Brooklyn
I settled behind the antique wooden desk in my office. The Ryker Teaton job was proving to be a challenge.
Ryker was one of the youngest clients I'd ever had, only twenty-five, and had been born with a platinum spoon in his mouth. He didn't know what he wanted, only what he didn't. What he didn't want was a woman picked out by his overbearing mother that benefitted his position in life. That was an easy problem to solve, but he'd been so sheltered his entire life with private tutors and the best college education money could buy, he was mostly clueless about how the world really worked. Points to him for recognizing the fact and wanting to change it.
I'd chosen his companion, but finding the venue was more of a challenge. My services were all inclusive. I arranged everything so my clients simply had to show up and enjoy themselves, but Ryker had rejected every suggestion I'd made so far. He kept saying he wanted adventure and to see how 'normal' people lived. That, unfortunately, made for very limited options. Normal people generally lived a life devoid of grand adventures. While I could perhaps set him up to learn to drive a race car, fly a high-performance jet aircraft, or learn to fight fires, that left his companion standing on the sidelines watching, which defeated the entire purpose of him contacting me. I smiled to myself. Deanna wasn't the type of person to stand on the sidelines anyway.
I spent the next three hours browsing the internet, looking for inspiration. I'd thought I'd been onto something when I suggested the Baja, Mexico, vacation, where they could watch the gray whale migrations from kayaks, but he'd killed that idea by saying he wanted to see America. Travel, stay in America, but have an adventure. A tall order, especially in February. I only had two more weeks to get it setup and in place, and I was running out of time.
I stumbled across an interesting article about a luxury train, the Golden Eagle, that seemed to be the ticket, until I discovered it traveled between Moscow and Vladivostok, Russia, but it gave me an idea, and I began to follow it up. After another two hours of digging, I realized there was nothing comparable in the United States, but my research did turn up an option. There was no scheduled train service, but I could rent private cars.
After an hour of questions and answers with the company that provided the cars, I placed a reservation for the two-car suite. The cars could be attached to any regular Amtrak passenger train service and were fully self-contained. Working with the company furnishing the cars, I booked a five-week tour of the country, starting in New York City, with stops in Atlanta, New Orleans, Memphis, Chicago, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, with a return trip through the Rocky Mountains. Ryker could also schedule additional stops along the way if he chose by calling the company providing the cars.
It was breath-takingly expensive, by far the most expensive accommodations I'd ever reserved, but I didn't care. Ryker was paying for it. I typically booked accommodations for a month, though I could length or shorten that to suit my client. In this case, a five-week tour worked better. I contacted Ryker, explained my plan, and he enthusiastically agreed.
After hanging up with him, I booked the trip. It would take almost a week for the railcars to arrive in New York where Deanna and Ryker would board to begin their adventure. Now that I had the basics of the trip locked in, the week-long wait for the cars to arrive in New York gave me plenty of time to arrange Deanna's trip to New York.
.
.
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Ryker
I sat in the center of the private railcar and waited for Deanna to arrive. I was in a foul mood. Mother and I had ended up in a shouting match just before I left. I'd kept the details of the trip secret from her until the last possible moment because she simply couldn't accept that I wanted to live my life on my terms. While I intended to take over Teaton Shipping Lines from my father, I was sick of having my social life micromanaged by my mother. I was so tired of having women presented to me, not because she thought I would like them, but because they were women of breeding and class, women who were part of the stuffy upper-class who looked down on anyone that didn't have a trust fund and an Ivy League education.
They were all, without exception, lovely, as beautiful as modern medical science could make a woman. They were also as plastic and shallow as a discount store kiddie pool. I hated them and everything they stood for. They were so concerned about appearances they could think of little else. Just like my mother.
Actually, I didn't hate them. I was indifferent to them. I used them for my needs, fucking them until I became bored with them and then casting them aside. It was a dick move, but I didn't care, and it had the additional benefit of upsetting Mother.
Where I had little respect for Mother's socialite activities, I had more respect for Dad. He'd taken TSL—Teaton Shipping Lines—from a niche company running bulk grain ships from America to Europe after World War II to a global behemoth. TSL was now the second largest container shipping company in the world with annual revenues of over twenty-eight billion dollars. He'd started out working on his grand-father's ships as a deck hand, had risen through the ranks to captain a ship, and then to running the company. He knew the company from the waterline up, and it showed as he took his grandfather's company and grown it far beyond what anyone believed possible through astute acquisitions and mergers.
I'd wanted to follow the same path, but Mother had forbid it. She wouldn't hear of me working like a common laborer and had insisted I go to school. Dad had agreed, and I now had a degree in logistics and supply chain management. I was certain Dad would let me spend a few years on a ship, learning the business from the water up, but so far all that had happened was he and Mother fought like cats and dogs over the idea.
