RISKY BUSINESS

  LAUREN LANDISH

  Edited by

  VALORIE CLIFTON

  Edited by

  STACI ETHERIDGE

  Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Landish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  CARSON

  “What’s your name? I’m going to post this on the internet!”

  The shrill, piercing female voice wails in my ear, stabbing its shrieking tones somewhere past my eardrum and directly into my brain. To say it’s very angry is an understatement. No, at that decibel, we’re beyond Karen and in danger of hitting the banshee-harpy category.

  I quicken my footsteps, hustling toward the small crowd of people I can see gathered at the doors of the Oh Say, Can You See! souvenir shop. It’s the main storefront of Americana Land, the landing point for park guests as they enter and leave the amusement park and where the majority of our souvenir purchases are made. It’s supposed to be the first and final good impression the park makes.

  An angry guest there is bad news.

  I gently slide my way through the people, trying not to push but instead twisting this way and that to create the minimum amount of disruption while watching out for tiny tots and turning on my fake as fuck customer service persona. Nearing the nucleus of the fuckup, I call out, “Excuse me.”

  As I breach the center of the circle, I see the owner of the angry voice. She’s an early-twenties woman with long blonde hair, long black eyelashes, and long bedazzled nails that she’s waving around as she speaks. “You messed up, Barbara!” Blondie screeches. “I’ll have your job!”

  The sneered threat is delivered with all the arrogance of ‘the customer is always right’ ideology that everyone knows is complete and utter bullshit. Except, of course, for the rude customers who pull it out of their back pocket like a ‘get out of being an asshole free’ card.

  “Excuse me!” I announce again, louder and sharper this time to interrupt the next round of verbal warfare. Eyes turn to me from all around the circle. The blonde’s are filled with fire, but Barbara looks relieved to see me. I don’t know her, but her tag proclaims her name and shows she’s a part of the team, and given the way she’s patting her gray hair and wringing her gnarled hands, she needs some backup. “What seems to be the issue?”

  “Mr. Steen, thank goodness. This woman is shoplifting, and when I stopped her, she became belligerent. Security has been notified.” Barbara’s distaste is obvious as she raises one brow and glares at the woman, who’s huffing and glaring back through narrowed eyes.

  “Shoplifting? Are you fucking serious?” she screeches. “That’s defamation! All these people heard you slander me! I’m going to sue your ass!”

  “Please watch your language. There are children,” I tell her sternly in the hopes of both stopping her crude language and defusing the situation. Maybe if she realizes the scene she’s making, she’ll have a shred of embarrassment?

  Whirling around, she gives me a quick up-and-down glance and finds a new target. I’m guessing it’s because of the white Polo shirt with the embroidered Americana Land banner entwined with a flag, a different color from the sky blue of the regular workers’ shirts. But I look like what I am . . . a boss. I’m not Barbara’s direct boss, of course. There are numerous supervisors, managers, and directors between her and me, but I’m the highest C-level executive most employees working the park grounds will ever see. Not to mention, it’s my last name on the sign out front that proudly proclaims, A Steen Family Legacy.

  The woman continues her rant, aiming it at me now. “I could buy everything in this shitty store twice over without my bank account taking a hit. I’ve got a black American Express.” She flips her hair over her shoulder as if that should explain everything. Part of me is surprised she doesn’t whip it out like some credit card form of a dick measuring contest.

  “Name dropping a fancy charge card does not excuse rudeness and misbehavior, ma’am. Such as not purchasing items, if that is what happened.” I make the statement slowly and directly, just loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear me, while also giving the woman some wiggle room. I’d prefer to give her an out while making sure she catches every implication. I lower my eyes pointedly to her oversized bag, where I can clearly see our stuffed eagle mascot, Freddy Freebird, peeking out. “Can I see your receipt, please?”

  She growls, actually, audibly growls at me like a pissed off tiger or a grumpy racoon, at least considering that she completes the argument with a toddler-esque foot stomp. “Do you know who I am?”

  No, what I know is that she does not produce a receipt, instead going for distraction. Too bad for her, I’m well-versed in smoke and mirror techniques from dealing with my take-no-responsibility brother. “Someone who needs to show a receipt for that Freddy Freebird playing hide-and-seek in your purse.” I pause dramatically before adding, “Or someone who’s about to be led to the security office to await local police officers.”

  I’m bluffing with that second option, if I’m being honest. Unless she’s swiped more than a thirty-five-dollar stuffed animal, we won’t press charges. The amount of money the park would shell out over the hassle of paperwork is more than the value of the stolen item. Especially when for the local cops, it’s pretty much the same deal. They’ve got real crime to stop, not piddly shit. But we will escort her off-property and ban her from returning.

