Kestrel (Hart Briothers #3) (6 page)

“No,”
I snap.

“Well,
of course you will.”

In
a tone that conveys no argument, I say, “Absolutely not. That will never
happen. I think the coffee is ready now.”

My
change of subject has disturbed her. It can’t be helped. This is a closed
subject to all. I don’t discuss this with anyone. As I look at her, my attitude
slightly softens.

“I’m
sorry, Shayla. There are some things about me you can’t possibly be aware of, things
I don’t discuss with others.”

She
nods as we make our way back to the office and begin work for the day.

“I
understand, sir.”

I
don’t correct her this time. Maybe I need to keep our relationship a formal
one. It may prove to work out best this way. I can’t have her meddling in my
private life, even if her intentions are good.

“Shall
we begin?” I ask.

As
we delve deeper into the work, it becomes clear how excellent Shayla is at what
she does.

“I
have to commend you on your skills, Shayla. I’m quite impressed. I need to ask
you something. Are you opposed to traveling with me?”

Her
head tilts and I know she’s confused by my question.

“Let
me explain. I’d like you to accompany me when I have to meet with some of the
possible clients we may be dealing with. This will require travel on your part.
Some of it will be to Atlanta, Charlotte, or other areas that are fairly close.
Others may be farther away. Are you up for this? If not, it’s okay. I just need
to know so I can find someone who is.”

“Can
I check with my husband? I’ve never done anything like this before and I’d like
to talk it over with him.”

“Absolutely.
Let me know when you have an answer, the sooner the better.” It must be an old-fashioned
thing. Or maybe they have that tight of a marriage, but it never occurred to me
she would have to check with him. Then an idea strikes me.

“Shayla,
would it help if I took the two of you out to dinner so he could meet me?”

Smiling,
she says, “Yes, I think that would be nice.”

“What
day would work for you? I’m wide open since I just moved here.”

“Saturday
night?”

“Saturday
is perfect. I’ll make a reservation and have a driver pick you up.”

“Oh,
no! We can meet you.”

“Absolutely
not. There will be wine at dinner. No driving after that.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“Oh,
and Shayla. At least at dinner, can we dispense with the ‘sir’?”

“We’ll
see.”

We
laugh. My phone rings and when I answer, it’s the shipping company informing me
my vehicles will be arriving in thirty minutes.

“Excellent.
My transportation is here.” Then I frown.

“What’s
wrong?”

“I
have to figure out how to get both home.”

“I
can drive one if you’d like.”

The
thought makes me grin. “Can you drive a super sports car?”

“Oh,
sure.”

“One
with seven gears?”

She
squints. “What in tarnation kind of car do you have?”

“An
Aventador
Roadster.”

“I
don’t know what that is. What about the other car?”

“It’s
a motorcycle.”

“Well,
I won’t be driving that nor will this gal be
gettin
’
on it either,” she huffs. “Those things are dangerous.”

If
she thinks the Harley is bad, wait until she sees the car.

“Don’t
worry about it. I’ll get Mario, one of HTS’ drivers to do it.”

Not
long after that, the door buzzes and the deliveryman is there. When we walk
outside, they’re driving my vehicles out of the cargo truck. I cringe as I
watch them.

“Don’t
worry, Mr. Hart. This is a white glove operation.”

“So
I’ve been told.”

“Well,
I’ll be.” A long melodious whistle flows out of Shayla’s mouth. “That’s some
kind of fancy contraption you’ve got there.”

She
eyes the black
Aventador
, then runs a finger across
the shiny hood. Next comes the Harley. Its gleaming black and chrome would stop
most people in their tracks. Shayla lets loose another huge whistle. “Well hot
damn, Kestrel, you sure like your toys, don’t
ya
?”

I’m
not sure what shocks me more—her use of the word,
damn
, or the use of my name. I break out in laughter.

“You
might say I do.”

After
inspecting both vehicles for damage and being pleased to find none, I sign off
and we head back inside. On the way in, I say, “I’ll take you for a spin in the
Aventador
when we go to lunch today. You’re going to
love her.”

