10. Hunter
CHAPTER 10
hunter
W hen was the last time I was this nervous?
Nothing comes to mind.
This is stupid. I should not be nervous. I do not need this deal. They do not need this deal. But it matters more to me than possibly any deal I've ever done, with the sole exception of the very first one I ever did back when I was nineteen and had ambitions of world domination. Or at least an ambition of acquiring an absurd amount of money and power.
I've been up since six, tweaking and fine-tuning, writing and rewriting, adding and deleting. Obsessing. Acting like a wet-behind-the-ears intern about to make his first pitch to the big boss.
It's 9:55, and I'm in my truck out front of the bar, laptop and notes on the console beside me, trying to center my mind and calm my nerves.
Jesus, is this what my people feel every time they have to pitch to me? Holy shit.
On impulse, I dial Elara.
"Good morning, sir," she answered, far too chipper. "How can I help you?"
"Love that attitude, Ms. Joseph. Good morning. Quick question—answer it immediately and without follow-up questions."
"Yes sir."
"What advice would you give to someone about to make their very first pitch and they're so nervous they're about to puke?"
"Square breathing, sir,” she answered immediately. “Breathe for a four-count, hold it for seven, and exhale for eight. Focus on the strengths of your pitch. Go over the numbers a million times until you know them cold, forward and backward. Never let them see you sweat. Someone wise once told me that last one."
"Square breathing, huh?"
"Yes sir. It works. I, um, I suffer from panic attacks, and that's one of my primary tools when I feel one coming. Grounding myself is the other one."
"What does that mean?"
"Focus on the present. The here and now. What can you see? What can you smell? What can you taste? What can you feel? Name five things you're grateful for. Four things you're proud of. Three things that make you happy. Two positive habits. One thing you love about yourself."
"Panic attacks, Ms. Joseph? Have you ever had one at work?"
"Yes sir, almost every day."
"Jesus," I mutter. "We're gonna have to talk about that. For now, however, I have to go. Thank you."
"Good luck, sir."
"I wasn't talking about me, Elara."
Her tone was amused. "Of course not, sir."
I ended the call without saying goodbye, simply as a matter of exerting authority, just because I could. A minor dick move, but I'm in a weird place right now.
I collected my things, put them into my leather satchel, let out a breath, and exited my truck. I paused outside the entrance and then entered the bar. Lights up, chairs and stools up, it was a different place.
The thought that percolated in my head as I made my way across the bar for the booth near the kitchen where Delia and her father were seated was whether or not her father would recognize me. I figured the chances were high. A girl—woman—of twenty-two can be excused for not keeping track of the list of billionaires and eligible bachelors in Manhattan. A man Sebastian Badd's age? If he didn't know who I was, well…that would be weird, and I don't mean that in a hubristic sort of way.
I wasn't hiding myself. I wore a pair of jeans, my boots, and a plain black polo. I'd shaved, my hair was slicked back in my usual style, and my Ray-Bans were tucked into the neck of my shirt rather than hiding my face.
They saw me coming and both stood up. I saw recognition light up Sebastian's face instantly, followed by anger.
Fuck.
Delia seemed unsure how to greet me, so I set the standard of formality. "Ms. Badd, it's nice to see you again. Sebastian Badd, good morning. Thanks for meeting me." I intentionally didn't introduce myself.
Delia glanced at her father, at me, and then back at her father, reading the anger on his face. "Dad, I thought we were going to hear him out."
Sebastian glowered at me. "Not going to introduce yourself? Why's that? Hmm… Hawk ? Figure either we don't know who you are or you’re hoping to avoid the subject so you can keep my daughter in the dark a bit longer?"
"A little of both, if I’m being honest,” I said, standing my ground as Delia's father—a big, muscular, hard-looking, tattooed, bearded man—infringed on my personal space.
"Oh, if you're being honest, huh?" He got in my face. "Why don't you be honest about who the fuck you are?"
I lifted my chin, meeting his hard, angry stare. "I've never met you, Mr. Badd. I've never been to Alaska before. I have nothing but respect for you and the business you and your family have built. So I’m not sure what I did to piss you off other than exist. But if this is how the conversation is going to start, with you pissed off and in my face, then there’s no point in continuing. Delia, thanks for arranging this. I’m sorry it couldn't work out."