  I expect her to deflate. Or I expect her to bow up a little more in a final act of defiance. What I don’t expect is the sly, knowing grin that blooms across her fake-tanned face, nor the evil delight dancing in her eyes. “You don’t know who I am, do you? You really don’t?”

  Disquiet settles in my stomach, but my course is set. I’m done with this. With this woman, with her disrespecting park employees, and with the still-growing crowd that’s starting to take sides. Loudly.

  “Leave her alone! You can’t prove nothing!”

  “The bird’s literally in her bag. Just show the receipt.”

  “Look, Karen—” I start, but she cuts me off.

  “Augh! Karen? Did you call me a Karen?” she screams, stepping close enough to get in my face.

  I take a deep breath, which doesn’t settle my ire but rather helps the growing embers bloom hotter. “I apologize. You’re right, you are far too young for that. So . . . McKenzie, McKinley, Brinleigh . . . whatever they call bratty young women who think they can take whatever they want and get away with it—”

  I don’t get to finish what I’m saying, which would probably be for the best except my words are stolen by the woman slapping me solidly across the face. I feel the inside of my cheek slice against my teeth, and I can taste blood as a collective gasp of shock goes through the people around us.

  Before I can react, the circle is broken by security finally arriving. They must’ve seen the slap during their approach because before I can explain the situation, the two guards grab Shoplifting McKenzie. There’s a scuffle, insistent demands of ‘get your hands off me!’ and ‘get on the ground, stop resisting’, and I try to stand back and not get in the way.

  But it’s hard to do nothing. My fists clench at my side, especially as the woman screeches louder and louder, flailing about on the floor like a fish out of water. Her antics become more desperate, her dagger-like nails scratching the guards and her sneakered feet kicking out at the guard trying to take her purse. Freddy Freebird goes flying, as does a stack of souvenir T-shirts, a wallet, and various purse contents. A tube of lipstick rolls along the floor, and for some reason, that feels like my cue.

  “Enough!” I bark. The crowd jumps, but the woman ignores me, still fighting as though it’s for her life and not a misdemeanor shoplifting accusation with a tacked-on assault charge. Because after this, we’re absolutely calling the police. Escorting off-property isn’t nearly enough after this.

  The guards spin, struggling to corral the woman, and before my brain makes the decision, my body is on top of her. I pin her down, allowing security to focus on handcuffing her.

  “Get off me, you pervert!”

  “Be still and let them handcuff you. I don’t want you to get hurt.” It’s the complete truth, but even to my ears, it sounds like a heartless lie considering I’m snarling and my voice is hard.

  She wiggles beneath me, but the guards are quickly successful. “All clear, Mr. Steen,” one of the guards says, panting he

avily. “We’ve got her.”

  I get up, catching my own breath and in shock at how something as normal as a shoplifting stop turned into something so dramatic. They pull her up by her arms, but she’s not what I’d consider ‘under control’ since she’s still shouting and kicking out as the guards walk her away toward the on-site security office.

  “Oh, y’all done fucked up now! You just wait! I’m going to own this place!” She flicks wild eyes to the crowd. “You saw that. They assaulted me. This is illegal detainment! If I disappear, tell the police who did it.”

  I sigh at her dramatics. How in the hell does she think she’s the victim here? Barbara’s in tears, two security guards are covered in red scratches, and I can taste the blood on my tongue. Hopefully, it’s not bad enough that it’s showing when I open my mouth. The last thing I need is to say something while looking like Dracula.

  And the merchandise she stole is still scattered about, proof of her misdeeds.

  Work isn’t done, though. Instead of yelling in frustration, I switch back into my fake as fuck customer service voice and address the crowd. “Sorry about that, everyone. Please go back to enjoying your day. Might I suggest a snack at the nearby Boston Tea Party, or a ride on the Founding Fathers carousel?” The options are more orders than suggestions, and I move toward a few people, gently steering them with outstretched arms and a big smile that hurts my face, reminding myself no teeth, no teeth and probably looking like a creepy bastard because of it. “We need to clear this area.”

  Though people do begin moving, I can hear them talking about what just happened. I can’t stop that, but I focus on straightening up the mess and making sure Barbara is okay. She’s looking a little shocked and appalled at the whole situation. That’s not right. “Hey, Barbara, you okay?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Steen. I’m fine.” Her answer seems automatic because a moment later, her eyes clear and she huffs out, “That was insane. What’s wrong with people?”

  “Good question,” I say agreeably. Quieter, I mutter, “Some people just suck.”

  She seems to be gathering her wits further, and I leave her smiling at another guest as she tells them how much she appreciates their patience and understanding. I guess that’s about the best ending to a shitty situation I could hope for.

