One Taste: The "One" Series, #1

Devin

W elcome to Newark, New Jersey, the flight attendant’s voice comes over the loud speaker signaling our arrival at the gate. Thank you for flying with us. We hope to see you again soon.

I’ve never been happier to be getting off an airplane in my life. The man next to me took his shoes off right before takeoff and the smell has been horrid. Six long hours of that smell, plus his snoring.

God, get me off this plane.

Thank god for the small miracle of having an aisle seat. I shoulder my way into the crowded aisle and reach up to grab my carryon.

I drag in a breath of non-dirty-foot scented air as soon as I step off the plane and I sigh in relief.

It’s good to be home.

As I drag my suitcase behind me, I take in the feeling of comfort being back in my home state. I’ve traveled the country, and loved every minute of it, but there’s nothing like being home.

Coming down the escalator, I listen as they announce where we can find our bags.

Baggage from Delta flight 964 will be loaded onto carousel—

DEVIN! I hear my name screamed over the announcement. Looking past the crowd of passengers waiting for their bags, I see my best friend barreling toward me.

I brace for impact just as Brielle launches her body into mine and wraps her arms around me like a spider monkey.

She squeezes me. Hard. God, I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed you too, but could you please refrain from strangling me to death my first day home.

Brielle Montgomery has been my best friend since we fought over the last jump rope at recess on the first day of second grade. It was love at first fight. She called me a dooty-head and told me it was her jump rope, she got to it first, and I told her she was a mean brat who didn’t get to it first because I did. We pulled it back and forth in a tug of war until we both had to sit along the wall in a recess time out.

The next day, after both of us were in the front of the line, each getting a jump rope, we jumped rope together singing a song that I can’t remember, and that was that.

Sorry, sorry. She laughs. I’m just so happy to have you back.

Let’s just hope these interviews go well or you won’t have me for long.

I have four interviews lined up over the next two weeks, and if I don’t land one, I won’t be staying long.

Brielle smirks and shrugs a shoulder. With your resumé, I’m not worried. Let’s get your shit and get out of here. We’re going out tonight.

Ugh, I protest. I’ve just spent six hours on an airplane. I don’t want to go out. I want to go back to your place and veg-out with a bottle of Pinot for the rest of the night.

Too bad, she says taking my small suitcase from me. I wasn’t asking. I was telling. Let’s go, bitch.

The smell of coffee infiltrates my nose. I stretch out in bed and my muscles ache.

Damn, I’m out of shape.

I haven’t spent a night out on the town in forever. I forgot how much energy Brielle has. Who plans a bar crawl on a random Saturday night? My best friend as a welcome back to town.

Rolling out of bed like I went twelve rounds in a heavy-weight match last night, I follow my nose to the smell of coffee filling the air.

I was wondering when you were going to drag your ass out of bed.

Brielle’s smirk irks me in the best possible way.

Damn, I’ve missed her.

I reach for the coffee pot and empty mug she so kindly set out for me beside it. Not all of us are professional party girls.

I’m pretty sure your twenties are meant for partying, Grandma. Her lips tip up into a sardonic grin. Did you have to hand in your fun card when you became a big shot?

This. This banter and sarcasm are what I’ve missed the most about being so far away from her. Texts and calls aren’t the same as this person to person interaction. I hadn’t truly realized how empty I felt until the moment Brielle wrapped her arms around me at the airport.

Blow me and pass the creamer, bitch.

The neurons in my brain begin waking up as the smooth, rich flavor of coffee slides down my throat and I notice the stack of boxes next to the front door.

Brielle follows my line of sight. The moving company arrived with your boxes about forty-five minutes ago.

I can’t thank you enough for letting me crash with you until I figure out what my next move is.

A huge smile stretches across her face. No thanks needed. There was no way you were coming back to this coast and not staying with me. We have so much time to make up for. It’ll be nice to not have to cram our girl time into one weekend in between family dinners at your parents.

I can’t even remember the last time I was in Jersey for more than a few days since heading out to the West coast seven years ago. What started as grad school and an internship turned into opportunity after opportunity and I couldn’t turn them down. Succeeding and making something of myself has always been my number one priority. My desire to be self-sufficient and live the best possible life has been my dream.

Still. I smile back. I know how much your closet means to you. The second bedroom of Brielle’s apartment has been her closet. The woman seriously owns like a department store’s worth of clothing and shoes.

She shrugs a shoulder. It was time to do some purging. Plus, it forced me to organize my stuff into seasons. Boxing my summer stuff and storing it in the basement isn’t the end of the world.

Draining my mug, I place it in the sink and head toward the boxes. I guess I better get these unpacked. Especially if I want to find something to wear to my interview tomorrow.

"Is that the one at NBC?" She asks following behind me.

Landing that interview with NBC is huge for me. It’s been all I can think about since I got the news. My last employer has a friend there and pulled some strings for me when my contract ended with them. I was only there to help them with their re-branding launch and when it was all said and done, the company was so pleased, he called in a favor for me. The assistant to the VP of sales. Don’t let the assistant part fool you. It’s a big stepping stone to moving up the chain. It’s akin to Anne Hathaway getting moved up to assistant number one in The Devil Wears Prada. No, that’s not until next week.

I’ll grab the wine, you grab the boxes.

Seriously, Brielle? Wine? I just woke up.

So what? she calls out from the kitchen. You had your coffee, what else do you need?

Sebastian

Igaze out the window of my office watching the busyness of New York City below as Madison drones on and on behind me. My sister’s monotone voice sounds the same as the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.  Whomp-whomp-wha-whomp.

It’s only nine o’clock in the morning for Christ’s sake. Why is she so worked up anyway? It’s too early for this shit.

