Escapade

Chapter 1: I

Wednesday, 8 April

Louis Tomlinson stood from a long table with the tips of his spread fingers on top of the smooth glass. Sunlight beamed around his body from the floor to ceiling windows behind him. He pinched the bottom seam of his tailored navy blue suit jacket and tugged once, surveying the row of older men staring up at him. Their expressions ranged from furious to terrified. They were a study in scrunched eyebrows, huffed breaths, and flushed cheeks.

"Anyone need a stretch?" Louis flattened his hand on his lower back and pushed his hips forward. "Long negotiations make my legs cramp."

His query was met with steely silence, save for the quiet hiss of air being circulated into the conference room. The corners of Louis' mouth quirked.

"Would anyone else care for more water, perhaps?" He ran his right fingers over the trinity knot of his black tie, his left hand flat on the silky material. "I'm feeling parched."

"No," Acker said, the word snapping out of his mouth before Louis finished speaking. "No, we don't want any of your sodding water. Just as we don't want anything to do with your scam of a deal."

Another older gentleman called Jones bounced in the seat next to Acker, Jones' bushy white eyebrows twitching with anger. Louis' calm eyes slid to Jones even before he bumbled out his reply.

"You're stalling, Tomlinson. It's a load of rubbish." Jones' words sounded like burps ribbetted out of his cracked lips, his pudgy arms crossed over his barrel chest. "Pure rubbish. Wasting all of our time."

Louis turned away from the group while lifting his curled fingers near his face.

"As you wish."

He walked ten paces forward to the sleek bar resting against the wall. A sweating glass pitcher sat on top of the bar, delicate slices of cucumber mingling with the perfectly square ice cubes. He gripped a tall, slender glass with a round rim and began to fill it. Cucumbers vibrated against the ice cubes in an effort to escape out the mouth of the pitcher.

The glass floated up to his lips. He took a slow sip, letting the cool water slide down his throat and pool in the centre of his chest. He stared out the window, watching cars speed by on the street below, his heart pounding in his ears. There was something hypnotizing about watching others go about their day without a care in the world as to what was happening above them. From forty floors up, central London resembled a Seurat painting, people and cars blending into colourful, moving dots.

If he stared long enough, he would see his own reflection in the polished glass. He could already see the people sitting at the table behind him, their eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

On one side of the table, he found his boss, and CEO of Covington Associates, Peter Covington II. Covington sat comfortably in his high-back leather chair, a small smile curling his lips and his dark blond hair quiffed into a stylish, but responsible, swoop.

Sitting in the seat beside Louis' empty spot was their client, Maxwell Shilling. Schilling was a collector of small businesses that posed any sort of threat to his own construction firm Schilling Builders, the Walmart of corporate construction. He appeared to be even more comfortable as he lounged in his chair, his crossed legs propped on the corner of the table, a constant glass of scotch in his hand.

On the other side of the table sat a group of men who looked out of place in every way possible. The owners of Acker-Jones Construction were built for work sites; for spending long days in the sun, elbow deep in cement and dirt. They were more suited for inhaling sawdust, not for breathing filtered air and sipping cucumber water.

Louis' side of the table wore custom tailored suits, fine silk ties, Italian leather shoes cobbled to fit the specific shape of their feet, and had standing appointments with barbers to ensure not even a single hair was ever out of place.