  CHAPTER 2

  JAYME

  One more steadying breath. It’s all I’ll allow myself before I get out of the car and go inside. After spending all night prepping, I can’t be any readier for this meeting. At least concerning information, statistics, and strategy suggestions. But there’s a level of nuance to walking into someone else’s lion den and taming their shitshow, especially when I’m the surprise guest of honor. Those are the skills I need one last moment to hone until they’re razor-sharp.

  In . . . two, three, four. Out . . . two, three, four. All right, Jayme. You’ve got this.

  I nod to myself in answer and get out of my Lexus sedan, chosen for equal parts luxury and practicality. I grab my portfolio briefcase, the buttery soft red leather cool in my hand, and smooth my knee-length pencil skirt down my thigh with the other hand. My heels click across the lot for a few steps before being drowned out by screams of delight and a mechanical roar. I glance past the multi-story building I’m approaching to see the sweeping loops of a red, white, and blue roller coaster filled with smiling faces.

  The scene would be picture perfect if social media wasn’t exploding with vitriol over what happened two days ago at Americana Land. Fixing that is why I’m here.

  “Hello, can I help you?” the woman at the front desk asks through a polite smile. She looks like she enjoys her job, which is a good sign to me. I’ve seen too many corporate zombies with plastic smiles in my life. People who don’t give a damn about their jobs beyond their paychecks. But if people like this actually like working here, it means there’s hope for me to turn this around.

  “Yes, thank you . . .” I glance down to the nameplate on the desk. “Ms. Trochin. My name is Jayme Rice. I’m here to see Mr. Steen.”

  “Oh, I see. Uhm . . . which one?” She cocks her head, giving me a subtle appraisal. I’m not put off by it but rather welcome her doing her job as screener for the company.

  “Both of them. I have a nine o’clock meeting on their schedule.”

  After a quick wait for Ms. Trochin to confirm that I do in fact have an appointment, a man in gray slacks with a silver polka-dotted bowtie emerges from the elevator and comes over. “Ms. Rice? I’m Boston, Mr. Steen’s assistant.”

  “A pleasure, Boston,” I reply, noting he doesn’t offer a last name, nor which Steen he works for.

  He offers a firm handshake and then holds out a hand gesturing back the direction he came. “If you’ll come with me. Ben and Carson are . . . ahem, waiting on you.”

  I adjust mentally even as my feet continue following Boston into the elevator. I thought I’d meet with Ben first, considering I usually don’t get shot out of a cannon into the blood and guts meetings. Normally, there’s a period of handshaking, sipping coffee, and judging the room. Apparently, not this time. “Wasn’t our meeting for nine?”

  Boston smiles politely, but there’s a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He doesn’t offer anything further, and before I can question him, the short ride up is over. He leads me down a hallway and into a private office. Two sharp knocks on the inner door as a warning, then Boston opens the door. “Mr. Steen, Ms. Rice is here.”

  I walk into the office, my eyes quietly evaluating everything that I see. Too often, it’s the unspoken details that are the clue to any situation, a lesson I learned long, long ago as a little girl. My eyes eventually lock on the older man behind the desk, Ben Steen, from my research. His hair is a blend of salt and pepper shades that are echoed in his trimmed mustache and beard, which surround a deep frown. His tie is a classic red showcase of power, especially paired with his pale blue shirt. It’s a very on-brand look for an Americana Land CEO.

  I approve.

  “Mr. Steen, I’m Jayme Rice. Nice to meet you.” I hold my hand out, stepping forward. But as soon as Mr. Steen stands and takes my hand, we’re interrupted.

  “Dad, we’re in the middle of something. Can you do whatever this is later?” The other man in the room sounds bored and put out by my presence. I cut my eyes to him, recognizing Carson Steen, the middle child of Ben Steen and his heir apparent. Unbidden, it occurs to me that the online photos, while showing an attractive man, did him zero justice. Online, he’s handsome, but in a relatively normal way.

  In person, with thunder storming in his blue eyes and the hard set of his jaw, he’s absolutely magnetic. If I met him at a club or saw him from across a crowded room, I’d be instantly intrigued. But we’re not out at a meat market with EDM music providing a backdrop, and given the way he’s dismissing me to focus on the senior Steen, I think he’d probably ignore me to go get another drink from the bar in any case.

  “Mr. Steen,” I greet Carson, offering a handshake to him in order to say I will not be denied, “nice to meet you as well.”

  He looks at my outstretched hand a beat too long but does stand to shake.

  “Ms. Rice?” he questions, letting me know he didn’t even listen to my name. I don’t know if it’s a power move or if he genuinely didn’t listen, but I play it level.

  “Yes. Jayme Rice, from Compass Public Relations. Nice to meet—”

  I’m cut off once again when Carson whirls on his father. “An outside public relations firm? Are you fucking serious? I’m handling this.”

  Ben Steen sighs as he leans back in his leather chair. Pulling his reading glasses off, he closes his eyes for a moment and rubs the bridge of his nose.