8. Hunter
CHAPTER 8
hunter
W hat a fucking mess I've made of this whole stupid situation.
I spent the last three days doing a deeper dive into the finances of the Badd's Bar company. I looked at their financial structure. The particulars of their LLC. I went through every last piece of publicly available information my team could dig up and a few things that may not have been exactly publicly available.
All signs pointed to a healthy, successful, thriving business, and a growing one. Which wasn't good news for me. Because that meant I had very little leverage. Why should they need me? They didn't. I didn't need them either, but I wanted them. I've spent a lot of time in their bars in the last couple of weeks. I like the ambiance. I like the food. I like the entertainment. Whatever the secret sauce is, it's working, and if we can put their talent and my money together, we could do some really good business.
I grinned—I just found my pitch. Funny—I haven’t been the one to make a pitch in years. Usually, I’m the one being pitched to. And if I decide to invest in or outright purchase a company, I don't pitch . I give them the facts and present it as a fait accompli .
This is why I'm here, though. It's a challenge. I'm nervous. Worried I might mess up and lose the bid. It's fun. Exciting.
But then…there's Delia.
The daughter of the man I have to pitch to. And she seems to have a lot of sway. I intentionally haven’t looked into her role in the company, but I suspect she’s being groomed by her father to take over. Why else would a 22-year-old be the GM of a busy, thriving bar?
She's impressive as fuck, is what she is. And I'm not talking about her body. Her—-the woman. The bartender. She makes a job I imagine isn't easy look…well, easy.
And I was developing…I'm not going to say feelings. But something. For her. I'm thinking about her all the time.
Yes, I dream, and daydream, and fantasize in the shower about that mouth of hers, and what she can do with it. Because good and holy goddamn, that blowjob deserves some kind of award, or title, or accolade, or something. Would it be shitty of me to have a plaque made for her? "Best blowjob ever, awarded to Delia Badd" with the day’s date and an eggplant emoji or something.
I've been the recipient of a lot of BJs. The whole PA under the desk thing? Yeah. On the daily. While on the phone, typing emails, or signing paperwork. Or just because. So I'm somewhat of an expert, I'd like to think.
And what Delia did to me?
Fuck.
There aren't words to describe it. Not sure why—there's only so much technique involved, you know? At the end of the day, it's all pretty much the same act with minor variations. But something about her, the way she touched me, what she did, how she did it…left me in a literal puddle on the floor, speechless, paralyzed, and all but drooling on myself.
So yeah, I dream about that shit.
I also dream about tasting her again. Because that was just as good for me. Feeling her, watching her? Making her come apart for me? Especially when she told me she doesn't typically come easily, it made me feel about ten feet tall, knowing I did that for her.
I just don't know what to do with her and with the whole situation. She knows why I'm here, to a degree; or, at least, she suspects. I know damn well, and not just because she told me so, that the Badds are not interested in bringing anyone from the outside into their business. So me coming here and sniffing around their livelihood, asking questions, and generally being a nosy outsider…and then I start showing interest in her, tell her I’m fucking lying to her…
I can see how it looks bad. Because it is. How am I supposed to keep those two angles separate? I've become quite adept at keeping personal and professional separate since that dinner with Harriet. I don’t date anyone who may be within two degrees of connection to my business—I won’t date the daughter of someone I’m interested in doing business with; I won’t even date that daughter's friend.
But here I am, playing a weird, fucked-up game of sexual chicken with Delia Badd, while planning to pitch a buyout or investment to her father.
I stared at my phone and the very short list of important contacts: Mom, Dad, Givey, Harriet, and now Elara. The only people I trust.
Elara I’m still developing trust with—but she'll never be the person I call for advice or to rant to. Same with Mom and Dad—I love them, I'm grateful to them, and I make an effort to stay in touch with them even if I’m not especially close to them. That leaves Harriet and Givey.
Harriet, technically speaking, is my employee. But over the years, I’ve given her more and more leeway in how we interact and more responsibility within the company, and I’ve come to rely on and seek out her advice regularly. Just…not on personal matters, typically.
Givey? My only real friend. The only person who doesn’t give two shits about my last name, net worth, or political and cultural influence. To Givey, I’m just Hawk, his oldest friend. We tell each other everything. I was there for him when his girlfriend came up pregnant during freshman year of college—and it was my money that paid for the PI who proved not only was she not pregnant, but if she had been, it could have been anyone’s because she was a cheating, lying skank. He was there for me when Yasmin Utrecht recorded us having sex, doctored the footage to make it look like I assaulted her, and then tried to blackmail me for ten million dollars. What Yasmin didn’t know was that finance was Givey’s career, but his hobby was photo and video manipulation. Some guys do fantasy football, others join a rec hockey league, or bowl, or play online poker. Givey? He creates doctored images and videos and trolls the internet with them. Harmless, funny stuff, nothing political or culturally offensive. The point is, he watched the video and knew immediately that she'd fucked with it, and was able to work some sort of digital magic to prove she'd fucked with the footage.