“Either
that, or the damn
thing’ll
scare me to death, one.”

“I
promise. No scaring.”

My
comment brings her to a screeching halt. “Kestrel, I may look like an old frump
to you, but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday. You can’t fool this
ole broad. I get in that car and you’re gonna drive like a bat outta hell. And
you know what? I don’t blame you,
cuz
if I owned
something like that, I would too.”

This
woman has made me laugh more in the last couple of days than I’ve laughed in my
entire life.

“Shayla,
are all southern women like you?”

“What
do you mean?”

“You
make me laugh and you speak your mind.”

“Well,
I imagine so.”

“Then
I think I’m going to like living in Charleston.”

The
next couple of hours are filled with intense work as we plow through mounds of
paperwork that needed to be completed. Shayla has stacks of it and she’s been
stonewalled because it all required my signature. Together we wade through much
of it and put a huge dent in it. When the early afternoon hits, we’re both
famished.

“Let’s
go eat.”

She
picks out a restaurant and we get ready to go. I open the car door for her and
she gasps. The door lifts upward and it surprises her. Then she notices how low
to the ground the seats are.

“Promise
me something,” she says with a serious face.

“Sure.”

“Pull
my big bottom out of this bucket when it’s time to get out. I’m not sure I’ll
be able to.”

She
has a devilish glint in her eye and I burst out laughing.

“You’re
a troublemaker, aren’t you?”

“Not
saying.”

I
assist her in and before I close the door she says, “Wait! Take a picture of
me.” She hands me her iPhone.

I
take a couple of shots of her sitting in the car and hand her phone back to
her, laughing as I do.

By
the time I get in the car, she’s giggling up a storm.

“I
just texted those pics to my kids and my son wanted to know what kind of woo-fuckery
I was playing on him. Can you imagine?”

“No.
If I had said that to my mother, she would’ve fainted, and then clobbered me.
What did you say?”

“That
I’m not well versed in woo-fuckery, and that I’m sitting in this Lamborghini
going to lunch with my boss. I also just texted him that I told you what he
said.”

“It
sounds like you have an amazing relationship with your kids.”

“Yeah,
I do. But they’re good kids, so I can’t complain.” Then she lets out a huge
gurgle of laughter. “Oh my God. He just texted me back a picture of him
standing next to his hunk of junk car with a caption that says, ‘No more woo-fuckery.’”

“What
we need to do is put you on the Harley when we get back. That would really get
him going.”

She
slaps her leg. “
Lawd
, he would die!”

“You
seem like an awesome mom.”

“Well,
I try.”

“I
had a really shitty upbringing. I’m sure you read all the news stories about
Langston. The mob stories were nothing compared to his fatherhood nurturing.
Your kids are truly lucky.”

She
doesn’t say anything for a while. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned Langston.
I don’t know why, but I really like Shayla; I feel comfortable around her.
She’s warm and for some reason I feel like I want to be open with her, which is
extremely unusual.

Finally
she says, “I’m sorry, Kestrel. My family was very loving, so I can’t imagine
being raised like that. It must have been awfully hard for you.”

“You
don’t know the half of it. Life was a nightmare.”

She
pats me on the arm and I jerk in response.

“Sorry.
That’s one of my little issues. Don’t feel bad. Honestly, I never talk about
this so I’m surprised I’m even telling you this much.”

“You
don’t have to say a thing.”

“I
know. But I feel like I can with you, and I don’t find that very often.”

“Anything
you say to me will stay right between us. I don’t gossip.”

I
only nod in response. When we pull in the parking lot, I look for the valet
service.

“What
are you
huntin
’?”

“Valet
parking.”

She
bubbles with laughter. “You won’t find that here, only downtown.”

“Oh.”
I circle the lot and find a place to park. Then I help her out of the car.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Ha.
I have an SUV, so yes.”

