Bruised (Hunt Brothers Saga)

by Timothy S. Allen

  “I see,” Claire said. “It’s working in your favor that we are not just looking for one partner. If that were the case, then we would probably go for someone more experienced, but I have always liked Morgan and, by extension, you. Morgan is diligent, and I know you are much of the same, no matter what the rumors may say.”

  “Rumors?”

  I couldn’t help myself. Perhaps I should not have had this topic of conversation here, but I truly didn’t give a shit. If this was going to torpedo the deal but could give me invaluable information for future cases, better to fuck up now and learn more as I went on than to be hamstrung continuously by guessing games in the future.

  “Weren’t you just at Burnson Investments?” she said.

  She must have done her homework too.

  “I was,” I said. I couldn’t tell her the whole truth—that would have scared myself off, let alone a friend of Morgan’s. But I had to tell some truth. “But deception and arrogance were par for the course there. That, and I felt my talents were not being put to full use.”

  Technically true. It’s not the full story, but it is true enough.

  “I appreciate the lessons I learned, but when Morgan and I came up with this idea of starting our company, it was a no brainer. And he can’t just leave his father’s company, at least not for some time.”

  “Understandable enough,” Claire said. “So you’re the messenger.”

  Harsh. And... a little true but...

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “I’m more of a COO who is seeking to start operations.”

  Claire seemed to stare me down for the longest time, and I have to say, for someone so young and not of amazing attraction, she left me feeling very unnerved—not necessarily in a bad way. She had to do her due diligence on us Hunts, and for her not to do this would have shown poor leadership on her part.

  Still, the extent to which she did this made me realize what I’d gotten with the Taylors was, in a weird way, almost easy. Most people didn’t keel over like that.

  But then again, maybe this was a sign I wouldn’t get trolled and made a fool as I had before.

  “You know, I made a promise to Morgan that I’d let him invest in us if I ever needed it,” she said. “Fortunately, I also know you two aren’t full of it. You’re new and such, but I see enough.”

  She stood up, as if announcing the meeting was over.

  “Let Morgan know we have a handshake agreement in place. We’ll figure out the details, but we’ll go with what Morgan had said before when he spoke to me Saturday morning—$250,000 for ten percent.”

  “Done,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Have a great day, Chance,” she said, ushering me out so quickly it almost felt like I’d gotten rejected, not accepted.

  Morgan wasn’t kidding or fucking around, it seemed. He really, desperately, truly wanted to get out of the family business—so quickly, in fact, that he’d already hammered out a deal with Claire on Saturday, she just wanted to see me face to face.

  This, in turn, made me wonder if Morgan had given me something of an easy slam dunk to work with. Despite Claire’s cold stare, despite her probing questions, despite her hints at knowing what had happened, she was also surprisingly quick to decide to work with us. Maybe that was in keeping with her character.

  In any case, though, things finally looked up—we had our first deal. I didn’t need any damn leader or connection to Edwin Hunt to make it happen.

  I emailed Morgan the good news. By the time I got to my apartment, he’d already written back.

  “Congrats. No resting on our laurels. Got another lead, and it’s much bigger—$5 million for 10 percent.”

  It’s nearly like the Taylors all over again.

  Good.

  Redemption.

  Chapter Three

  The numbers danced in my head as, at the time, I wished I had danced on Thursday.

  When I thought of the original deal that Burnston Investments could have given me for the Taylors, I had visions of conquest and victory in my head. It seemed inevitable that I would emerge victorious, given how Layla all but loved me, Craig smiled and shook my hand, and even John Burnston liked me for that time.

  And then...

  Well, let’s just say that false hope had a cruel way of crashing down.

  But no longer. That was in the past, done with, forgotten. Well, not forgotten, it was too recent. But new success had a way of pushing the negativity of the past behind in rapid fashion.

  At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.

  I knew that, like a schizophrenic just recently brought to medical care, I sounded delusional. One moment, I was on top of the world, happy as could be at the prospect that maybe everything had happened the way it was supposed to happen. Maybe this all was actually a blessing... and then, less than a few moments later, I was lamenting everything, the “truth” of the moment weighing down on my heavily.

  But what was I supposed to do, pick a side and just go straight ahead? It felt like my world kept flipping because my world really was continuing to flip. Not even a whole damn month had gone by from when I told Layla I loved her to now. Everything that happened in between was so insane, I’d have to write a book about it someday.

  I could stay grounded the only way I knew how—by doing work. Yes, even at Burnson Industries, when it felt like I would never get anything done, I could stay focused for at least a few moments at a time just by focusing at the work at hand. The problem with that particular deal was Layla’s name kept popping up, or at least her last name, and there just wasn’t a lot of work.

  That wouldn’t be a problem here. This new lead that I would get when I got home would almost certainly be unaffiliated and unconnected to sex, romance, or even women. If the organization giving us this staggering offer was led by a man, that would be all the better.