I turned on my heel but only made it a few steps. "Hawk, wait. Just…stop." Delia's voice halted me, and I turned around but didn't re-close the gap. "Dad, stop. Take a breath, please. I’m fully aware that Hawk isn’t being fully forthcoming as to who he is. If you know, please share. Otherwise, you need to let me decide how to handle Hawk’s dishonesty. I don’t need you to be pissed off on my behalf. I can do that on my own, thanks very much."
Sebastian let out a disgusted breath. "You really don't know who this motherfucker is?"
Delia rolled her eyes. “No, Dad, I do not know who this motherfucker is."
"And you call him Hawk?" he pressed.
"Yes."
He glared at me, and I waved at him. "Go for it. I assumed it would come out today. I was never planning on hiding it forever. Just until I figured out the business end of the equation."
Sebastian shook his head. "No. You need to be the one to do it. Not me."
Delia growled, an adorable, sexy, and funny sound of frustration. "Ugh! Men and their idiotic dick-measuring contests. Someone just fucking tell me!”
I let out a breath. "My name is Hunter Hawkins."
Delia's eyes bugged out. "Wait…for real?"
"Last I checked, yes." I slid my wallet out of my hip pocket. "Would you like to see my ID?"
She had her phone out and was googling my name. I saw my photo pop up—a telephoto shot of me taken by a pap. In it, I was on a yacht in the Caribbean with a flavor of the week. I looked horrible. It was right after that whole thing with Courtney, so I’d tried to drown myself in the bottom of a bottle and between the legs of as many women as I could. I'd gone on a two-week bender, and by the time this photo was taken, I'd been awake and drunk for three days, fueled by coke and rage. I hadn't eaten, and I'd have liked nothing more than to fall off the boat and drown.
And when you google my name, that's the first fucking photo that pops up. I've tried for years to have it scrubbed from the internet, but asshole trolls online keep reposting it just to spite me because I had the gall to get rich via hard work and a lot of luck.
Delia's lip curled at the photo. "Wow. Flattering."
I said nothing.
She looked at me. "Hunter Hawkins. Hawk to your friends."
I snorted. "Friend, singular. Givey—the guy I called. He's my only friend and the only person, other than you, now, who calls me that."
"What does everyone else in your life call you?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Sir."
She laughed until she realized I wasn't kidding. "I'm not calling you sir, Hawk."
A joke bubbled up and died behind my teeth, emerging as a twitch of my lips that I know she caught.
"No, no, no. Nope." She snickered. "This is business."
"I said nothing." I bit my lip.
She snorted a laugh. "Shut up. This is serious.”
Sebastian eyed us both in disgust. "Glad you two find this humorous."
She scrolled and then tapped on my Wikipedia page. She followed a link to an interview with a finance magazine I'd done a few years ago where I'd told the story about my father's five hundred grand.
Her eyes went to mine, surprised. "That was true?"
I didn't try to disguise the hurt. "Of course it was. Everything I've told you is true. The only lie I've told you is the omission of my real name." The hurt was good—it put the armor of ice around me; I met her father's eyes. "Now that that's out of the way…shall we? I can make my pitch in five minutes. I've timed it. I am fully aware of what your answer is going to be, but my trip here will have been wasted…" I paused for a split second. "Professionally speaking…if I don't at least present you with my idea."
Sebastian stared hard at me, assessing me. "Fine. Five minutes." He tugged his phone from his back pocket, set a five-minute timer, sat down, and started it. "Better get going, Hawkins. Time is ticking."
Delia touched my wrist. "Hawk, I just meant—"
I pulled my hand away and slid into the booth across from her father. "I know. Later, perhaps. Your and your father's time is valuable, I’m sure, as is mine."
Sebastian snorted. "Yeah, no shit. You earn what…a few million an hour?"
"No clue," I said, already tired of his animosity. "Never bothered to calculate something so pointless."
I opened my laptop, got out my phone, arranged my printouts facing them, and set my laptop to mirror my phone's screen, turning the laptop to face them while using my phone to manipulate my presentation.
