44. Ford
FORD
Roman
We need to talk. Meet at The Pelican.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and head toward the elevator.
Four hours into updating the new quarter’s data and running it in the already-created model, I found two errors.
Both of which save the insurance companies Mercer works with a shit-ton of money.
And both of which I’m not sure are actual errors but intentional equations created by a senior member.
After thirty minutes of searching, I found the culprit.
And the senior member in question? You guessed it.
Daddy Dearest created the model. Without permission, I fixed the errors and submitted the new numbers directly to the board.
It’s sure to piss off my sperm donor, but I doubt he’ll say anything.
Why would he? It would only make him look bad.
Besides, I don’t work for him. I’m interning for the company my mother built.
It’s a fact I’ve had to remind myself of at least a dozen times this evening, and a hundred times before now because this sure as hell isn’t the first mistake I’ve found since interning here.
Regardless, I’m wiped. Mercer Consulting is mostly empty.
Thankfully, my dad’s office is one of them.
I move past his door with my head held high, no matter how much I want to cower.
As I push the elevator button, an intern, Bobby appears.
“Oh, hey, Ford.”
“Hey, Bobby.”
“See the game?” he asks.
“Which one?”
He laughs. “I know, right? I actually wanted to put down five hundred on the Bees.”
I pull out my cell again, checking the numbers. “What odds are you wanting? The spread’s at three to one right now. Tomorrow, it’ll be even more.”
“I’ll take fifty on them losing and two fifty on them winning by ten or more.”
“Betting both sides?” I tisk. “Come on, Bobby. You know better than to bet against yourself.”
“Gotta hedge the numbers, man.”
Normally, I’d be all for it. Means guaranteed cash for me one way or another.
It’s why Bobby does it. Trouble is, he doesn’t have the same odds I do.
A bet like this cuts into his funds either way.
Straightening the sleeves of my leather jacket, I murmur, “You sure this is the way you want to play it?” I pause. “Only looking out for ya.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go two hundred on them winning by ten or more, no hedging.”
He lifts his hand, a few bills tucked into his palm. Meeting him halfway, I give him a quick handshake, then step onto the elevator. “Good luck!” I call as it closes behind me. Tucking the bills into my jacket pocket, I type the bet information into my spreadsheet, then hit the button to the lobby.
Another day, another dollar. Bets have been steady for the past two weeks, even though we’ve been lying low on the Harden events.
Roman suggested we throw another one after seeing the success of the car race, but Jagger mentioned burning out our core audience might not be the way to go.
Normally, I’d pitch a fit, arguing for more Harden events as a distraction to keep me sane, but June’s been doing a decent job at exactly that.
Keeping me sane. We’ve spent every night together since the race, no matter how much I hate June’s bed.
I reach for the door handle to The Pelican, annoyed that Roman’s text is keeping me from her after the day I’ve had. In the back of the bar, my brothers and Roman sit in a booth. Their arms are spread and a half-dozen empty glasses rest in front of them.
As I slip in beside Jagger, I say, “Seems you started without me.”
“Had no choice,” Jagger returns. “You’re an hour late.”
“A few customers wanted to meet.”
Jagger’s chin dips in acknowledgment. He takes a drink from his beer, nudging over a second tall glass of amber liquid in my direction.
Lifting it, I say, “Cheers,” and give it a taste. My expression tightens.
“It wouldn’t be warm if you were on time,” Hawke jokes.
Jagger gives him a sharp look before turning to Roman. “All right, we’re ready. Tell us what you wanted to talk about.”
“Spoke with Rafe,” Roman announces.
“What’d he say?” Jagger demands.
“Says we’re looking in the wrong direction.”
With a frown, I set my lukewarm beer on the table and lean forward.
Wrong direction? What other direction is there?
Sure, we have enemies, but none willing to burn down our house.
There are only two people crazy enough to start something like that.
Ethan and Gus. “And what direction does he suggest?”
His jaw clicks as Roman lets his focus drift to each of us. Shit. Whatever he found out, it must be bigger than he expected. “All right, I’m just gonna say it,” Roman decides. “Ethan wasn’t behind the fire.”
“Bullshit,” Hawke growls.
Roman glares back at him. “Are you questioning my brother’s contacts?”
Hawke shakes his head and looks at the lacquered table in front of us.
Disgusted. Annoyed. On edge. Just like the rest of us.
