Chapter 4 #3
“And that endowment fund has your name—at least the name of your clubs, and they’re only set up in the towns the universities are in, correct?
Because what’s a donation good for if no one knows you gave it?
The sponsorships serve you somehow. Whether it’s a tax write-off, to get your name out there, to recruit from the over-twenty-one crowd on campus, or to seduce bright, young interns into working grueling hours for you so you can enjoy all the money you keep to yourself.
In fact—if I were to buy this drink, would I be asked if I wanted to round up and donate to some charity your fingers are in?
” I held my hands up. “Don’t get me wrong.
Philanthropy is good for the taxes, and if donating money helps people, that’s a bonus.
But you should know not all of us want the glory and the recognition.
Some of us form corporations we run our businesses under so we can contribute without the fanfare.
I don’t need an invite to some bullshit charity auction so other rich fuckers can stroke my dick and call me good.
I don’t need to prove anything to myself, certainly not to you.
You want to run your business that way, fine.
I was taught by a mentor who made a real difference in people’s lives not to assume facts about my colleagues. It’s a good way to lose money.”
Ms. Kerrigan stiffened next to me, but I couldn’t look at her. I was holding Wes’s scandalized gaze.
To his credit, he recovered quickly. After giving himself a little shake, he propped his hands on his hips.
“You talk a good game, Foster. Are you telling me that you didn’t use the play on your last name and your experience in the foster system to capitalize profits, yet do little to pay it back?
You’re not tugging on heartstrings about your poor, downtrodden childhood to make a mere living? What kind of house do you live in?”
“If you knew anything about how I grew up, you’d shut your fucking mouth, Clayton, and you’d know I don’t owe anyone a goddamn thing.
” My voice cut between us like a serrated knife.
I shouldn’t have sworn. I strived to maintain professionalism with every breath, but this fucker made me slip.
“You knew you weren’t going to work with me, yet you wasted my time and brought me here to peacock about your philanthropy.
How very generous of you.” I pushed back. “Ms. Kerrigan.”
I stormed toward the door. The clatter of Ms. Kerrigan gathering her items and racing after me didn’t get me to slow. I wanted away from Wes and the defensive asshole I reverted to around him.
“Good luck on your pitch with Mainline,” Wes called. “I have a good friend on the board. I’ll make sure to speak with him before next month.”
I pounded out the door, rage fighting back the panic his words incited.
The driver scrambled out of the car, but I had already opened the door. I lifted my chin to let him know to load up and be fucking ready to leave. I tapped my foot while Ms. Kerrigan practically dove into the back seat.
I was pissed, my blood boiling, but I didn’t miss the way her skirt rode up the backs of her thighs, giving me a tantalizing view of more bare flesh than I’d seen on her since she’d started.
She settled, pulling her skirt down, as I climbed in. Strands of her hair were hanging in front of her face. She puffed at them and snapped her seat belt in place. I did the same, glowering out the windshield. The privacy screen was down, and I was grateful for the view.
“Who was the mentor?” she asked quietly.
“What?” I snapped, then reeled my temper in. Again, she’d surprised me. I’d thought she’d comment on Wes’s attitude, or ask me how I paid forward shit in the world.
She didn’t shrink. She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “The mentor who taught you not to assume. Who was it?”
I worked my jaw, the story clamoring on my tongue to spill out. I never talked to anyone about the man I considered a mentor. “You wouldn’t know him.”
She stared at me for another moment, then faced forward. “It was good advice. May I ask you something about what was said back there?”
The moment I dreaded. “Is it about what charities I support?”
“Not really. Just if what he said was true, that you don’t support charities. You made it sound like he couldn’t be more wrong, yet I’m sure he did his homework. Guys like Wes are calculating.”
She was correct. “No. It’s not true.” That was all I’d give her. I kept my name out of all donations if possible. The less attention on me, the better.
“Did you know what his house looked like before you made the comment?”
“Ms. Kerrigan, that’s two questions.”
“Indulge me, Mr. Foster.”
There was that damn purr again. If she used that tone again, I’d tell her everything about my company while getting on my knees and lifting that damn dress up her curvy legs.
“I make it my business to know everything about the people I work with. I don’t like to—” I chewed on my tongue.
They were only words. She wouldn’t know the meaning.
“I don’t like to go into a place unprepared. I want to know what to expect.”
Her eyes softened as if she knew the exact reason I behaved the way I did. If she hadn’t already known I’d been in the foster system, thanks to nosy interviewers, then Clayton had revealed the fact. “Oh. Right.”
“And yes, he has a house in Washington Park that he bought for one point seven million, another home in Dallas where he built his first club, and a beach house that’s more of a shack.
He’s financed to the hilt, and he compensates by paying his staff shit while creating a party atmosphere to mask their horrible income and benefits. ”
Confusion dimmed her soft brown eyes. “Yet you wanted to work with him? You wanted Foster House on his top shelf?”
A question I’d asked myself once. “You have to make money before you can give it away.”
Her gaze intensified. “Another tip from your mentor?”
“He had a lot of them.” Of all the things that we’d done today, she’d gotten hung up on the tidbits of advice. “Are you going to write them down?”
“No.” Her smile was faint, maybe a little sad. “I think I’ll remember.”
I turned my gaze out the window to watch the snow-tipped mountains in the distance. Usually I worked while commuting, but the entire drive back, my mind mulled over the confrontation with Wes Clayton…and the way Ms. Kerrigan’s dress lifted when she got into the car.