We
talk business while we eat. Monday is when the rest of our staff arrives. That
doesn’t mean a whole lot—only the receptionist, who Shayla will train, a
sales rep, and another admin. Jack will arrive on Tuesday, and Shayla will
bring the new admin up to speed on things while I begin to train the new sales
rep. Things will start to heat up after that.

“We
have a lot going on next week,” I say.

“Boy,
don’t we?”

“Once
our staff is hired and up and running, we’ll be able to actually do our jobs.
So where would you like to eat on Saturday?”

“Oh,
I think I’ll let you choose,” she says.

“Fine
with me. Just don’t hate me if I make the wrong choice.”

Shayla
doesn’t buy it. She already knows I’ll pick a great restaurant.

Chapter
Five

Carter

This
is a big day for me. As John said, the big kahunas from StrongMeds Inc. come to
see me. There are four of them, all dressed in their navy suits, looking stodgy
as hell. I offer them a tour of my lab as soon as they arrive, showing them
where all the magic occurs. Two of them take copious notes and photos on their
iPads as I walk them around and explain exactly what it is I do. Only one of
them truly understands. The others get the implications behind it. Translation,
if all goes as expected, StrongMeds, Inc., stands to make a whole lot of money
from the products of my research.

“Dr.
Drayton, let’s make this happen. StrongMeds wants you. All we need is your
signature,” the leader of the pack says. His name is Winston Miles and he’s the
vice president of research and development.

“Whoa.
Slow down. There are a few things I want to clarify first.”

“By
all means. Can we go someplace to sit and discuss this?”

There
is a conference room down the hall and I suggest that. Winston laughs.

“Dr.
Drayton, I’m thinking more on the lines of somewhere that we can get a good cup
of coffee.”

He
must think I’m an idiot. It’s obvious I don’t get out much.

“Oh,
of course. Why don’t we go to the cafeteria? The university has a …”

“Dr.
Drayton, do you mind if we get out of this setting and go somewhere a little
less … sterile?”

My
brow crinkles up as I pull my glasses off. “Yes. Um, we could go to …”

“How
about Port City Coffee House? Does that suit you?” he asks.

I
relax. It’s not often I take businessmen out for coffee. “Yes, that would be
nice. Let me tell John I’ll be gone for a bit.”

After
I let John know, we climb into a black limousine and ride over to the coffee
shop. Once seated, and after our drinks arrive, we begin.

“I’d
like to mention a few things that need clarification,” I start.

“Fine.”
Winston dips his head.

“First
and foremost, I don’t work for you, I work for the university.”

“Agreed.”

“Second,
I answer only to my supervisor, John Corbin.”

“Agreed.”

“Third,
I will only do research that is within my realm of interest and it must always
be ethical.”

“Agreed.”

I
had expected a lot of pushback since I’m dealing with the corporate world and
they always like to be in control, but I get none at all. Winston just smiles
at me, and asks, “Anything else?”

“I
don’t think so, other than I refuse to be pressured on a deadline. My research
is tenuous and not driven by a clock.”

“Understood.”

“Fine.
Then explain to me what I’ll be signing.”

Winston
nods to one of the other gentleman. He smiles and introduces himself as one of
the attorneys from their corporate office. He explains everything in the
contract and I ask if I can have my attorney look it over. Winston doesn’t have
an issue with that.

The
rest of our visit is pleasant.

“I
must say, Dr. Drayton, when I came here, I was expecting to meet someone much
older than you. What a surprise. How did you accomplish so much, given your
age?”

“First
off, please call me Carter. Second, you might say I was extremely motivated and
I guess you could say I’m a workaholic. I finished undergrad in three years,
then I did a combined masters and doctorate after that. I was lucky to meet
John at a seminar and land my position with him. The rest is, as they say,
history.”

“Oh,
I would agree that you are the one that’s making history. Your work is
brilliant.”

I
can’t help but beam. “May I ask you something, Mr. Miles?”

“Certainly.”

“Do
any of these other guys here ever speak?”

