49. Ford
FORD
Hawke
We need to talk.
Jagger
Meet at the house.
Fuck.
I drop off June at her place, then drive to Harden Estate while settling a few bets on my cell with my free hand.
Do as I say, not as I do, texting and driving is bad, and yeah, I won’t do it again.
Moving on.
After I finish tallying up the last numbers from a particularly lucrative game, I tuck my cell back into my front pocket and push open the front door.
Everyone’s already here. Well, everyone from the business side.
Hawke stands next to the fireplace, painted in an orange glow.
Near the window, Roman stares out at the front lawn with his hands tucked into his front pockets while Jagger sits on the couch, his forearms on his knees and his hands cradling his cell.
Cold. Quiet. Morose. Damn, I feel like I just walked into a funeral home. “Why the long faces?” I ask.
The floor squeaks beneath my foot, and Jagger’s gaze slides to me. “Took you long enough.”
“I was handling a few bets,” I argue. “Some of us still work around here.”
His mouth lifts, and mine does, too. Let’s be honest, all of us work our asses off in one way or another, and Jagger knows it as well as I do. Insinuating anything different is laughable.
Still doesn’t explain the tension in the room, though.
Scratching his temple, Jagger asks, “How was the trip?”
“Good.” I shrug out of my coat and toss it on the arm of the couch. “Not all parents are assholes. Surprise.”
Jagger smiles. “Glad you’re back. I’d say it’s been quiet around here without you, but…”
My brow quirks, and I look around the room again. Seriously, what’s the problem? “Well, if that isn’t ominous, I don’t know what is,” I note. “Anyone gonna start talking? Or should I grab the timer so we can play a game of charades?”
“The tape,” Jagger mutters. “From the haunted house.”
My stomach lurches because so help me, if it has anything to do with me, I’m going to lose my shit. “Which tape?” I turn to Roman, my eyes bulging as all the ways June could cut off my balls if she ever finds out the video of me feeling her up on paint night resurfaced. “I thought you erased it.”
“Not that footage,” Roman grunts.
Relief washes over me before dread replaces it. Because if it isn’t the footage of June and me, it means something a hell of a lot worse. Not just for me personally, but for the business we’ve worked our asses off to build. Dropping my head toward the ceiling, I groan, “Tell me you’re joking.”
“He’s not joking,” Hawke says.
Squeezing the back of my neck, I demand, “How did you all know about this but me?”
“Because we found out the night you left, and Jag didn’t want to fuck with your trip,” Hawke returns.
Of course not.
With a half-assed wave of my hand, I reply, “What a peach.”
Jagger gives me a crooked but just as testy smile. “We aim to please.”
“Good news is Hawke tracked the source,” Roman interjects.
“More good news?” I volley. “Golly, is it my birthday?”
“Be serious,” Hawke grumbles.
“Oh, I’m serious,” I snap. “Serious as a flaccid cock on your wedding night.” Hawke gives me the bird, and I shake my head. “Do you know what could happen if that tape gets out? If there’s literal proof that Jagger manipulated a bet so his girl would win the pot?”
Hawke grits out, “I’m gonna break into Morgan’s house for his hard drive.”
“Break into Morgan’s house? As in a literal kingpin’s nephew’s home?” I scoff. “Yeah, that sounds like a brilliant idea.”
His nostrils flare. “I’ve done worse.”
“Good,” I snap. “Because if anyone sees that footage, we might as well bend over right now and take it up the ass.”
“One shit-storm at a time,” Hawke warns.
A sarcastic laugh slips out of me. “So, there’s more?” Clapping my hands, I rub my palms together. “Man, it really is my birthday.”
“What is it, Hawke?” Jagger pushes.
“I found the bank statement.” Hawke turns his back on Mom’s picture frame resting on the mantle, choosing to face us instead. “Tight Ass paid to have our house torched.”
“We already knew this,” I start.
“I’m not finished.” Hawke bites at his thumbnail, then drops his hand to his side. “The money didn’t come from his account.”
Jagger frowns. “So where did it come from?”
“Ten grand was transferred from my trust to June’s ex the night before the fire,” Hawke reveals.
Wait. What?
“Your trust?” I challenge. “You mean, the one you can’t access after Daddy Dearest froze our shit?”
From the window, Roman’s chuckle is sardonic at best. “Seems Hawke found a loophole. Good one, Hawke.”
“Gee, thanks,” Hawke mutters. “Let me tell you, I love seeing my future go up in flames.”
“Look at you, making a pun,” I quip dryly.
He gives me the bird again, though there isn’t any heat in it.
He’s too distracted by the shit-storm that could rain down on him if anyone ever found out.
To be fair, he technically didn’t do anything wrong, since we aren’t claiming anything on our insurance, but knowing our father chose his account to make the transfer from has gotta sting.
Some of my malice slips out of me. I’d die for any of my brothers.
But cleaning up the aftermath of each of our lives is exhausting, and it just keeps coming.
The cords along Hawke’s neck tighten as he swallows past what I imagine feels like a lump in his throat. “Long story short,” Hawke continues, “Tight Ass is either trying to kick us off the board before graduation, or he’s trying to scare us from The Drift by making us think Morgan was behind this.”
