Chapter 25
W ith a dozen contradictory thoughts swirling in my mind, my brain activity feeling like a tempest at sea, I got to my apartment and sprawled out on my couch.
I took my phone and slid it to the other side of my apartment. I left my laptop on my coffee table, still in its casing, refusing to allow it to come out. I just needed a moment to decompress, to right my mind, and to not think about Layla… or, apparently now, Claire.
Funny thing about that, though. The longer I lay on my couch, the more I thought about the two of them.
It was like the cliche about chasing the girl opposite of the one that had wronged you.
I was beginning to realize I had an intellectual attraction to Claire, if not a physical one, in large part because Layla had given me a zealous physical attraction.
Layla wasn’t dumb—quite the opposite, in fact—but our romance never came from a place of matching wits, but of bodies coming together.
That relationship might have eventually moved to the intellectual, but not for some time.
As I put my arm over my head, stretched my toes out, and controlled my breathing, I accepted that this turmoil of the mind would just be with me for some time.
Eventually, I would get over it and move forward.
Eventually, I would forget about Layla, at least emotionally, and Claire would settle back into a professional relationship.
The funny thing was, I didn’t really think Claire even had a reason to see me as anything but.
She had given precisely zero indication of physical attraction to me.
It was all a world in my head that did not exist in the actual world. In the actual world, Claire was a person we had invested in, and Layla was a former lover—not devoted girlfriend—who was trying to make amends but doing so poorly.
Put so harshly true, it hurt a little, but the honesty was a start.
It also felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, albeit not one that was ever that heavy to begin with. With the energy, I grabbed my laptop, opened it up, and read in further detail what Morgan had told me about.
The company was in San Francisco and named Virtual Realty, having something to do with the retail industry’s ability to offer virtual tours of a house without prospective buyers ever having to set foot inside.
Given that real estate wasn’t going away anytime soon and in fact seemed to be garnering interest by the day, this was likely to be a billion dollar investment if Morgan’s contact at the company was hard working and diligent.
The owner, a man about five years older by the name of Andrew Patel, had graduated from Stanford and worked at AirBnB for a few years before taking off to form the company.
The company had exploded in its first two years and now sought to work its way up into the rarified “unicorn” air that AirBnB, Uber, and other companies of the last decade had had.
To say that I was getting excited at the prospect of investing in this company was an understatement.
I couldn’t tell how Morgan had convinced Andrew to give us an investment shot, but whatever he was doing, it was working.
So far, we had batted 100 percent on the companies we had interest in investing in.
Granted, I did wonder why a company like Virtual Realty was interested in us investing versus larger companies or more well-known venture capitalists, but I just saw it as a chance to grow even more. If I spent anytime asking why us, I would soon be asking why it wasn’t us.
My phone rang, but I ignored it at first, more absorbed in the business at hand than at anything else.
If it was Layla, like I suspected it was, she could wait for some time before I answered the phone.
I was in no rush to get back in touch with her, not especially since my defenses were fading and I needed to have them up for my interactions with all the companies we dealt with. Fucked over, I will not be.
But then the phone rang a second time, too close to the first ring for it to have been two randomly different callers.
Curious, I headed over and saw it was a New York number I did not recognize.
I would have ignored this one, too, but the double-up of the phone calls suggested someone wanted to reach me. Claire, maybe.
I picked the phone off the ground.
“This is Chance,” I said.
“I know it’s you, boy.”
My demeanor immediately soured when I heard Edwin Hunt’s fake cheerful voice on the other side.
I’d heard this voice too much to be fooled.
He would compliment and charm me, but I could practically taste the venom and smell the disgust from the other end of the line at having to speak to his adopted son.
If I had to guess, this was probably the fourth phone call he had ever initiated to me.
“Hi, Mr. Hunt,” I said, providing my own fake cheerful voice. “How are you, today?”
“Oh, well, you know me, it’s always a delightful day in the heart of New York City. In any case, Chance, I suppose we should get right to it, I know I am a busy man and you must be busting your behind to find yourself a new job.”