Mother married Dad after he took over the company. She was twenty years younger than him, only twenty-two years older than me, and she was from old money. She didn't understand Dad's work ethic and couldn't understand why I'd want to get my hands dirty when I could have everything I wanted by simply asking for it. That, in a nutshell, was the problem. She simply didn't understand me, and because of her, I couldn't go anywhere without supervision. It wasn't the staff's fault, and I did my best not to take my frustration out on them, but I was tired of having someone standing behind me, waiting to wipe my nose if I sneezed. I didn't even have a damned driver's license because I had a car and driver at my disposal.
When I'd informed Mom and Dad I was taking a vacation, they'd been supportive, until I refused to give them details. I'd heard them shouting about it, Dad supporting the idea that I could make my decisions on my own. In the end, I'd prevailed, and Mother had vanished, refusing to speak to me, as I crawled into the back of the Mercedes so Gerrard could drop me off at the train station.
Part of Mom's issue was she'd found out I was taking a trip across America by train and had been appalled. Trains were loud, smelly, filthy things that were for shuttling freight from our ships to the unwashed masses in the center of the country. I guess she was afraid I was going to get shot, robbed, raped, or eaten by bears. I glanced around the private railcar. Like so many things, she was so insulated she didn't know what she was talking about.
The car Brooklyn had arranged for our use was amazing. Built in 1951, the car was the last hurrah of the passenger railroads. It had been built for Arthur E. Stoddard, president of the Union Pacific Railroad at the time, for his use when traveling. It was unbelievably beautiful inside, the equal to any club room in New York, with rich woods, thick carpeting, and fine leather. It had a bedroom with a private bath at one end, a dining room at the other, and a raised lounge with a glass dome in the center that gave a panoramic view of the passing countryside, or would once we were out of the station. Attached to the car was another car that contained a gourmet kitchen, laundry facilities, and sleeping quarters for the four staff that would cater to our every need. Mother could keep the private airplane;
this
was the way to travel.
"Another drink, Mr. Teaton?" Serge's smooth voice pulled me out of my funk.
"Call me Ryker."
"Very good, sir."
I rolled my eyes. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy having money, because I did, but I was so incredibly tired of having someone underfoot and fawning over me all the time. "Not, sir, either. Just Ryker. Also, from this point forward, if I want something, I'll ask for it."
"Understood."
"I don't want you hovering, okay? It's nothing personal, but I'm taking this trip to get away from all of that. So relax, okay? I'm not going to demand to cook my own meals or anything like that, but I'm perfectly capable of pouring a shot into a glass."
"It's part of the service," he said, his voice as formal as before.
I nodded. "I understand, but I've had someone like you waiting on me my entire life. I'd like to be treated like a normal guy for once. In fact, why don't you pour yourself one and join me?"
Serge smiled. "Thank you, Ryker, but that could cost me my job."
"Yeah, probably," I muttered. "Okay, but otherwise, relax, okay? I'd much rather have to wait on you to come from wherever you are than to have you standing in the corner all the time. Does that make sense?"
"Perfectly."
"If I want something, I know how to reach you," I added as I jerked a thumb at the phone. All I had to do was pick it up and someone in the other car would answer.
He glanced out of the dome of glass, looking down to the passenger platform. "I believe Ms. Preston is here."
On the platform outside, a woman smiled as another of the staff met her. Like Serge, the man was dressed in white and black, with creases in his uniform sharp enough I could shave with them. The man extended a hand to the railcar, gesturing her aboard.
"Excuse me," Serge said as he moved away and disappeared down the steps to the dining area.
A moment later, the woman entered the car, Serge leading her up the steps to the lounge area. "Ms. Deanna Preston, allow me to present Mr. Ryker Teaton. Ryker, Ms. Preston."
I smiled, stepping aside so Tyler could pass with her luggage. By the time introductions were finished, her clothes would be hung in the closet and her bags stored.
I extended my hand. "Nice to meet you."
Deanna was of average height with hair that couldn't decide if it was light brown or dark blonde, cut short in a messy is sexy style. She was bundled in a bulky coat that had seen some wear, and when she took my hand, I noticed her nails were cut short like a man's.
She smiled at me. "Nice to meet you, Ryker."
Her grip was amazingly strong for a woman. "Likewise."
"May I take your overcoat, Ms. Preston?"
"Sure," she said, shrugging it off. "At least it's warm in here," she said as Serge disappeared to hang her coat.
With her bulky coat off, I could tell she was lean, like a runner or someone that worked out regularly. She wasn't as fully figured as most of the women I knew, but I could also tell she hadn't been under the surgeon's knife. What she had was hers, and I liked that, and I also liked she used little or no makeup, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. She appeared to be a little older than me, perhaps thirty, and when she smiled, her large dark eyes crinkled in the corners.
"Can I get you something?" I asked, gesturing at the bar tucked into the corner of the room.
