23. Jake #2
His eyes narrow a fraction. He gives me a subtle, calculated side-eye, clearly wondering exactly how much I know about his future plans. I hold my expression steady, though. Bluff mastered, poker face intact.
“Thanks for the tip, Jake,” he says, a faint, intrigued edge to his tone. “Maybe I’ll grab dinner there on my way out of town.”
He turns, following Kevin back out toward his office, or at least what’s left of it. We’ve all seen the boxes. The moment the door clicks shut, Roddy steps up beside me, letting out a chuckle that vibrates from his chest and into my bicep as he leans into me.
“You know your Aunt Winnie is currently sitting at the end of the bar with your mother, right?” Roddy mutters, a wicked grin breaking through his stubble.
I shrug.
“You just fed that billionaire straight to the sharks.”
I pull my T-shirt over my head, adjusting the cotton over my shoulder, and smirk. “I know.”
My dad and I walk through the front door of Earl’s and instantly drool at the scent of charred ribeye and fried onions.
If I could bundle this aroma into a candle, it would be all I burned.
The place is packed with the usual Tuesday night crowd—ranchers in dusty caps, a few of the players fueling up for tomorrow, mechanics from the shop down the road, and local families tucked into the booths.
Daisy spots us from the kitchen window, giving us a quick wave before texting Dad and asking if we want our usual. I nod and say, “Of course.” Dad texts her back, and she flashes us a thumbs up.
“Kitchen looks slammed tonight,” my dad says.
“I should get Campbell a to-go order when our food arrives. I promised I’d deliver.”
Campbell is back at the apartment, completely locked in her zone and finishing up her strategic plan, so it’s just the two of us taking a corner booth near the back jukebox. But the real show is happening twenty feet away at the end of the bar.
Austin Summerhill is sitting on a barstool, his expensive suit jacket draped over the empty seat next to him, his crisp white sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He looks entirely out of place, like a silver dollar dropped into a bucket of gravel.
He’s just ordered a draft beer when the air in the room suddenly drops ten degrees.
“Oh boy,” my dad mumbles behind his palm as he rubs his chin.
My aunt Winnie marches out of the kitchen hallway, stopping about halfway down the length of the bar when her eyes zero in on her enemy. I figured she’d recognize him. Hell, she probably has a copy of his birth certificate by this point.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t glance around, and doesn’t give him a chance to take a single sip before she’s on him, finger pointed an inch away from his nose. Her face is set in a look of absolute, righteous fury.
From our booth, Roddy and I can’t hear their words over the clinking of glasses and the roar of the jukebox, but the visual is spectacular.
Winnie’s hands wave in all directions, pausing occasionally to ball into fists at her hips.
Her index finger stabs the air inches in front of his face.
She’s probably letting him know that the town is organized and the resistance is real.
That’s been her word of choice lately—resistance.
I think she’s been watching too much Star Wars.
“You see the way her eyes are locked on that man’s throat? Brutal.” My dad chuckles, then turns his attention to the waiter dropping off our beers.
I lean back, thoroughly amused, waiting for Summerhill to call for security or storm out of the building, tail between his legs.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he takes it. Winnie continues to rain fire and brimstone down on his head, and his initial look of annoyance morphs into one of amusement.
The louder my aunt gets, the farther his unbothered smirk spreads across his face.
As they continue to trade barbs—Winnie spitting venom and Summerhill coming back with calm replies—I notice something that makes me halt mid-bite.
Fuck. They’re attracted to one another.
It’s in the way his eyes trace her jaw. And it’s countered in the way my aunt’s chest heaves with anger, her head tilting back as she matches his arrogant gaze inch for inch.
The sheer, combative chemistry between them is loud enough to hear across the room.
It’s the same energy I felt the first time I spoke to Campbell.
Winnie finally delivers one last, vicious parting shot, turns on her heels, and storms back toward the kitchen.
Summerhill watches her go, what looks like a chuckle shaking his shoulders as he grabs his beer.
He spins on the stool, taking a slow sip, and his gaze cuts directly across the crowded bar until it lands squarely on our booth.
He locks eyes with me. He knows.
I slowly lift my bottle, tipping it toward him in a silent, deadpan toast. It’s a total gotcha, you motherfucker moment, and he instantly recognizes the play.
