standing there is the a-hole himself, Nick Brooks, a look of displeasure in his silvery eyes.

  Uh-oh… I gulp.

  “What are you two clowns doing in here?” he snarls.

  Abi looks at me, then at him, then at me again. “We were just…we were just…” Abi can’t seem to come up with an explanation. Meanwhile, I’m frozen in place.

  He narrows his eyes. “How about having your little gossip session elsewhere? Because I sincerely doubt that anyone in this room could give two shits about anything you have to say.”

  Room? Anyone? Abi and I turn our heads to my right and take in the view of the faces seated around the executive table at the far, far end of the room.

  Oh crap. My stomach cramps up, and my head starts feeling like it’s in a vise. Approximately nine women and men in suits are staring at us.