Chapter 2
TWO
Emmett
The tension in this conference room is so thick that I could probably cut through it with a butter knife.
Davis sits perched at my left and Dad sits on the other side of him while the man across the table from us spouts off a bunch of crap that I’m honestly not even listening to.
I probably should be, but I’m distracted.
Nash Montgomery can be an intimidating guy, especially when he’s followed and backed up by a matching pair of cronies. They’re each nearly half a foot shorter than he is, making his already large frame look even more massive, even just sitting at the table across from us.
“I think he only hires people shorter than him,” Davis leans over to whisper in my ear. “Needs to make himself look big and scary.”
I stifle a laugh and click the pen in my hand a few times, pretending that I’m taking notes in this meeting.
“The problem,” Nash says, eyes locked on my dad, “is that you’re trying to step into my territory, Fowler.”
“Oh? We weren’t aware that you held a monopoly over the nightlife of the city,” Dad retorts.
With a scoff, Nash tells him, “I have eyes everywhere. When you come into my club, and your friends take home my girls, I hear about it. Let me be perfectly clear,” he adjusts the gold Rolex on his wrist and leans forward in an effort to dominate the conversation.
“I own half of the clubs in this city, and I own everyone in them. If you continue this little project of yours—”
“Threats?” Davis laughs, pulling himself to a standing position. “Really, Nash? Is that how you wanna do this?”
Nash pulls himself up, matching Davis’s stance, and his associates tense on either side of him before joining in.
They’re not alone in their nervousness; my own jaw clenches as thick tension fills the room.
For several long moments, the only movement in the room is in the gold crucifix dangling from Nash’s neck.
“Gentlemen,” Dad interjects, “can we be civil, for once?”
“This is civil,” Nash smirks.
“Then both of you. Sit. Down.”
The two men comply, slowly lowering themselves back into their seats, eyes locked onto each other in a glare the entire time. I think if they had half the opportunity, they would waste no time throwing punches at each other until one of them was either dead or unconscious.
Anxiously picking at the skin of my thumb, I tune out the rest of the conversation – not on purpose, I really had every intention of being fully present and participating.
This is my first big meeting as a shareholder, and I’m completely blowing it because I’m distracted by the visible tension in Nash’s jaw and the way that the muscle rolls across it as he grinds his molars against one another.
Davis knocks his knee against mine under the table, pulling me out of my thoughts, and he uses his eyes to gesture toward my dad, signaling that I need to at least listen to this part.
“Is everyone in agreement, then?” Dad asks.
“I can live with it,” Davis replies.
Nash shrugs. “Sure.”
“Yeah,” I chime in, “that sounds good to me.”
I have absolutely no idea what the hell I just agreed to, but whatever it is, it kept blood from being spilled, so I guess I’ll count it as a win.
As everyone begins to file out of the room, I tuck my notes under my arm and match pace with my uncle.
“Don’t sweat it,” he assures me, “guy was born sorry, but when he wants to, he can be intimidatin’ if you don’t know him. Just pay attention next time.”
“Sure,” I nod. “Thanks, Davis.”
That was…weird.
I still haven’t decorated my office, so I don’t like to be in here all that much unless I have to be.
I would have been fine with the same simple table setup that I had before, but I guess when you become an owner, it looks weird if you don’t have your own office with your own fancy engraved nameplate stuck to the door.
If you asked me, I’d tell you that an empty office with no personal touch to it looks a whole hell of a lot weirder.
Uncle Davis keeps his office closed and locked at almost all times, while my dad goes for more of a literal open door policy, so I decided to go for something in between; leave the door cracked enough for people to know that they can come in, but closed enough that they know to knock first. Not that I do anything in here that requires the warning of a knock, but it kind of makes me feel important.
I plop myself into the chair behind my desk and pull up an email – the same one that I’ve been drafting over and over again for the past two weeks.
Anna,
I ‘m sorry if this is intrusive or if I’ve got the wrong person, but I don’t think I do.
My name is Emmett Fowler, my father is Colt Fowler. If you would be willing, I would very much appreciate the opportunity to meet with you and buy you a cup of coffee.
If you don’t want that or you’re not the person that I’m looking for, please disregard this message.
If you would like to meet, please let me know. I’m available at lunchtime on weekdays and my weekends can be open.
Emmett
It’s not the best email I’ve ever written.
I’ve written grocery lists that read better than that, actually, but after seven different drafts, it’s all I’ve been able to come up with.
I don’t want her to think that I’m a stalker or something – which I guess I kind of am.