I see her movements reflected in the window, and I stiffen. Her bitching makes me tense.

You need to take this seriously, Sebastian, she stresses, crossing her hands over her chest. You can’t keep acting like a petulant teenager without a care in the world. You are the face of this firm now. It’s time to grow the hell up. You need to stop with the nonsense.

This has me spinning my chair around and shooting her a glare. I have to grow up? It’s ironic my little sister—who looks like the poster child for bratty girls across America with her sour puss and crossed arms—is telling me to grow up.

I haven’t even had time to finish my coffee yet and she’s given me a headache.

Why, Madison? So I can be like you? You walk around wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. One of these days your goddamn head is going to explode.

She huffs and places her hands on her hips. Classic brat move. Yet, I’m the one who needs to grow up?

I’m not wound tight. She grimaces. It’s called being a fucking adult, and you need to try it. You’re twenty-nine years old, Sebastian!

She’s pissed—beyond pissed.

It’s called getting laid so you’re not so pissy all the time. I retort and her eyes flare with rage. You should try it sometime. Maybe then you’ll learn how to relax a little.

Her glare turns from fiery to downright glacial. I’ll relax when you stop running our father’s business—his blood, sweat, and tears—into the ground. He retired, and he had enough confidence in you to take over, so he could reduce his stress levels and focus on his health. You should start acting like the man he thought you were.

Low blow, Madison. She’s not holding back the punches this morning. I still don’t know what she's so bent out of shape over, but whatever it is, she means business because she pulled the dad card.

Three months ago, my father had a major heart attack. It was touch and go there for a minute when he had the bypass surgery. I thought my mother was going to give herself a heart attack during the longest seven hours of her life.

As soon as he was awake and we knew he would be okay, she demanded he retire. The only thing my father loves more than this firm is his wife and children. I’ve been holding down the fort since. This has been the plan for when Dad retired for as long as I can remember. I would take the helm of Midtown Advertising. The only difference is we thought Dad would be here for a couple more years. He’s barely sixty.

It makes Madison’s little tirade strange. She’s been a commanding, spoiled princess since birth, but it’s not as if I’m some idiot who has no idea what he is doing. I’m superb at what I do. Dad has always said I had an interesting way of conveying messages. My concepts have been the design behind many popular ads and slogans. Business is thriving, not being run into the ground.

Madison. I sigh, running my hand over my too long brown hair. I need to get a haircut. Can you get to your point? You’re not making any sense. Business is fine. What’s the problem?

She grabs the paper she dropped on my desk when she walked in here earlier and thumbs through the pages. Your face cannot continue to be on the gossip pages. Being a drunk womanizer is not a ringing endorsement for anyone who wants to do business with you. People want a professional, and this picture is not professional.

She gets to the page she’s searching for, and sure enough, my mug is taking up half the page along with the blonde I took to a hotel a few nights ago. It’s not a flattering photo of either of us. She has mascara streaked down her face, and my eyes appear half open and crossed. Thank God the picture is black and white. Both of our faces were beet red at this point of the night. The club was hot as hell that night—in multiple ways.

Who gets that drunk on a Tuesday? Her voice is incredulous, and she jabs her long pink manicured nail into the picture of my face. This makes it seem as if you’re irresponsible. That your priorities aren’t in order.

Now, I stand, pushing my chair back from my desk, and stare down at my sister. That’s bullshit. My priorities are ordered just fine.

She shakes her head, and a stray piece of her brown hair falls from her bun. But this makes it look otherwise. Week after week new photos of you are popping up in the gossip columns, not to mention the garbage they’re printing in the tabloids. Dad's becoming worried. He’s concerned our accounts may choose to find another company with a less infamous CEO. He cannot afford to worry about this so soon after his surgery.

I concede with a huff as I sit back in my chair. The last thing I want is for my social life to affect my father. Okay, I’ll tone it down. I can live low-key for a while—for Dad.

Madison looks at me with sad eyes. It’s too late for that, Sebastian. We need damage control at this point. The papers have you pegged as a drunk, sometimes drugged-up, super slut. Do you even read the headlines that typically accompany your face in the paper? Christ, if Dad hadn’t paid off that sleazy-ass pap last week, your ass would have been in the paper along with the girl’s knees, which were clearly visible between your legs.

Not all of that is true. I haven’t done drugs since college.

It doesn’t matter. We’re bringing in an interim CEO. Dad has put me in charge of hiring someone to run things while you make yourself appear to be a choirboy to the public. You will work with this CEO until Dad, me, and the person we hire agree it’s time for you to take back over.

What the actual fuck?

You can’t be serious? I argue. What the hell would you know about hiring someone to run an advertising firm? You don’t see me trying to hire lawyers to assist you, do you?

I’ve grown up in this building too. I know a thing or two about advertising, and as the firm’s counsel, it makes sense for me to do it since Dad can’t.

This is ridiculous. It makes no sense. By hiring someone else, you’re confirming their suspicions I can’t do this when I can. I am.

It isn’t a suspicion, Sebastian. She frowns. And, to be honest, you’re not doing anything for this company with the negative press this kind of exposure brings. This isn’t a debate. This is me telling you we’ve contacted a few recruiters for potential hires and interviews will start tomorrow.

Rage consumes me as I slam my hands on my expensive mahogany desk. This is fucking bullshit, Madison. All of this—bullshit! How I live my life has no bearing on my abilities in this office. The only people it affects are me and the women I go home with.

When I think I’m the only one who feels rage, Madison walks toward me, almost knocking me back a step with her tone. "We’re not continuing this argument, Sebastian. Dad and I have already decided we’re hiring an interim CEO. We