The question facing me now is, whom do I call? Givey will sympathize. Harriet will offer logical solutions—even if, and especially if—that solution is what I don't want to hear.
I dialed Givey because I wasn’t ready to hear what Harriet would tell me.
He answered on the third ring. "Dude, some of us have jobs and lives, Hawk. I'm not your goddamned PA. It's five-thirty on a fucking Friday evening and I have a deadline I'm not gonna hit, so make it fuckin' snappy."
"I may have fucked up."
A long, stunned silence ensued. "Give me an hour," he said. "I'll call you back as soon as I finish this."
"Sounds good, bud. Talk soon." I hung up and tossed the phone onto the table.
I spent the next hour and a half working on my pitch, putting together my projected numbers, working up ideas for expansion, and determining how to identify and reproduce the family-owned feel on a larger franchise scale.
And honestly, it felt good to get my hands dirty, so to speak. Do the creative work. Most of what I do on a day-to-day basis is boring-as-fuck high-level admin shit. Overseeing the overseers, so to speak. Top down, thirty-thousand-foot overviews of the Hawkins Group Corporation operations.
It's been a long, long fucking time since I’ve done anything creative like this, and it's enjoyable as hell.
Makes you think a little bit.
I pushed those thoughts aside for later and put the finishing touches on the pitch, closing the laptop when my phone finally rang.
"Sorry, my boss wanted to see my work before I left for the weekend," Givey said; I was on speaker as he drove home out of the city.
"All good. Thanks for calling me back, man."
"So, you fucked up? What, is she pregnant?"
"Dude, no. Jesus. I'm more careful than that, you know that. And plus, we haven't actually even fucked yet." I paused. "Wait, how'd you know it was about her?”
He snorted. "Oh, fuck off. What else would it be about when you call me and say you fucked up? You don't make mistakes in business. Therefore, it's personal. And since you don't have a personal life outside of which model, actress, pop star, influencer, or socialite you've managed to piss off with your intimacy avoidance issues, it has to be about a woman."
"Intimacy avoidance issues?" I echoed. "The fuck are you talking about? I do not have intimacy avoidance issues."
Givey literally laughed in my face…metaphorically speaking. When he recovered, he sighed, and I could all but see him wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Oh, man. Wow. Good one, Hawk. I needed that laugh."
"Fuck you, man. I do not need this shit. I come to you with a real situation and you fucking laugh at me."
"Hunter, buddy. You have a textbook case of intimacy problems. Do you really need me to bust out my psychology minor on you right now?”
"Well shit, you know it's serious when you call me Hunter," I said. "Please, though. Enlighten me."
He sighed, still working through the throes of laughter. "Don't say that unless you mean it, Hawk."
"I'm serious, Jonathan . Enlighten me as to my intimacy avoidance issues."
"Oooh, the full first name. We're getting down to brass tacks now." He cursed floridly. "Hold on, let me get around this jackass going sixty in a seventy-fucking-five. Fuck you, you slow-ass bucket of dicks. I have shit to do besides wait for you to find the fucking accelerator."
I laughed. “You know, sometimes I miss driving myself everywhere. But whenever I'm on the phone with you and I have to listen to you and your road rage, I'm reminded of how lucky I am to have a professional driver. All I have to do is sit in the back of my limo and let him worry about traffic while I sip thirty-year-old scotch and get my dick sucked."
"Fuck you. I hate you."
"You're just jealous," I said.
"Yes, I am. Therefore, asshole, I'm gonna let you have both barrels."
“Hit me, big boy."
"Big boy? What are you? A stripper named Candi with an I?" He laughed. "Here we go—you ready?"
"I was born ready. Get on with it, peasant."
"You have mommy issues."
I waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. “That's it? That's your big psychoanalysis?"
"Oh, you want the deep dive? Fine, but don't bitch at me when your widdle feewings get hurted." He paused, muttering curses under his breath. "I do not have road rage, also. I just don't have patience for bad drivers."
"Which, according to you, is everyone."
"Exactly. Glad you get it." A groan. " FUCK ! An accident? Goddammit. I’m never getting home. Anyway, you want it? You got it. Yes, you have intimacy issues that stem from your complicated relationship with your mother. You were cared for, meaning she fulfilled her essential duties as your guardian, but she…how do I put this, since I still have to have dinner with the woman once a month?"
