8. Ford
FORD
“What is it?” Jagger demands the same way he did on the phone minutes ago.
Oh, where to fucking start?
Their attention zeroes in on me as I set my laptop on the coffee table with the restraint of a damn saint. “Guess who I ran into outside the Miller building?” I grit out.
Jagger’s eyes thin as they connect with Hawke’s, then flick to Roman’s.
“Are we talking Judge or your father or—”
“Ethan Morgan,” I announce.
Jagger’s brows jump. “Outside the Miller building?”
My head jerks up and down.
“No shit? Why?”
I fight the urge to laugh like a fucking supervillain. “He was taking a bet from one of our clients.”
Roman stands. “Here?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You serious?” Hawke pushes.
I nod again, too pissed off to crack a joke about Erectile Dysfunction being a serious condition like I would under different circumstances.
“Did he see you?” Jagger prods.
A low, humorless laugh escapes me. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.” I collapse onto the couch and cross one ankle over the other on the coffee table, making sure not to rest my feet on my laptop.
“We talked. I pissed him off. Probably should’ve beat the shit out of him, but I restrained myself.
Yes, I know. Me. Restraining myself. What is this world?
” I stretch my arms out, clasping the back of the couch.
“Then, I warned Cody it was a bad idea to place a wager with a guy who likely can’t even pay out. Called you. And, here I am.”
Damn. Even the summary ratchets up my anger. The lack of substance. All we’re left with are more questions. More unknowns.
As if thinking the same thing, Hawke squeezes the back of his neck from the chair next to the fireplace. “So, what now?”
“We come up with an actual plan,” I suggest. “Or at the very least, something to stay relevant.”
“Fight Night wasn’t even a month ago,” Jagger reminds me.
“And who knows how many people Ethan’s snatched from us since then,” I argue.
“What are the numbers?” Hawke asks. “You take the majority of the bets. Have you noticed a significant dip?”
Have I? I pinch the bridge of my nose, hating the truth and what it proves. We’re down twenty-two-point-three percent from our average. Twenty. Two. Point. Three. I lower my hand and shake my head, caught between shame and fucking rage over the truth as it stares me in the face.
“I figured it was the time of the year,” I mutter. “People spending their money on holiday shit, not giving it to fucking Morgan instead.”
“Well, they are,” Jagger grits out.
My glare cuts to my big brother. “I’m aware.”
“How could you let this happen?” he snaps. “How could you ignore a dip—”
I shove to my feet and meet him in the center of the room. “I wasn’t ignoring it!”
“How could you write it off, then?” he growls, jabbing his finger against my sternum. “You know every number means something.”
“Yeah,” I bark. “I do know every number means something. Including the odds of Violet winning the fucking haunted house, and clearly, I wasn’t the only one because the evidence is still missing.”
My brother looks at me like I just sucker punched him. “You really want to go there?” he demands. “Again?”
“Since we’ve yet to actually get anywhere on that front?” I laugh. “Yeah, it might be a good idea—”
Hawke shoves himself between us while Roman pries Jagger away, creating more distance.
“Will you two stop it?” Hawke seethes. “Now is not the time to turn on each other.” He lowers his hands, and my chest heaves with pent-up frustration, but I take a step back anyway, knowing he’s right.
Satisfied, Hawke turns to me. “Thanks for telling us. I don’t understand how we didn’t know Ethan was sniffing around HHU.
I’ve been running surveillance with Roman, and somehow, we missed it. That’s on us.”
“Hawke’s right,” Roman says. “You shouldn’t have been blindsided like that.”
Jagger’s chin dips, silently agreeing as he pins me with his stare. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I shouldn’t have blamed you when I’m the one who got us into this mess.”
Damn right, he did.
Trouble is, rubbing his nose in it will only waste time. What we need is a solution.
I run my tongue along my upper teeth, forcing myself to nod. “So what do we do?” I ask. “Last time we talked business, I said I’d come up with an idea, but I can’t stop thinking about Morgan and what I would do if I was him.”
“What do you mean?” Jagger asks.
Following the tiny breadcrumbs of my sentiment, Hawke answers for me, “Why hold onto the video?”
“Exactly. Why not show it to everyone?” I continue. “Proof that we manipulated the outcome of a bet would be an easy way to shut down our entire operation.”
It’s been messing with me ever since I found out about the tape. About the solid proof Morgan has in his possession. But instead of weaponizing it, he’s sitting on it.
Why?
“If I were him, I’d wait to reveal it,” Roman says.
“Wait until a night like the haunted house. Wait until my opponent had invested a shit-ton of time and money and energy into an event they’d planned would hit big.
Then, I’d give everyone the proof I had.
Make it a big-ass spectacle. One they couldn’t sweep under the rug. ”
“Which means we need to play the next few events carefully.” Jagger turns to Hawke. “Any luck on tracking it down yet?”