"Badd's Bar and Grille, where we are now, was established over forty years ago by your father, Liam Badd. Please correct me if my information is incorrect or incomplete. During your father’s tenure as owner and operator, he took it into the black within five years, which is remarkable on its own. By the time of your father’s death a little over twenty years ago, it was a successful operation, beloved by locals and tourists alike. I’m unfamiliar with the particulars as it’s not publicly available information, but upon your father’s death, he left the bar to you and your seven brothers. Your ownership of it took it to the next level of success, likely due to the draw of you eight, along with the advent of social media marketing. Your cousins showed up at some point and opened their own bar, which should have been competition. Instead, you somehow parlayed that into a resounding success for the eleven of you. Am I correct so far?"
Sebastian grunted. "So far. I know my own history—what's your point?"
I ignored his question. "Having gone into business together, you opened a third location, Badd Night, a nightclub and live music venue. Most recently, you opened Badd's Bar Anchorage, which I'll address in a moment. A few years ago, you turned control of your socials over to someone new, which, in my rather expert opinion, was one of your best moves. Whoever is running your social media is fantastic. I’m not sure if you’ve seen the metrics, but if not, I’ve put them together for you.” I clicked on the first slide, a graph of their total earnings with a marker indicating the likely date of the socials takeover. “As you can see, your earnings saw a steep increase as your socials manager began campaigns focused on presenting Badd’s as a lifestyle choice—simple, attractive, professional photographs and short video reels of the Ketchikan locations featuring you all, the owners, your family, with relevant hashtags and catchy music. Your various family members all have their own careers, with the exception of the two of you and, possibly, your wife and Kitty. But yet, you all make regular appearances on the socials. Obviously, whomever is in charge of this has watched the metrics and is aware that posts which do not feature a member of the Badd family sees on average thirty-eight percent less engagement."
Delia, I noticed, looked increasingly uncomfortable as I went over the social media aspect of my pitch. Understanding dawns.
"Ah." I grinned at her. “It's you, huh?"
She shrugged. "Yeah. Aunt Eva was handling it for a while since she's a photographer, but she hated the social media aspect. So I took over, since…you know…social media is kind of my generation’s whole thing."
I nodded. "Makes sense. And the truth is, when I first was made aware of Badd's Bar, your socials were the first thing I looked into, and I was seriously impressed. I say that with professional detachment, Delia. I had no idea who you were then, and I was impressed."
"Kiss ass," she muttered.
"Not at all. Simply telling the truth."
"And your point is what?" Sebastian asked, his expression still stonily blank.
"Which location is the least performing?" I asked, instead of answering.
"Anchorage," Delia said. "By a lot."
"Dee," Sebastian said, annoyed. "C'mon."
She rolled her eyes at him. "It's not exactly classified information, Dad."
"Anchorage," I said. "On paper, it makes sense. You picked a prime location. The drinks and food menus are largely the same as the other three locations. Good specials, ambiance, everything. There's no reason it shouldn't do as well as the others. But it's just not. Do you have ideas why not?"
Sebastian hesitated. "I mean, we can't be there full-time."
"Precisely. It doesn’t receive the same promotion on social media simply because none of you are there. As a result, it feels a lot like any other bar. And if I'm being honest, it's not run particularly well, at least the time I spent there. The servers seemed lost and confused, the manager wasn't much better, and the food often came out wrong or cold or both."
Sebastian nodded reluctantly. “We've gotten the complaints. We know."
"And what are you doing about it?" I asked.
Neither of them answered.
"You're not sure what to do, are you?"
"And this is where you offer to buy it from us, I suppose?" Sebastian said. "No thanks."
"Dad. Hear him out."
"No, as a matter of fact," I said. “I’m not interested in buying anything from you. I considered it, of course, but aside from the fact that I knew before I ever left Manhattan that you'd never sell, my time here has proven that even if I did convince you to sell everything to me outright, it would be a wasted venture. The whole thing would tank within months, at best."
Sebastian and Delia frowned at each other. "And why do you say that?" Delia asked.
"Because the secret sauce that Anchorage is missing is you ." I pointed at her. "I mean, not just you—the physical presence of someone from your family. A guiding hand."
They were silent at this.
"And your proposition is what?" Sebastian asked.
"Look, from what I can tell," I said, "only Delia is at a location on a daily basis. Sebastian, you're at least partly retired, doing most of the CEO work remotely from home or wherever. I imagine you still like to tend bar now and then, as does Kitty. But the locations here can run on their own successfully without one of you on the premises at all times. Why is that, do you suppose?"