  The subway ride home went by like a blur, both literally in how fast the train moved and in how my mind processed everything. I only realized I had come to my stop after the doors had already opened and the sea of people piled on, making my movement off the train like trying to fight a herd of stampeding bulls rushing into a river the side of my apartment door. The PA announcer drolled on about standing clear of the closing doors, a voice I had long learned to shut out even at twelve years old.

  When I got out, I continued to be in my own little world. The brisk fall sky of New York City did nothing to shake me from my thoughts. It seemed like nothing would.

  Until I saw her.

  Upon first glance, it just looked like a curvy woman from afar checking her phone, her professional attire blending in with the rest of New York City’s young professionals. But when I looked back ahead, I knew what I had seen, and I could not help but turn my head toward her once more.

  Layla Taylor.

  When I looked at her, I was surprised to feel like I wanted to approach her. I suspected this had less to do with sheer physical attraction—which I still had, though not to the degree I once did—and more because I had never gotten satisfactory answers to the one question dominating them all.

  Why?

  Why had Layla sold me out? Why had she manipulated me like that? Why had she cried when she insisted I say that I loved her no matter what?

  Sure, she had given me some answers in the form of “I had to” or “it’s business” or “you wouldn’t understand.” I knew how the art of the deal worked. But even in that moment of unbridled rage, I saw them for what they are—deflections, attempts to avoid the tough questions, logical thought overrun by emotions I didn’t care to digest. They weren’t the real answers.

  But right now, in looking at Layla—who looked worn down, wearing a weary expression and a hunched over body that suggested difficulty in where she was—I knew I was not ready to face her. I still felt visceral, real anger. I could not have an adult conversation without slipping into petty insults.

  I walked ahead, keeping my eyes deliberately straight ahead, the better so Layla
and I would not accidentally make eye contact. I put my phone up to my left ear so maybe it would block my features. I—

  “Chance!”

  Goddamnit.

  Guess we’re about to find out if I can be an adult about this.

  I dropped the facade of being on a phone call, partially because Layla saying my name sounded so pained. She did not sound like she wanted to rub it in my face, nor did she want to gloat. I stopped, turned, and waited for her to come to me.

  She looked unbelievably nervous to approach me, as if I might berate her once again. At the start, I had considered it, but seeing her now was like seeing a wounded dog that had bit me. I couldn’t help but feel some sort of sympathy, even if I knew after I made sure she wasn’t dying or anything insane I would never talk to her again.

  Liar. You know yourself better.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “What is this about, Layla?” I said, not interested in small talk.

  She gulped and hesitated for several uncomfortable seconds. It wasn’t a New York minute—it was like a New York hour that passed in that time. I crossed my arms and waited—it’s not like I had anything else to do. You know, not like I had any major investment projects I had to do my research on. No, sir, nothing like that at all.

  “I’m sorry.”

  So it’s just like last time, huh. Just a bunch of stonewalling and nothing beyond that.

  “Sorry for what?” I said, my words sounding more like a statement than an actual question.

  “Sorry for everything.”

  This is a waste of time. If she’s not going to go into any detail, we’re just playing games at this point.

  “Everything doesn’t tell me anything, Layla,” I said. “I need to know what you’re apologizing for and why you did what you did. And don’t tell me ‘you know what.’ I want to hear you say it to know it’s sincere.”

  Layla, noticeably, looked around us, as if paranoid about who might be listening. I found this move curious, although in that particular moment, I didn’t think anything of it other than her not wanting to create a public scene that would draw unwanted attention. Not that anyone in New York City ever had time or ever bothered to give unwanted attention.

  “I’m sorry for using you, Chance,” she said. It’s a start. “I’m sorry that I took what you said and passed it along to my uncle. I’m... I’m sorry.”

  I let my arms drop. I wasn’t about to hug her—that just felt repulsive and would destroy any self-respect I had—but I could let myself be a bit more open to what she had to say now. At least she could finally admit what she had done.

  “It’s a start,” I said, the tension in my voice not quite as thick. “But why did you do it? Why?”

  My questions also had finally started to sound like questions. We still had a wall of ice between us, but at least the surface had begun to thaw just a tad. I’m not sure what good it would do to have the wall melt other than for some cliche about peace amongst us all, but I couldn’t lie... it did feel a little good to have hatred fade away.

  “I...”

  Well, so much for that.

  Layla stumbled over her words for several seconds, but it became obvious after a point that she just wasn’t going to say anything. This wasn’t about her not having a good answer. There was something she was unwilling to say for whatever reason. And so long as that was the case, I was not going to let that ice melt any further—if anything, I would resolidify it all.

  “Don’t bother,” I said, crossing my arms. “I appreciate the apology, but I should have known you wouldn’t have a good reason.”

  “Chance!”

  “Or at least be unwilling to tell me,” I said, to which she did not have as strong a reaction as before. “You disgust me. I said I loved you. Nothing could have been said that was more honest than that. And you took that honesty for your own benefit.”