"This is between you and me, Jon," I said. "All jokes aside, I do want to know what the fuck you're on about. The monthly dinner with our folks at the country club will not be affected by anything, you say. You have my word."
"Fine. She's cold, man. You were cared for but not exactly loved. Your dad was the master of tough love. He meant well, and he gave you tools to succeed in business, obviously, but he didn't exactly show you any love but the tough kind. And your mother? Can you recall the last non-sexual, utterly platonic hug you got? From anyone?"
I rocked back in the chair, mind whirling. "Hug?"
He snorted sarcastically. "Yes, Hunter, hug. You know, that thing where someone puts their arms around you just to show you that they care about you?"
"Third grade," I said, after a moment of consideration. “After a science fair. My model of fault lines won first place in the all-city elementary science fair, and Mom gave me a hug and told me she was proud of me."
For some stupid reason, my throat felt tight.
"Jesus fucking Christ—you remember the exact moment?" Givey sounded utterly shocked.
"It was a Friday. March fifth. I was eight."
"And no one has hugged you since?"
"Non-sexual? No."
"Fuck, man. No wonder you're such an insufferable asshole to everyone all the time."
I coughed in shock. "Wait, hold on. Now I'm an insufferable asshole to everyone all the time, and I have intimacy avoidance issues, and mommy issues?"
"No, you're an insufferable asshole to everyone all the time because you have intimacy avoidance issues, which you have in large part because of your complicated relationship with your mother."
"This is a very enlightening conversation," I said. "Please, elaborate."
"You crave attention and affection. Love. You don't get it, and that makes you cranky. You look for it via sex with objectively attractive women you have absolutely no intention of letting past the front door, emotionally speaking. Most of the women you date are lucky to get all the way onto the porch, emotionally speaking. Most of the time, they're stuck on the sidewalk."
"And, according to you, this is my mother's fault?"
"According to psychology, yes. And it's more complicated than that, but if you want to boil it down, yes, basically."
"Mommy didn't hug me, so I use women for sex and treat everyone around me like doormats, is what you're saying."
He sighed. "Hawk, you're like a brother to me. You know I love the shit out of you. But…yes."
"Well…fuck." I rubbed my face with both hands. "Lovely. Call for advice and find out I'm a monster."
"Not what I said, bro, Jesus. Come on. You're not a monster. We all have issues, Hunter. Everyone. Yours just happen to affect more people since you're such a high-profile person. One second, I'm getting off the freeway." He came back a moment later. "So. How'd you fuck up? Talk to Givey."
"Only if you promise never to refer to yourself in the third person ever again." I groaned. "This whole Alaskan restaurant project has gotten twisted, and I'm not sure how to proceed."
Givey was silent for a long beat. "I've never heard you say those words before—that you didn't know what to do."
"Quit busting my balls."
"I'm not. I'm being serious. You always know what to do. You're not always right, but you're always confident in your decisions."
"This girl I'm involved with. Well, woman. Young woman? I don't know. She's twenty-two, but she's—"
"If you say 'mature for her age,’ I'm hanging up," he cut in.
"Fuck off. She is. She's the daughter of the owner of the company I'm looking at. She manages one of their locations, and she's damn good at it. But she knows why I'm in town, loosely speaking. She knows I'm not telling her everything about myself or why I’m here. I have no leverage in the situation because this family is kicking ass. They can tell me to go take a hike, and I’d have fuckin’ dick to come back with. That’s one side. The other side is that this thing with Delia…it's complicated."
"It's never complicated. It's usually very simple, you just don't want to accept the very simple path forward." He sighed. "You're involved with the twenty-two-year-old daughter of the man whose business you're trying to buy—a business you yourself admit doesn't need you. Yeah, Hunt, y'done fucked up, son."
“Thanks. Helpful."
"Not sure what you expect me to say. You're thirty, which is eight years her senior. You're a billionaire. You live in New York. You run a global corporation worth billions. Stocks rise and fall when you post on social media And she’s barely an adult, lives in fucking Alaska , and runs a bar. I’m sure she’s hot and nubile and shit, but you’re on two very different wavelengths, Hunter. Honestly, you want my advice? Pull the plug on the whole fucking thing. Come back home. Buy a fucking restaurant here and find some other challenge. Shit, I don’t know—take up skydiving, or rock climbing. Sell your whole company and start over. Get into acting. Start a band. Find a woman whose age and social status are appropriate, marry her, and have kids. I genuinely do not know what the fuck you’re doing in Alaska in the first goddamn place, Hunt. Other than putting yourself in a compromising position for very little benefit, personally and professionally."