Delia stared at nothing, thinking hard. "Because we spent time there when we opened it. We promoted it on socials. Spent time there so customers could come in and see us. Anchorage never got that. We spent a few days there around the grand opening but that's about it. We're rarely there in person." She looked at me. "So, again, what are you proposing?"
"A drastic move," I said. "You shut it down, fire everyone, rehire, do some cosmetic updates, and someone spends six months to a year up there, in person, running it. And more importantly, training the new staff to very rigid standards. Slowly back off your presence there—work, open, and be gone before the rush. Take a week off here and there. Wean the clientele off of seeing a Badd family member there in person."
They looked at each other.
Sebastian frowned at me. "A lot of problems with that suggestion. We can't afford to lose the income we're getting from that location, number one, or at least not for the time it would take to do what you're suggesting. Two, who goes? I need Delia here, running Kitty. And Kitty, the only adult family member with experience in the industry, I suppose. My boys, her younger brothers, are still in high school, and I’m not sure what their plans are beyond that. Everyone else has lives and careers; they just pitch in a shift here and there. The bulk of day-to-day operations are run by Dee and me. I’m sure as fuck not spending six months to a year away from my wife and kids. Number three, the cost of firing and hiring a whole new staff, redecorating, and arranging a grand reopening? We don’t have that kind of liquidity just lying around. So, appreciate the insight, and what you’re suggesting would probably work; we just can't do it."
I arched an eyebrow at Delia. “You must get your brains from your mother."
She clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a shocked laugh. "HAWK!"
Sebastian growled, very much like a pissed-off Kodiak bear. “I’ll break you in fucking half, Hawkins. Fuck off."
I just laughed. "I didn't come across the entire country and spend almost a fucking month here to give you a free consultation, Sebastian. As you pointed out, my time is extraordinarily valuable. I told you I'm not interested in buying you out. I'm interested in being a silent partner. I'll provide the upfront capital for a percentage of the profits. And if we're successful in re-launching Anchorage, we look at expansion under the same model. And to be clear, I only take a percentage from the locations I help fund. My name will not appear anywhere. Badd's Bar Enterprises will remain a Badd family operation, I'm just interested in helping you bring your vision to more people."
Sebastian rocked back in the booth, crossing his mammoth arms over his chest. "Surely there are more profitable ventures for you to stick your fingers into than our couple little bars, Hawkins. What's your angle? Even if we did go with your proposal, we’re not giving you a huge percentage. You’re not gonna make a ton of money off this. So, honestly, I'm asking—what the fuck are you after?"
I shrugged. "I have money, obviously. When I first started out, yeah, my goal was to make as much money as possible as fast as possible. And I'll be the first to admit I ran roughshod over anyone and everyone who got in my way. I was fucking cutthroat."
"But now you're different," he mused, dry and roll. "Right. Pull the other one, Hawkins."
I sighed. "It's true. Look, you want the brutal truth? I'm fucking bored. Within a few years at most, my net worth, minus any assets from my father or grandfather, will pass the billion mark. That's without doing a damn thing—all properties, investments, companies, and subsidiaries left exactly as they are, no additional movement. I have holdings in every major industry or very nearly. I’m in tech, medical, transportation, manufacturing, entertainment, and communications. I’ve acquired, via various means, corporations worth billions, just because. I’ve done VC work in Silicon Valley. I have a successful production company producing content for all the major streamers, and we’re attracting top talent from all over the world. I have hundreds of millions of dollars invested in medical R-and-D, focusing on cancer and Alzheimer’s research, primarily. I’m working on…” I waved my hand. “Look into it if you’re interested—most of it is publicly available if you know where to look. If not, ask me—I’ll tell you just about anything."
"What's your point, Hawk?" Delia asked.
"My point is, I've run out of challenges. Day-to-day, I do very little of any real value or importance—any competent executive can do the work I do. I'm an innovator. I like a challenge. I enjoy hard work. I enjoy the challenge of bringing the best out of my employees. I’m not doing any of that. I got into the food service industry because it was different; it was something I had no experience with beyond eating at restaurants and drinking in bars. I invested in a few places and took an interest in seeing what my money did. I bought a few places and took an interest in watching the professional restaurateurs take over and rebuild. I paid attention. And I’ll tell you this much: I didn’t get where I am by being a dumbfuck—I’m good at what I do. Damn good."