The
other men look at him, and then he starts laughing. “I don’t suppose enough.
Maybe we need to change that, huh?”

“Want
my opinion?”

“Yes,
I think I do.”

“They
look a bit goofy.” I lean forward and say, “I think you need to let
them
use
their
brains. They might surprise you.”

The
other men gape.

Their
coffee cups are empty, so we board the limo and go back to the lab. I shake
hands with Winston and tell him he’ll be hearing from me very soon. After he
leaves, I wonder about the other guys. Why didn’t they speak? What is Winston
really like? How will I like working with him? I’ll find out soon enough.

John
and I have a lengthy discussion about the contract Winston wants me to sign.
John doesn’t see anything out of order in it, but I still want my attorney to
check it out. At two o’clock, I go to see Uncle Foster. He agrees with John.
There is nothing in the contract, other than StrongMeds will grant me the funds
for research and I will share my findings with them. They will have exclusive
rights to create the drugs resulting from my research and that this contract
will be binding for as long as I work on PD-L1. I will have profit sharing in any
money earned from drugs created from my research in the form of stock options.

Uncle
Foster gives me an odd look. “Carter, I always knew you were smart. Your daddy
talked about it a lot. He always thought you’d go to law school and follow his
footsteps and be a partner in this practice here. But you’re way smarter than
he ever was. This stuff, well honey,
it’s
way over my
head. How in the world do you do it?”

I
laugh. “Uncle Foster, it’s nothing. To me, legalese is the difficult one. My
mission is to find a cure for cancer. And I believe this is one way to target
it.”

“Honey,
can you give me a rudimentary explanation of how this stuff works?”

“Oh,
sure. What I’m doing is modulating the gene sequence of cancer cells. You see,
all cancer cells have the ability to lock on to the immune
system’s
own defense mechanisms and disable them so they can’t kill the cancer cell.
What I’m doing, or attempting to, is creating a genetic mutation that disrupts
the ability for the cell to do that. So instead of treating the cancer with
chemotherapy, and making the patient sick, the future therapy will be to give
the patient a drug that will instruct the cancer cells DNA to replicate in a
way that won’t allow it to disable the human immune system. Does that make
sense?”

“How
the hell did you figure all that out?”

I
laugh at him. “By fiddling around in the lab. Tweaking this and that under a
microscope. It’s fun!”

“Jesus,
Carter. Your brain … well, it’s a hell of an amazing gift you’ve got there.”

“Thanks,
Uncle Foster. But I still have a ways to go. I’ve got some of it figured out.
But I want to get it all worked out. I want to cure all pediatric cancers.”

“I’m
worried about you, honey.”

“Me?
Why?”

“Oh,
baby, you know why.”

I
always hate these conversations. Foster and my dad were best friends. He misses
my dad probably as much as I do. They were work partners, fishing buddies,
sailing buddies, you name it. They grew up together and were joined at the hip
since pre-school days.

“Yeah,
I suppose so.”

“Are
you getting out? Doing things? You can’t work all the time.”

“I
know. I get out with my friends some.”

Skepticism
clouds his expression. He’s too sharp for me to pass anything by him. “Carter,
I know what yesterday was. I mourn, too.”

“Yeah.
I know you do. It’s getting easier though.”

He
purses his lips. “Is it?”

I
look at him sharply. “What is it?”

“Megan
is getting married. She just got engaged last weekend.”

“Oh,
that’s fantastic! Congratulations!”

“The
thing is, Carter, I don’t feel excited about it. Daniel and I always talked
about what we’d do and how we’d celebrate when our daughters got married. How we’d
feel when we walked them down the aisle. We made a pact, you know? He probably
never told you. But we did. We promised to be there for each other, with shots
of Jameson on hand, before we made the walk. And now, I feel like a lost soul.
I also feel like a shit for crying on your shoulder, but you would understand
this more than anyone. I can’t tell Megan. And Janet doesn’t understand.”