"You don't know what she's like, Givey."
A pause. "I see. So tell me, Hawk. What's she like?" Before I could answer, he cut over me. "And do not reference sex. What's she like as a person?"
"I'm more than just a skirt chaser, Jonathan . You act like all I give a shit about is sex."
Another sigh, this one annoyed. "Jesus, you're extra touchy today. Quit being a little bitch, Hunter. Tell me the last woman you had anything approaching a real relationship with. Someone you connected with. Someone you enjoyed spending time with—clothed, I mean."
"Um."
"Harriet doesn't count."
"I wasn't going to say Harriet." I so was.
"Think harder, buddy. I'll wait."
"Courtney Alberforth."
"Oh, fuck me. Do not bring that crazy ass lunatic into this, Hunter Hawkins."
"Before she went apeshit, I really did connect with her. We talked about everything. I truly enjoyed talking to her. Until she had her…episode."
"That thing you so quaintly call an episode nearly caused a national security crisis."
"How was I supposed to know she was the estranged daughter of a diplomat? Or that she was off her meds and on the run from an involuntary psych hold?"
"Oh, I don't know, when she showed up at your penthouse at three in the morning wearing nothing but a pair of heels and a smile?"
"That was hot and quirky at the time. I didn't realize what a red flag it was."
"Because you saw those G-cup silicone knockers and lost all critical thinking faculties."
"They were not G-cup."
"Sorry, H."
"Wrong direction."
"You're missing the point. That was not a real connection."
"Fuck you, yes it was. Until the, um, incident, she was a great conversationalist. We really did talk a lot, fully clothed. Yes, she had the most absurdly oversized bolt-ons I've ever seen in real life, and yes, they were very fun to play with. But on my end, it was absolutely one hundred percent a real, personal connection."
"Until she went apeshit on your yacht in international waters and nearly got you killed by the SAS. And y’know, I’m still not clear on how they got involved."
"Me either. Neither are they, according to the official after-action reports I saw."
He sighed. "As fun as this stroll down memory lane is, it's only proving my point."
"I've forgotten what your point is."
"I asked you to tell me what this Delia chick is like as a person."
"Then why are we talking about Courtney fucking Alberforth?"
"Hunt. Focus. Your ADD is showing."
"Fuck you. I do not have ADD."
"Tell me about Delia and why it's complicated with her."
"Because I feel things, Jon. That's why. She's whip-smart, hard-working, and driven. She doesn't take my shit, and gives it back in equal measure and then some. She's the only person I've ever met who feels like my equal."
“That's concerning and insulting at the same time. Your hubris is breathtaking, also."
"I don't mean that everyone else is beneath me. It’s just that most people can't keep up. They get intimidated. They see the name, the money, the magazine covers and hit pieces and puff pieces and that whole sexiest man alive runner-up bullshit."
“You only think it's bullshit because you lost to Henry Cavill."
"The Lord Jesus himself would have lost to Henry Fucking Cavill."
"My Sunday school teacher once told us that Jesus was probably ugly. Something about a verse implying that he wasn't attractive."
"Missing the point, Givey." I spun around in the office chair until my head swam—a secret habit of mine. "I think about her all the fucking time. Let me repeat—I feel things."
Givey gasped, a pearl-clutching gasp of faux shock. "You… feel …things for this girl. As in emotions ? Do tell.”
"You're a real cockmuncher, you know that?"
"But a funny one."
"Debatable."
"For real, though. You're developing feelings for this twenty-two-year-old Alaskan chick? Like actually? Feelings for her personality, not just her rack?"
"Her rack is epic, and I do have feelings for it. But yes. We’ve messed around a few times, but we haven’t had sex. And I’m honestly not sure if we will. We have this whole game we're playing, and I think the point of it is that we both have intimacy issues, and we both are feeling things we're not sure how to handle, so we're being stupid about it."
"When you say epic…"
"I've never been as physically attracted to any human being in my entire life as I am to her, and that was true before I saw her naked. She's fucking stunning. But her attitude, man. The sass, the sarcasm. Her wit is razor sharp and she's lightning fast with the comebacks. She knows exactly how to push my buttons and enjoys doing so. She's left me speechless—literally dumbstruck, Jon. And again, that was before we did anything."
He was quiet for a while. "You've never talked about anyone this way. You have my attention."
"I'm questioning my own motivations. I haven't told her the truth—she doesn't know who I am. How, I don't know. But I truly believe she has no clue who I actually am. Which is a whole other situation, because I can be a version of myself with her that…that even I wasn't sure existed. And as soon as she knows who I am, that's gonna go away."