  “I know,” she said, looking down. She wasn’t crying, but I wondered if that was a function of her having simply run out of tears. “Someday, you’ll find out. And when you do, I hope that you have sympathy.”

  It took all of the maturity I had not to roll my eyes in dramatic fashion at that statement. So now she was the victim?

  “Well, you found out my secrets, and you fucked me over with them,” I said.

  Layla could not maintain eye contact with me. Good, I thought. She didn’t deserve to look into my eyes for what she did.

  My phone buzzed. Briefly, I looked down at it and saw that Morgan had messaged me. I couldn’t say what else he said, but I knew it wasn’t about grabbing pizza later.

  “But in any case, you might have done me a favor,” I said, starting to feel a little smug. “You set me free from Burnson Investments.”

  “You got fired?!?”

  “And because of that, I’m now in a position to succeed even more than before,” I said, putting on a cocky smile and ignoring her question. “Hope your uncle takes care of you.”

  “Chance!”

  I had started to turn away in disgust and ready to move on. But when she said my name with as much of a reaction as she had... I hesitated, considered turning back to her, but then kept walking away. I couldn’t take seeing the girl I had once loved like this any longer.

  I don’t know what I had said that had caused her to react so strongly, but it was obviously something that went beyond my knowledge of her. No one reacted that strongly without there being a very good reason, and I didn’t know what that good reason was. I suspected, though, that she was not as close to her uncle Craig as I had suspected.

  I also began to believe that Craig Taylor might be a horrible human being. Who else would whore out their niece and call them their daughter for the sake of information—not even money, information? Who did that who wasn’t a piece of shit?

  And with family, no less.

  No wonder Layla had it rough, if I was right. If I was wrong, and Layla knew full well what was going on and went along with it, then she was a true sociopathic piece of shit.

  But I saw soul in her eyes. I saw her cry when we had sex after I told her I loved her. I saw how she reacted when she figured out I got fired. She couldn’t have faked those reactions. Through and through, she was a human being with soul—a young girl, and someone perhaps easily controlled by family and others, but a human being nevertheless.

  I couldn’t stay angry at her for much longer, although I could still try and stay the hell away from her. Even if Layla was innocent in everything that had happened over the last few months, even if she just was a sex-crazed woman who was innocent in business and easily controlled, even if she had played no part in suggesting that the Taylors use me... it was a field of landmines not worth going into.

  Layla could very well be the perfect person for me, but with that family, with our history, and with the world of business at play, it was never going to happen. And I still had not completely ruled out Layla making all of this up and using me even now.

  It was a stark contrast to Claire, her professionalism, her independent nature, her girl-next-door look... I swear I wasn’t trying to put Claire and Layla side by side. I looked at Claire as a business associate, Layla as a former romantic interest, and the only thing they shared was their gender.

  Still, to some extent, with Layla so fresh on my mind, I knew I was prone to flirting with just about anything that moved. I knew that I had sworn not to make the same mistakes as before.

  But with Claire...

  No, no, no. I would not. I would be a good boy, focus on business, and help Claire strictly in business settings.

  I swore to it.

  Chapter Four

  With a dozen contradictory thoughts swirling in my mind, my brain activity feeling like a tempest at sea, I got to my apartment and sprawled out on my couch.

  I took my phone and slid it to the other side of my apartment. I left my laptop on my coffee table, still in its casing, refusing to allow it to come out. I just needed a moment to decompress, to
right my mind, and to not think about Layla... or, apparently now, Claire.

  Funny thing about that, though. The longer I lay on my couch, the more I thought about the two of them. It was like the cliche about chasing the girl opposite of the one that had wronged you. I was beginning to realize I had an intellectual attraction to Claire, if not a physical one, in large part because Layla had given me a zealous physical attraction. Layla wasn’t dumb—quite the opposite, in fact—but our romance never came from a place of matching wits, but of bodies coming together. That relationship might have eventually moved to the intellectual, but not for some time.

  As I put my arm over my head, stretched my toes out, and controlled my breathing, I accepted that this turmoil of the mind would just be with me for some time. Eventually, I would get over it and move forward. Eventually, I would forget about Layla, at least emotionally, and Claire would settle back into a professional relationship. The funny thing was, I didn’t really think Claire even had a reason to see me as anything but. She had given precisely zero indication of physical attraction to me.

  It was all a world in my head that did not exist in the actual world. In the actual world, Claire was a person we had invested in, and Layla was a former lover—not devoted girlfriend—who was trying to make amends but doing so poorly.

  Put so harshly true, it hurt a little, but the honesty was a start.

  It also felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, albeit not one that was ever that heavy to begin with. With the energy, I grabbed my laptop, opened it up, and read in further detail what Morgan had told me about.

  The company was in San Francisco and named Virtual Realty, having something to do with the retail industry’s ability to offer virtual tours of a house without prospective buyers ever having to set foot inside. Given that real estate wasn’t going away anytime soon and in fact seemed to be garnering interest by the day, this was likely to be a billion dollar investment if Morgan’s contact at the company was hard working and diligent.