And there it is. The infamous passive-aggressiveness of Mr. Hunt toward me and Morgan.
“I would like to have you meet me and Morgan for dinner at Ava’s Steakhouse tonight. 6:30 p.m. What do you say?”
Well, I didn’t really have much choice in the matter, did I?
At least I was getting the chance to enjoy some nice steak at a nice restaurant on a tab that most certainly was not going to be mine.
Even if Mr. Hunt “left early for business” Morgan had access to the card that could pay off its monthly tab with the investment interest alone.
“I say that sounds great,” I said, trying desperately to fill my voice with some degree of enthusiasm. “It will be an absolute pleasure to see the family.”
“Oh, well thank you, but this will be a gentleman’s evening,” Mr. Hunt said with a chuckle. “Melanie is going to stay at home for this one.”
I figured, but it’s still shitty to hear.
“Oh, OK, well that would be great,” I said. “I suppose we’ll have some fun discussing shop.”
“Now, now, it won’t be all shop, we’ll talk about the Yankees too, we can’t be working all the time!”
Ironic coming from you. I don’t know that you do anything that can’t make you money.
“Haha, I understand that,” I said with a fake laugh.
“Good! Then I will see you there.”
He hung up the phone without so much as a goodbye, which was pretty much his modus operandi, even with his wife. I contemplated texting or calling back and saying I could not make it, but that would have been really fucking stupid. Edwin did not take no for an answer well.
And besides, I wanted some steak. Having to skimp on eating, even if I was used to it, wasn’t exactly something I was eager to continue indulging in.
When I showed up that night, Morgan, thank heavens, greeted me first outside the restaurant.
“The hell is this about?” I said, careful to make sure first that Mr. Hunt was not in sight anywhere.
“I have no idea,” Morgan said. “But I don’t think he knows about MCH and I’d like to keep it that way. So please don’t say anything.”
“Like I would,” I said with my eyes rolled. “You’re the one that has to be careful, golden son.”
“Whatever,” Morgan said, a bit more defeated than I expected. “Let’s just go. You know the drill with dad.”
That I do. I know it all too well.
I got in and shook hands with Mr. Hunt, wearing a nice black suit and black tie.
I had to say, even though I had seen him just a couple of weeks ago, he looked worse for the wear.
Age was beginning to be a factor for him, and it wouldn’t be surprising to see in just a few short years him get so bad he’d have to retire or worse.
In that sense, the pressure on Morgan to be ready to take over the company had probably intensified to an even higher degree.
That probably explained why he looked as worn out as he did.
He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He wasn’t in the mood for brotherly play fighting.
He was just in the mood to get shit done.
Seeing him like this and seeing Edwin Hunt made me wonder for how long Edwin had been as…
questionably ethical and brutal as he was.
Was he always like this? Did the pressure of business get to him?
Was he once a cheerful and happy person like Morgan and I?
Or was he just always a manipulative asshole?
“Chance,” Edwin Hunt said, not bothering to rise and shake my hand—because why should behavior of the last fifteen years or so suddenly magically change? “Good to see you, boy.”
“Likewise, sir,” I said, giving a half wave as I took my seat. Already, a glass of wine and some appetizers had been placed on the table. “I hope I’m not—”
“Late? Nonsense. I like for my guests to arrive to a table full of bountiful gifts.”
What is going on? This is not at all like Edwin Hunt. I looked to Morgan for any kind of a clue, but he kept his eyes on his plate, deliberately avoiding eye contact with me.
“Well, thank you,” I said, trying to keep my words curt.
“You are welcome. I take it you’ve been following our boys in the Bronx?”
I knew he was referring to the Yankees, but the casual conversation—with me, no less—struck me as so unlike Mr. Hunt that I seriously began to wonder if he had suffered a stroke or something else that had impaired his judgment.
This was nothing like the Edwin Hunt I had grown up with or even interacted with in the last couple of weeks.
That, or he was “fattening me up” for an offer of some kind. Fortunately, I knew the devil always did deals in his favor.