"You don't know that."
"It's not inevitable, but highly likely."
"Shake the magic eight ball again."
"You know how rare it is to meet someone who doesn't know who I am and doesn't care what I have or what I can do for them?"
"Yes, I do."
"Yeah, you do. So you have to know how I'm gonna feel about it."
He groaned. "Fuck, man. You did fuck up." He spent a few moments thinking. "So tell her who you are, make your pitch, and accept the consequences. I mean, really, bro, what options do you have? Pull the plug and run, or shoot your shot and take what comes."
"I'm emotionally invested in seeing this project through. That's what has me fucked up. I'm bored, Givey. All I do all day every day is put out fires, sign shit, read shit, and decide shit. It's dull. Every day is the same. There’s no challenge, no creativity.” I closed my eyes and set myself spinning again. “Honestly, bro, when you said sell everything and start over…I might actually consider that."
“Dude, you're having a full-blown existential crisis."
“Dude, yes, I am."
"You're really fucked up about this, aren't you?"
"Absolutely."
"I think we're exceeding my pay grade as your best friend, Hunter. I'm not qualified to tell you what to do in this situation. You’re in uncharted territory."
I groaned a harsh, raspberrying sigh. "Wonderful. Some advisor you are."
"I'm a confidante, Hunter, not an advisor."
"Oh."
"I told you what I think. Shoot your shot, man. Put all your cards on the table and see what happens. Worst case, you lose a restaurant deal you don't need and a girl you’ve known two weeks doesn't want to be with you. You'll get over both."
"Sounds simple on paper." I opened my laptop and flicked through my pitch deck again. "Bid first, girl second, or girl first, bid second?"
"Bid first. If she's involved in the company on a management level then she'll be part of the pitch, most likely. So if that doesn’t go well, the relationship angle might very well be settled that way, whereas if you try to settle things with her first and then the pitch gets fucked up somehow, she'll be forced to pick between her family and you, and that's a shitty position to put her in."
"Good point."
"That's why you pay me the big bucks as your advisor. Oh, wait. You don't pay me. In fact, I think I've paid the last several bar tabs."
I snorted. "You're bitching about a few hundred bucks in bar tabs? You're not exactly hurting for cash, Givey."
"I'm fucking with you, man."
I pulled up my bank app and transferred him some money.
A few seconds later, I knew he'd gotten the notification. "Hawk, what the fuck?"
I laughed. "Payment for services rendered as my confidante and advisor."
"A hundred grand is overkill for the joke, I think," he said.
"It's proportionate. Normal people would send what, five bucks? Twenty? A hundred grand, to me, is the same, roughly speaking, as twenty bucks to everyone else."
"You're a dick. I don't want your money. I was fucking with you."
I just laughed even harder. "If you were struggling for money, I can see how it would be insulting. You're not, therefore, it's a joke between friends. If you really don't want to take my money, donate it or some shit. I don't give a fuck."
He sighed. "You're impossible. Have I ever told you that? I should write a book: How to be Friends with a Billionaire—a comprehensive guide for penniless peasants."
"Not sure how much of a market there is for that, man."
"No shit. I’d be writing the book I wish I had. Dealing with your ass is a full-time job."
“Yeah, but you love me."
"Try as I might not to, yeah, I do." He chuckled. "Okay, well, this has been a wild-ass conversation, but I'm home now and I've got leftover pizza, the newest season of The Traitors, and a bottle of Blanton's calling my name, so I'm gonna have to let you go."
"Sounds good. Not the reality show; you're a loser for that. But the pizza and the whiskey sound great to me."
"You don't know what you're missing, buddy. That shit is quality entertainment."
"If you say so."
"Shoot your shot. And don't call me again until you have, yeah? I do have my own life to live."
“You do? You're watching reality TV alone on a Friday night."
"I'm on a break from dating."
"You mean Lisa dumped you."
"Fuck off."
“Yeah, you too," I said. “Talk later, buddy."
"Much later, you needy little bitch." He hung up before I could hit him with my comeback.
I tossed the phone onto my desk, poured myself a glass of scotch, and took it outside.
Shoot my shot, huh?
I would if I knew what that looked like.
With Delia, I mean. The pitch I have handled. If they don't go for it, fine. I get it. I won't push it. Delia, on the other hand? Not a fucking clue.
It's a weird feeling for a man as decisive as me. Scary. Unnerving. I shouldn't be scared of shooting my shot with a twenty-two-year-old girl. But I am.
Because I care about the outcome.
And I don't know if she feels the same way.