“Shit.”
I get up and move behind his desk to wrap my arms around him. We hug each other
and cry. It’s odd because I never think of anyone else on the anniversary. I
feel I’m the only one that still suffers. He’s just proven how wrong I am.

“Tell
you what, Uncle Foster. On Megan’s wedding day, I’ll be there in Daddy’s place
and you and I will do that shot together.”

We
look at each other, eyes watery with tears and smile.

“Sounds
like a deal to me.”

We
sit quietly for a few moments.

“Carter,
how did the showing go?”

His
question makes me cringe. This is not something I want to discuss with him.

“Fine.”

“Do
you think they’re interested?”

“Maybe.
The man said he’d call me.”

Uncle
Foster’s brows inch up. “Why the hell would he call you?”

“Anne
couldn’t be there yesterday. An emergency came up.”

“Still,
that’s odd.”

I
shrug. It takes every ounce of strength I have to stay in his office. I want to
run outside and tear my hair out. I want to scream my lungs out. But I do
neither. My teeth clamp together as I nod.

“I
know how difficult this is for you.”

He
doesn’t have a clue. My eyes focus on my knees. If I look at him, I’m afraid
I’ll crack into a thousand pieces.

“Carter,
I’m sorry,
honey
. Your father, well, he was the best
attorney, but the worst financial planner.”

Standing,
I hug Uncle Foster again, and start to leave.

Before
I get to the door, my uncle calls out to me. “Carter, it’s a safe bet—the
contract. You’ll be fine there and if you need me to look over anything else,
just give me a call.”

“Thanks,
Uncle Foster.” My voice squeaks as I speak.

“I
love you, Carter.”

“Love
you, too.”

I
barely make it to the car before I break down, sobbing. There are a gazillion
reasons I don’t want to sell the house, and now I have to deal with
him
.
What in the world am I going to do?

Glancing
at the clock on my dashboard, I notice how late it’s getting. I need to get
back to work. I rein in my emotions and drive back to the hospital. On the way,
I call Harper.

“What’s
up, Doc?”

She
loves to say that when I call.

“Oh,
God. You’re such a dork.”

“Uh,
I think you have that backward, Carter. You’re the dork who lives in a lab.”

“Truth.
But guess what? This dork just got her funding from a huge pharmaceutical
company to work on her research. They want my stuff, Harper!”

“Oh,
holy lab experiments! Hold up your fist and give me some bone, sister.”

We
laugh and her excitement warms me. It’s not often that my friends get what goes
on in my life with respect to my work. But Harper is the only one that truly
cares.

“This
will be it for you. You are now going to be the famous Dr. Drayton.”

“Hey,
slow down a minute. My stuff has to actually produce something in the body and
not just in the lab,” I remind her.

“Oh,
Carter, knowing you, it will. I feel it. I’ve always known you’d do something
special one day. You were
that
kid.”

“Yeah,
that geek of a kid. But thanks, Harper. You’ve always stuck up for me.”

When
I get back to the lab, I call Winston Miles and leave him a message that I’ll
be sending the contract over, signed. He’s probably still on a plane heading
back to his office.

My
head swims with so many things: the contract, my research, my waning excitement
over it due to the necessity of selling the house, and Kestrel Hart. Needing a
diversion, I throw myself back into my work, and when I look at the time, it’s
ten p.m.

“What
the hell?”
 

When
did John leave? Did he even say good-bye? What about everyone else? I need to
get out of here. I shut everything down and head home.

The
house is dark and silent when I unlock the back door and turn off the security
system. I drop my backpack on the counter and grab a bottle of wine out of the
refrigerator. Pouring a huge glass, I kick off my sandals and head out to the
back yard. As it is oftentimes in Charleston in October, the night air is still
warm and pleasant. A gentle breeze ruffles my hair as I flop down on one of the
chaises by the pool. I turned on the lights as I headed out the door, so the
yard looks pretty all lit up and aglow. For a brief moment, I allow myself to
imagine how it was when my parents and Ells were still alive. Ells loved
splashing in the pool on hot summer days.