“Still working on it,” Hawke answers.
Roman sighs. “I’m gonna visit Rafe again,” he decides. “His cellmate knows a few of Morgan’s people. I’ll have him put out some feelers. See if he’s heard anything, or if he knows where Morgan might keep a video like that.”
“Or who would know about Hawke’s hacking skills, and why Morgan should keep a hard copy,” Jagger adds. “In the meantime, lying low won’t get us anywhere.”
He’s right. It won’t.
“This Friday,” I decide. “Let’s have a bonfire. Smores. Alcohol. Something to remind people who this town belongs to.”
“And Ethan?” Roman questions.
“We’ll keep it clean,” I announce. “No bets. No ammunition for Ethan. No cut to Gus since it’s in our territory.
Just a solid Harden Night. Until we have time to weigh the pros and cons of investing in a bigger one, or at the very least, how to protect ourselves in case Morgan’s biding his time, waiting to reveal the video at an event. ”
With a slow nod, Jagger adds, “I’ll ask Judge if he’d be willing to have his band do a small performance. He mentioned wanting to help out if we need anything. A concert at the beach would help remind people of our connections.”
Judge? We’re bringing in Uncle Judge for this?
Judge is our father’s little brother. He’s also one of the founding members of the band, IndieCent Vows.
He’s been up our asses for months, trying to convince us to cut ties with some of our associates, including a loan shark and wanna-be mob boss from The Drift.
Not that it’s any of his business. Now, Jagger wants him to play at an event?
The suggestion feels like it’s out of left field, but I kind of like it.
Helps it stand out from some of the other bonfires we’ve had. We could even charge an entrance fee.
Nah. Nah, what am I thinking? This needs to stay free.
Sensing my hesitancy, Roman chimes in, “What’s the point of having a rockstar for an uncle if you can’t exploit the connection?”
“It would definitely make a statement,” Hawke adds.
I scoff. “To everyone, including Daddy Dearest.”
Jagger scrubs his hand over his face. “We’ll worry about Titas later.”
With a muted thwump, Hawke’s hand smacks against my shoulder. “One fire at a time, baby brother.”
Don’t I know it.
“Speaking of our sperm donor,” I mutter. “Anyone talk to Cobie lately?”
Jagger frowns. “What about her?”
“Where is she?” Hawke adds, looking around the main floor as if she might pop out from behind the couch.
“At your uncle’s,” Roman answers.
“Oh.” Hawke settles. “What about her, Ford?”
“Titas convinced her to hold an auction for charity,” I explain.
“Yeah, Violet mentioned it,” Jagger replies. “What kind of auction is it, anyway? Do we need to donate anything?”
“Other than your girlfriend?” I interject.
His eyes bulge. “What?”
“You didn’t know?” My respect for Violet goes up a solid two points. I tilt my head, barely holding in my mirth. “It’s a dating auction, big brother.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“He’s not,” Roman confirms.
Shaking his head, Jagger reaches for his phone, probably to text his girlfriend. “Gonna kill her.”
Sure, he will.
“When is it?” Hawke asks.
I shrug. “No idea—”
“The auction’s next Friday,” Roman answers. “I already told Cobie we’d be there to show our support.”
I can’t help my groan. It’s not that I don’t love my baby sister and want to support her.
And yeah, seeing Jagger with his panties in a twist will be entertaining, but another fundraiser?
With everything else going on, I can think of a solid dozen other ways I could spend my time that would be more fruitful.
“Why?” I ask. “Can’t I just throw her a couple grand? ”
“Not how this works.” Roman smacks me upside the head. “One, because your sister asked, and two, because she needs impulsive high-rollers like yourself to make bids if she’s going to hit her goal.”
I scoff. “Who says I’m impulsive?”
The bastard gives me a pointed look.
“Anyway, you might want to brace yourself because I haven’t gotten to the shitty part yet,” Roman says.
“There’s a shittier part than attending a fundraiser Tight Ass is forcing Cobie to roll out?” Hawke sneers.
I hook my thumb toward him. “See? This man gets it.”
Roman gives him the side-eye. “Your dad wants everyone at the same table like at the last one.”
“Noooo,” I whine. Seriously, can I not catch a damn break? “Why? Why does he have to be such a dick?”
“And why did Cobie have to say yes?” Hawke adds. “She knows he’s an ass.”
It’s an excellent question. One I’ve been asking myself since my conversation with Cobie the other night.
“She’s still under his thumb,” Jagger realizes.
Hawke sighs. “Seems that way, yeah.”
Rubbing my temples, I try easing the pounding in my skull, but considering the fact that it started at school, and one thing after another has been thrown my way ever since leaving the library, I’m well aware it’s a lost cause. I drop my hand to my side and voice what we’re all thinking.
“Well, shit.”