I set him up for the slaughter, but instead of glaring, his smirk just deepens.
He holds his beer up in return, acknowledging the hit, before turning back to his drink.
“Well,” my dad murmurs, watching the exchange with dimmed eyes. “That’s bound to be a complete disaster for everyone involved.”
“Yep,” I say, perking up at the inbound delivery of our burgers and fries. “Can’t wait to watch it.”
The atmosphere inside our apartment is completely different when I unlock the door an hour later. The kitchen light is off, but the rest of the room is bathed in the localized white glow of Campbell’s laptop screen.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the center of our unmade bed, folders scattered around her like a fortress. She’s wearing her own clothes this time, still unbelievably cute.
“Did he go to the bar?” she asks without looking up, her voice vibrating with adrenaline as her fingers continue to tap the keyboard.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” I say, tossing my keys and wallet into the bowl and walking to the edge of the bed. “Winnie nearly took his head off. It was beautiful.”
“Good. Let him be distracted,” Campbell mutters, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she hits a sequence of commands on her screen. “Because I’m about to ruin his entire fiscal quarter.”
I sit down on the mattress near her feet and drop the to-go order of fries she requested on the bed between us.
“Ahh, I’m so hungry. Thank you!” She dives into the bag, pulling out a fistful of fries and shoving them in her mouth like popcorn.
I laugh softly, then pull her feet into my lap and begin rubbing them.
“What are you working on?” I nod toward the computer screen.
“Executing the masterstroke,” she says, turning the laptop more toward me. The screen displays an array of blueprint renderings, including 3D images of a sprawling, multimillion-dollar mega-resort, complete with a massive waterpark, neon-lit hotels, and commercial strip malls.
“These are the undisclosed development files Kevin gave me. The ones my father hid in the annex of the contract. They can beat us in a courtroom, Jake. My father’s ironclad paperwork ensures that. But they cannot beat us in the court of public opinion.”
She points a finger at a drafted press release on the left side of the screen.
“I’m leaking the entire blueprint file to every major regional news outlet, sports blog, and social media channel in Oklahoma and Texas within the next two minutes,” she says, her eyes flashing with a ruthless but brilliant light.
I should have known by her use of the word masterstroke. She’s an evil genius.
“I have totally reframed the narrative. It’s no longer an urban development project.
It’s an arrogant, out-of-town billionaire developer and a predatory, corporate Nashville legal firm using eminent domain to bulldoze a historic, multi-generational Oklahoma community.
I explicitly highlighted the displacement of a recovering stroke victim—Coach Dale—and our local ranchers. ”
She taps on the screen, likely pointing out the paragraph she’s talking about.
I lean forward and read through the text a bit, a chill running down my spine.
It’s a brutal execution. She has stripped away the jargon and exposed the ugly truth of their plans, likely turning it into a public relations nightmare before they can even file for county permits.
“If I hit this button, Jake,” she whispers, her voice suddenly dropping, her eyes searching mine for permission.
For solidarity, perhaps. She has definitely been staring at the screen for too long.
“There’s no going back. I am officially declaring war on my dad’s firm. I am blowing up his biggest deal.”
I reach out with my left hand, wrapping my fingers around hers where they rest on the trackpad. I look her dead in the eye.
“Hit it.”
Campbell lets out a long, shaky breath, and together, we press down.
Sent.
The fallout is instantaneous. Within thirty minutes, the local social feeds catch the images. Within an hour, the story goes viral. A major sports blog reposts the blueprint with Campbell’s caption of choice.
Predatory billionaires trying to destroy minor-league history.
The comment section explodes. Local news channels in Oklahoma City pick up the story, scrolling the rendering files across their bottom tickers.
By nine o’clock, Summerhill Executives is trending regionally, accompanied by thousands of furious messages from fans and locals alike, and it’s spreading to other small towns like ours.
Because if this can happen to us, it can happen to anyone.
Campbell flips over her cell phone one last time, noting the seventy-four missed calls she’s purposely let go to voicemail. They’re all from her dad. She closes her laptop and flips her phone back over, resting it on top before she lies back, a satisfied grin playing at her lips.