"And now you want to take things a step further," Sebastian said. "Get your hands dirty."
"Exactly. I enjoy meaningful work. I could have picked any of the thousands of restaurants and bars in New York alone, let alone from around the country. My PA and secretary came up with a list of possible investment opportunities—several from New York and then yours. How they picked yours, I don't know. But what you're doing interests me. The fact that you wouldn't just sign over your company if I offered you a dump truck full of cash interested me. The fact that you're out here, somewhere I’ve never been and know nothing about—that interests me."
Sebastian's expression had softened into interest—skeptical, but interested. "And now that you've met my daughter, you're really interested."
"DAD!" Delia snapped. "What the fuck?"
I let out a breath. "Sebastian, you do not know me. You only know what the tabloids tell you, and ninety-nine-point-nine percent of what the media reports about me is either taken out of context, inaccurate, or just plain made up. I understand and respect your skepticism. I understand and respect your desire to protect your daughter. But I’ll thank you to not form opinions of my character without taking the time to get to know me.” I leaned forward. “Yes, I am attracted to your daughter. I enjoy her company. She’s smart, hard-working, talented, funny…and she keeps me on my toes. She may not have known who I was, but I’d like to think it wouldn’t have made a difference. Yes, I’m older than her. Yes, I have a somewhat sordid history, romantically speaking. But at no point did my interest in her color my interest in being a part of what you’re doing. Ask her. I never discussed your business with her. The time I spent with her was purely personal."
Sebastian looked at his daughter. "Dee?"
She shrugged. "He's telling the truth. The only thing he wasn't honest about was his name. And he told me flat-out that he was keeping it from me. And I guess I get why, to a degree."
"Why?" Sebastian asked.
"Being famous isn't easy,” I answered. “When a large percentage of the world knows you on sight, knows who you are and what you do and what you're worth and who you've dated, it can be hard to meet people. When you're as wealthy as I am, it's hard to trust people. Are they interested in you because of who you are or because you can pay off their student loans with a credit card? When I came to Ketchikan, my hope was that I'd be able to fly under the radar for a while. I was hoping that a place like Ketchikan would have enough people who don't give a shit about me that I could come here as myself and see what was undetected…for a while, at least. The best-case scenario is that I grossly overestimated my own fame. Which, so far, has been true. No one gives a shit—Delia least of all. Which is fucking fantastic."
Father and daughter traded glances.
"That much I do understand," Sebastian said.
"Forgive how this sounds, but…how so?" I said.
He chuckled. "Got a few family members who are sorta famous themselves."
"Oh, right. Myles and Lexi. I talked to Kitty about them the first day I spent here," I said.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah," he drawled. "Them, too."
"Who else?" I asked, frowning.
"Harlow Grace. She’s married to my brother, Xavier."
"No shit?" I shut down my presentation and relaxed my posture. "Xavier Badd. He's doing some very interesting things with Valentine Roth in the aerospace field. And I mean, Harlow Grace is…well, I don’t have to tell you, I guess."
Sebastian stared at me for a long, silent beat. "We'll talk about it and get back to you."
I nodded, gathering my things. "Very good. I look forward to hearing from you." I hesitated and then dug one of my cards and a pen out of my bag; I wrote my cell number on the back of the card and handed it to Delia. "That's my personal cell. I think maybe six people in the world have that number, by the way." I smiled at her. "So next time, just call me?"
She turned red. "Rude." She made a face somewhere between a wince and a smile. "You, uh, feeling okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
Sebastian watched this exchange between us with curiosity on his face but said nothing. I slid out of the booth, slung my bag over my shoulder, and extended my hand to him. "Sebastian. Good to meet you."
He shook my hand without standing up—a nice power move. "You too. Probably."
I snorted at this and then turned my attention to Delia. "We'll talk later?"
She had my card in her hand, running a thumb along one edge while staring at me. She nodded. "I'll call you. Unless I show up unannounced instead."
"Maybe just call.
“Probably not."
I bit down on a laugh, shook my head, and left without another word.
I drove back to my giant empty monstrosity and utterly failed to accomplish anything whatsoever, despite the monumental list of tasks I've been putting off for the last few weeks.
All I could think of was Delia.
Fuck the proposal. Fuck my entire company. Fuck everything.
I just wanted to know where things stood between Delia and me.