“Something about being removed from a project. I’m not one hundred percent sure.”
“Has he broken anything yet?”
“Not that I—” A huge crash cuts Marjorie off.
Wren sighs. “Okay, thank you, Marjorie.” She turns to the guy positioned outside Armstrong’s office door. He looks halfway between a bodyguard and techie. “Hi, Carter, thank you for keeping him contained. Have you notified Lulu at the front desk?”
He nods somberly. “She knows to prevent clients from making their way down this end of the hall. I’ll call her when you give me the all clear.”
“Great, thank you.”
“Need any help in there?”
“I think we’ll be okay. Thank you, though.” Wren pushes open the door to Armstrong’s office. He’s currently in the middle of a temper tantrum. His desktop monitor is on the floor, the screen spiderwebbed.
I follow Wren inside and close the door. Armstrong has always been on the dramatic side. As a kid if he didn’t get his way, he’d fly off the handle and break things. It appears this hasn’t changed at all in the past twenty years. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s gotten worse. I wonder if the strain of trying to keep it together in public is making it even more challenging. And my presence probably isn’t helping.
Wren crosses her arms over her chest. “What seems to be the problem?”
Armstrong spins around and stalks toward her, but as soon as she puts a hand up, he freezes, almost like a dog obeying.
“You did this!” He points at Wren, and then me. “Both of you.”
Wren looks over her shoulder. “I can handle this.”
“I’m sure you can. I’m here as an observer.” I motion for her to go on.
Armstrong is livid, nostrils flared, face red, hands clenched into fists, hair a mess.
Wren inspects her fingernails. “You’ll need to elaborate, Armstrong. What exactly did I do?”
Armstrong paces the room while flailing. “The McKenzie account was mine, and you took it away. It isn’t enough that Lincoln gets to come in here and take all the glory, and now he’s stealing my biggest clients!”
“Well, Armstrong, we wouldn’t have to take those accounts away from you if you would stop sexually harassing the daughter of the client in question.”
“I did no—”
“Three weeks ago, you sent their youngest daughter, who incidentally happens to be eighteen, a dick pic.”
“That’s ludicrous,” Armstrong spits.
Wren’s voice softens, almost as if she’s chastising a child. “We both know that’s untrue.”
“She said she was twenty-one.”
Of course, this is my brother’s go-to defense.
Wren tips her head to the side, expression passive and unimpressed. “So, you felt it was reasonable to send inappropriate photographs to one of the models contracted to shoot a spread in one of Moorehead’s teen publications because she told you she was twenty-one?”
Armstrong throws his hands in the air. “Well, how was I supposed to know she was related to the McKenzies?”
“Possibly because her last name happens to be McKenzie?”
“I only got her first name, so that’s not my fault.”
It’s unreal the way my brother shifts the blame, no matter how heinous his actions are.
Wren’s tongue peeks out for a second before it disappears, and she clamps her mouth shut in annoyance. She takes a deep breath through her nose, and when she speaks again, her voice is scary low. “I am going to ask you to stop speaking because everything that’s coming out of your mouth is pissing me off. I have a meeting that your temper tantrum is making me late for. One that you’re no longer invited to attend.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can and I will. Your behavior this morning is not fitting of senior management at Moorehead Media, and it will not go unpunished. If you act like a spoiled child, you’ll be treated like one.”
Wren takes one small step forward, causing Armstrong to scramble behind his desk. It’s exactly the kind of move he would have pulled when we were kids. “But I—”
Wren raises a hand, and he stops talking. “I have several women who can attest to the fact that the picture you sent is unequivocally your penis.”
“Maybe someone else sent it. Ever think of that? Maybe someone stole my phone.”
Wren pinches the bridge of her nose. “That you were texting an eighteen-year-old girl is questionable to begin with. Armstrong, stop digging yourself into a deeper hole.”
“She baited me! She was flirting with me and asked for my number! She started texting me, not the other way around.”
That he’s thirty and sending inappropriate pics to barely legal women is just … vile. I really don’t understand how he’s managed to get away with this for so long, or how anyone has been able to tolerate his asinine behavior.
Wren raises her hand again, and Armstrong’s mouth clamps shut. “In order to avoid losing the contract entirely, you’ve been removed from the account. You’re very fortunate that I was able to keep you from being forced to take a mandatory leave of absence. However, if it happens again, you will be taking some time off. Am I understood?”