Spending months secretly tracking someone down so that you can have a way to contact them kind of fits the definition - and I really don’t want her to contact my dad and tell him that I found her. But I want to meet her.
I need to know why.
Seconds after I press SEND, I click out of the browser, taking the small UNDO button right along with it. There’s no backing out now.
Despite the nerves rushing through me, I grab my coffee cup and take a long drink from it before opening the browser for my work-related email and diving in to respond to them.
I expected there to be more excitement as an owner, but it’s a whole lot of emailing, paperwork and phone calls.
I go to the new nightclub build every week or so to check on the progress and make sure the reality matches the design that we’re paying for, but that’s about all the excitement that we get lately outside of Nash Montgomery’s ego-trip visits.
It’s almost…boring.
·
“Nuggets or pizza?” Rowan shouts from the kitchen.
“Yes!” I holler back to her.
A couple of minutes later, she comes back to the living room, setting a plate down on the coffee table in front of me with a slice of pizza and a pile of chicken nuggets, and she sits down with her own plate, holding just a single, sad little piece of pepperoni pizza.
Normally, this would be our weekly family dinner-and-games night, but Dad and Davis are stuck at work and Macie’s at a friend’s house, so it’s just me, Ro and Sarah, who is sleeping hard in her room. We could have canceled, but I like coming over here and seeing any part of the family that I can.
We sit for two hours, eating and playing some card game in which we’re given five seconds to do the ridiculous task on the card that the other picks up, trying to keep our laughter to a reasonable level so we don’t wake Sarah.
“You should let me set you up,” Ro tells me. “You need a blind date or something.”
“I need someone who’s not gonna key my car or put nails in my tires because I broke up with her,” I laugh.
“Which is why my friends are perfect.”
“We have the same friends,” I laugh. “No.”
“You’re such a spoilsport,” she pouts as she stands and collects the dishes on the coffee table. “I’m going to bed; tell my hot, hot husband I’m waiting for him when he gets home.”
I act out gagging and roll my eyes at her. “See, this is the problem with you having friends. They rub off on you and you do things like call my dad ‘hot,’ and then I have to go throw up.”
“I’m just being honest,” she shrugs. “Goodnight!”
As she makes her way to the kitchen and back up the stairs, I head for the fridge to grab another beer, using the counter to pop the cap off of the bottle.
I settle back onto the couch, resting my head against one arm of it while I toss my feet up onto the other, and I begin the process of doom-scrolling through social media.
Most of the posts are either stupid memes that make me laugh a lot harder than they should, or people showing off their exaggerated lives.
My own feed isn’t much better; a few shirtless photos in the mirror or at the gym, a handful of posts that show off a favorite strain of weed or a new pipe, and a sprinkling of paparazzi photos taken because for some reason, people give a crap what Colt Fowler’s son gets up to when he leaves the house.
I had a few pictures posted with the girl that I was dating before Naomi, but when we broke up and I deleted them, the comments on my other posts were a shitstorm within minutes.
Did they break up?
Do you need a sugar baby lol???
Wonder what he did
Wow now I don’t believe in love anymore
I didn’t address any of the comments because it was nobody’s business, but I decided right then and there that I’ll probably never make another post about someone that I’m seeing.
I think a few too many unsolicited opinions were one of the ingredients in the recipe for disaster that was that relationship.
I close out the apps when I hear the front door open and Zipper takes off at lightning speed to greet Dad as he walks into the house. “Hey bud,” Dad greets me through a series of overly-excited Zipper whines as the dog runs circles around his legs. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I had a couple beers,” I tell him. “I figured I could crash on the couch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, we’re up to our ears in bedrooms. Take one.”
His hand comes down on top of my head and he ruffles his fingers through my hair, sending it in all directions. “Do you always have to do that?” I gripe as I brush it back into place.
He chuckles on his way out of the living room, throwing his head over his shoulder. “Yes, I do. Goodnight.”
I playfully give him the finger until he’s out of my line of vision, then I grab my stuff and head down the long hall where the girls’ bedrooms are to one of the spare rooms for the night, which I don’t mind; the futon in here is almost as comfortable as my bed, and damn near the same size.
An email notification chimes on my phone while I settle into the cushions, and I reach for it, swiping across the screen to open the message with my heart hammering so hard that I can feel it in my throat.
Emmett,
You can meet me at Easy Eats Diner on Friday. I’ll be there at noon.
Anna
Holy shit.
I’m about to meet my mom.