I don’t blame him. Unlike me, the rest of the guys have been spending their time at Uncle Judge’s.
We’ve paid a contractor a pretty premium to expedite construction, but I think the real doozy has been waiting for answers.
Are we safe? Is Cobie safe? Violet? June?
Something burrows between two of my ribs at the thought, and I thread my fingers on the table.
So, Roman asking if we’re questioning Rafe’s contacts? The answer is yeah. Yeah, we are.
“No offense to Rafe, but who else would’ve done something like this?” I push. Jagger sighs, ignoring me. “What’d your brother say, Rome?”
“Said we should look closer to home.” His eyes fall on me. “Says a golden boy fireman might’ve been involved.”
A golden boy fire—wait. The words hit like a stack of bricks. Bryan? Fireman fucking Bryan? That’s who Rafe’s contacts say are behind this? What would Bryan have to do with this? Why would he have anything to do with this? It doesn’t make any sense.
“June said he was okay with the breakup,” I point out.
“Was that before or after you two started hooking up?” Hawke interjects.
I cut my glare to him. “Does it matter?”
Jagger nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d say it matters.”
Roman lifts his hand, quieting everyone. “I think we’re still looking at this wrong.”
“They weren’t that close,” I argue. “June said they were never even official. Shit, they didn’t even have sex—”
“Will you keep your voice down?” Roman demands.
My molars grind, but I bite my tongue. Fuck. How is this my fault?
“Hawke, I need you to hack into your father’s account and see if he transferred any funds to Bryan Meyer.”
My brows pull as I register his words and exactly what he’s insinuating. “What?”
The beer pauses halfway to Jagger’s frown. He sets his glass back down. “You don’t think…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Why would he? The idea alone is enough to shock most to their core. Our father? Behind something like this? There’s no way. When he found out, he was furious.
“Why?” Hawke asks. “Why would he do that?”
I settle back in the booth, trying to look at this from a different angle because if Rafe’s contact is correct, then we were definitely looking in the wrong direction. But first, we need a motive. A reason to justify something this insane and off-base.
“What would our father get out of bribing a fireman to set his sons’ house on fire?” I wonder aloud.
“Technically, it’s his house,” Roman says.
“Which means we would’ve owed him a shit-ton of money if insurance hadn’t covered it,” Hawke points out.
Jagger runs his finger along the rim of his glass, deep in thought. “Titas is an actuary. There’s no way he’d commit insurance fraud.”
“Exactly,” I say. “If anyone found out, his entire business would go up in flames.”
Hawke rolls his eyes. “Flames? Really?”
“What, too soon?” I quip.
“And you mean Mom’s business,” Jagger interjects, refusing to give my sarcasm or our father that much credit.
Hawke nods slowly. “Maybe he did it on purpose,” he suggests. “Wants to get caught and fuck up her business before graduation when we take over.”
“We?” I repeat. I knew Jag and I were on board, but I thought Hawke was on the fence.
Not only is the man allergic to a nine-to-five desk job, he steers clear of all things Mom.
Has since the moment she died. Knowing he’d sacrifice even a sliver of his happiness to step in at Mercer Consulting is shocking, to say the least. So, why would he do it?
Hawke sobers. “Mom would want me there.”
My nod is slow. He’s right. Mom would’ve loved to have Hawke work at her company.
Would’ve loved to hear about everything we’re doing to fix all the mistakes Daddy Dearest has implemented, like the two I caught earlier today.
Hell, because of him, The Drift is still a pile of shit after a natural disaster took it out.
He made a deal with the insurance companies to create a gap in their coverage and conveniently not pay out to anyone in The Drift.
Okay, that’s probably a little more on the nose than what really happened, but my point stands.
If mom were around, she would’ve made sure the insurance companies had no choice but to take care of everyone, but sometimes life isn’t fair, and the reminder is bitter at best.
Jagger reaches forward and squeezes Hawke’s forearm resting on the table before retreating back to his side. “Maybe Titas knew we’d be so focused on Morgan, he figured we’d never look his way, and he’d be safe from any kind of evidence of his involvement, so Mercer Consulting wouldn’t be affected.”
“Even if that’s the case, we still don’t have a motive,” Hawke says. “Unless he was betting we’d look in the wrong direction.”
My brows pull. Fuck, is he right? Shifting forward, I grit out, “What has been Daddy Dearest’s entire motive for the last six months?” I ask.
“To keep us away from The Drift,” Hawke answers.