“Do his motives matter?” I ask. Too amped up to do anything else, I pace the room while everyone else stays quiet. “He underestimated us, and now we’re gonna make him pay.”
“Slow down,” Roman orders.
“Bitching about potential motives is only going to waste time,” I argue. “We have to strike him now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. We need to move—”
“Hawke’s right,” Jagger interjects from the couch. My nostrils flare. “Right now, Titas has no idea we know what really happened, and while I agree with the need to analyze potential motives, I think Ford’s right, too. We don’t know how long this information will stay private.”
Finally. Someone sees reason.
“How do you want to play this, Jag?” I ask.
Leaning his back against the couch, he hangs his arms over both ends. “Hawke, did you find any other payments Titas made to Bryan?”
“Specifically to Bryan?” Hawke emphasizes. He shakes his head. “No. Just the one payment.”
“What about to his mom?” I interject. “June mentioned Bryan pays for his family’s shit.”
“No, nothing,” Hawke returns.
“So, it isn’t a trend,” Jagger states. “It’s a single payment, and it’s from your account.”
Hawke scrubs his hand over his face. “Yeah.”
Turning to me, Jagger asks, “Ford, you talked to June about Bryan?”
My chin dips.
“Can he be trusted?”
The idea alone is enough to bring a sour taste to my mouth, but I try to choke it down. “You’re asking if my girlfriend’s non-ex can be trusted?” I scoff. “Sure. They bake cookies every other weekend with Quasimodough. Why do you ask?”
“Who’s Quasimodough?” Roman interjects.
I wave him off. “My step-child. Now answer the question. Why are you asking if Bryan can be trusted because if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Tight Ass’s account isn’t connected to the money, it’s mine,” Hawke points out. “Which means that the physical proof we have access to isn’t enough to dethrone Tight Ass from the board.”
He’s right. Fuck me, he’s right.
“So, what? We need a witness?” I laugh. They can’t be serious.
Can they?
The blood drains from my face as my brothers stare at me, waiting for the dots to connect.
Fuck.
“We need a witness,” I realize. My feet take me from one end of the large room to the other as I search for a different option.
A different answer than the one swirling through my brain like a massive shit swirls down the fucking toilet.
The problem is, I can’t find one. “Shiiiit,” I seethe, stopping in front of Jagger. “Don’t make me ask her.”
He lifts his hands. “Only looking at our options.”
Sure, he is.
“You want my girlfriend to reach out to her ex and ask if he’d be willing to betray a billionaire who literally owns this town and has more connections than all of us combined?” I demand. With another scoff, I scrub my hand over my face. “Yeah, that sounds like a great idea.”
“Ford,” Jagger starts.
“What if he can’t be trusted?” I spin on my heel to face him. “What if it puts June in danger? What if June talks to him, shows our hand, and Bryan goes running back to Daddy Dearest before spilling everything we know?”
Can’t they see how insane this is?
“Ford’s right,” Hawke mutters, albeit grudgingly. He rests his forearm on the mantle and stares at the different shades of oranges and yellows dancing in the fire. “That’s a hell of a lot of pressure on June.”
It is. It also means she’d likely have to lie her ass off, tell Bryan we broke up, and open the door to him hitting on her, touching her, and who the fuck knows what else? Bile glazes my throat, and my hands tighten into fists.
“Ford’s right about Bryan potentially reaching out to Titas after his date with June, too.
” Shifting forward, Jagger rests his elbows on his knees.
“But if she asks to talk to Bryan while we talk to Titas, it would cut out the possibility of Bryan tattling to him about what we know, and we’d keep the upper hand. ”
“Maybe we don’t need Bryan to go up against Titas at all,” Roman interjects. “Maybe all we need is a recording of him admitting it that we can use against Titas.”
“And there’s the pressure on June again,” I spit.
“Unless you think you can do better, June’s the only option we have,” Jagger growls.
“If we can get Bryan to admit it, that he took money from Titas to cover up the fire or to start it or whatever the hell happened, we can use the recording to make our father step down from his position at Mercer Consulting, which is what we all want.”
“And if he doesn’t step down?” I grit out.
Jagger shrugs. “Then we go to the board with Bryan’s confession.”
I throw my hands into the air. “So, you’re saying it all hangs on June seducing Bryan.”
Silence. Every fucking one of them stays quiet. None of them wants to be the bearer of bad news. And the worst part? I can’t even blame them. It’s a shit situation with a shit game plan. I know it, and they know it, too.
“Yeah,” Hawke finally replies. He squeezes the back of his neck, looking like a kicked puppy. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
My head hangs. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Hawke offers.
Sorry? He’s sorry? That’s all he has to say?
I shake my head again. “I’ll talk to her, but if she says no, we’re out.”
“And if she says yes?” Jagger questions.
“Then we all better make damn certain she’s safe. Because if anything happens to her, I’ll light Dad, Mercer Consulting, and Bryan all on fire. I won’t even care about the fallout. I’ll burn the entire world to the ground. We clear?”
Jagger nods, and Hawke and Roman follow suit. “Yeah, man. We hear you.”