After about a week and a half, I woke up on Friday and went about my day as normal. When I got back from the gym, I saw two text messages that left me surprised. Both were about the same general idea, grabbing drinks to discuss matters, but they could not have come from two different people.
One was from Layla Taylor.
The other from Claire McLendon.
I had resigned myself to continued texts from Layla, if for no other reason than the amount she hated herself for what she had done to me. I could no longer say I hated her, but all the same, deleting her number and just moving on with my life seemed like the most rational choice. It would make it easier for me to focus on work, find a different woman, and not dwell on the past.
But there was just something about our last encounter, the way she had said my name, the way she had reacted... even if I never so much as hugged her, there was something vulnerable about her that left me feeling almost... I didn’t want to say inhumane, but perhaps cruel to just leave her cold. I felt there was a part of her that had experienced that too much for me to just drop her and have her think it was fine. In some ways, her sticking around was less romantic and more about a change in the pattern of her life.
But if I was serious about moving past the Burnson Investments-Hunt Industries-Taylor chapter in my life... could I keep her around?
I didn’t know.
But fortunately, I didn’t have to answer that question right now, because Claire had asked me out for drinks, albeit for much different reasons.
“Want to hammer out the deal tonight. Drinks at Rick’s at 8 p.m. good?”
As usual, Claire had gotten straight to the point and made no bones about what she wanted to do. At least it wasn’t about boning...
“Works for me, see ya there.”
I only got that she had “liked” my message and nothing more. From Claire, though, that might as well have been the equivalent of a massive hug.
I didn’t think anything of her invitation. We had a business deal to finalize; business often got done over drinks and social settings; and it just so happened that this one involved two high-positioned business folks in their 20’s. I really didn’t see what could go wrong.
Well, it wasn’t so much that something could have gone wrong as something much more unexpected.
WHEN I SHOWED UP TO Rick’s, I had to laugh to myself about the “maturation” I had undergone.
The last time I came to a meeting like this, I ended up drinking too much, getting jerked off underneath the table, and left to clean up for myself after Layla had run away. Suffice to say, not only did I not expect that to happen with Claire, I fully believed that if I suggested a move even a tenth as daring as that, she would slap me and cancel the deal.
I walked to the back of the bar and saw her at a table isolated from the rest of the crowd. She was in business attire, absolutely nothing about her to suggest that she was dressed for sexual attention in any way. I waved to her, she waved back with a smile, and she pulled back a chair for me.
“Nice to see you,” she said. “What will you have?”
Claire McLendon in a nutshell. Sweet in greeting, quick to the point.
“Gin and soda,” I said. “Not looking to go crazy tonight.”
“Smart,” she said. She waved down the first waiter who passed by us; I didn’t even know if he was the one who had served her originally. “Gin and soda, please, on the rocks.”
I had preferred it straight, but who was I to argue? Claire was the client; if Claire wanted to change my order and make me do a shot of gin, I would have done it. I would have done just about anything except what I had actually done with Layla.
Layla. Remember when you were here with her? In a place like that? Good times, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t it be nice if things could go back to that without the ugly betrayal...
Surprised, I shook my head.
“Are you OK?” Claire said.
“Sorry, long week,” I said, which was actually true.
“If you need more than one, we can arrange that,” Claire said, but just at the draw of a breath, she had moved on. “Now, this deal. Part of why I took this was because I know Morgan well and he’s a great guy. I know you kind of well. I know you got a deal done at Burnson Investments before you got screwed by the big man.”
You know that?
“Morgan told me,” she said, which brought me surprising relief. Morgan would not have told her the dirty story. He would have kept me looking as good as I could have in that context. “I know you have impressive negotiation skills, and I know you’re not some crusty old white guy who’s going to take advantage of me. I want to know, Chance, if you’re going to be more involved than just giving us a check and then moving on.”
I gulped. So it was, the moment of truth.
Well, it was one of many moments. I knew what Edwin would say. He would say that he’d be happy to help however he could... without any intention of actually following through on that promise. A promise from Edwin Hunt that didn’t involve money was as good as a promise made with a rat—the rat didn’t understand promises, and neither did Mr. Hunt.
But put money on the line, and Edwin Hunt could suddenly get the President of the United States on the line with a homeless beggar.
So who was I going to be? The greedy money chaser, or the diligent businessman?
The choice was easy.
“Truth be told, Claire, we had looked at this as an investment of funds,” I said, noticing with a great deal of relief that Claire did not look betrayed by this statement. “I don’t mind providing suggestions to you now and then and pointing out ways you can help, but Morgan and I want to build a holdings company, not a consulting company or something that winds up on multiple boards.”
“No, I understand,” Claire said, and she looked like she really did.
I was not ready, however, for her to go into the thinking tank for what felt like a full minute. I sipped on my freshly placed gin and tonic, wishing strongly that I had requested it straight. It just tasted too cold, too much like ice for me to enjoy it.
“You seem like the kind of guy who could help out,” Claire said. “If I do message you from time to time, you are able to help, right?”
“Of course,” I said with a shrug. “I’m Chance Hunt, not an asshole.”
Claire snorted, the closest thing I had seen to her laughing. I swore I even saw a slight smile forming, though that was probably my imagination trying to get something out of the encounter.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be back.”
As she got off her seat and moved past me, she did something unmistakable, something subtle but noticeable to me, something small in the moment but something that might have had implications down the line.
She put her hand on my shoulder.
It was a soft touch, and a brief one. It could have easily been excused as her having to put her hand on me to get past me, an idea supported by the fact that I had to scoot in for her to get by.
But then, why didn’t she go in the other direction?
I suspected it was nothing. I tried not to overthink it. She needed to get by and was probably used to using physical touch in the context of getting what she wanted.
But...
After Layla Taylor, I couldn’t help myself. I looked into everything when it came to business dealings with women. Especially young women whom I had a shot at. I had to nip this one in the bud.
How, though? How awkward would it be if I gave her the spiel about not having anything other than a professional relationship? That would cause more damage than good if Claire’s touch had been innocuous.
What if I said nothing? Would it encourage her to escalate it, or would it just be a case of nothing to it?
And what would Layla say?
Christ, really, Chance?
I shook my head again and downed by gin and soda. The waiter came by and I immediately asked for another as soon as I made eye co
ntact. No, two drinks was more than I wanted, but yes, I needed it at the moment.
The fuck was Layla still on my mind for? For what she did to me?
It’s just natural. Not enough time has passed. You need to let some weeks go by before you can move on.
Just... focus on Claire if you have to.
No fucking way, dude, get—
“Sorry about that,” Claire said as she sat down, this time without touching me. She did, however, actually smile when she sat down. “In any case, I would like to learn some negotiation skills from you, Chance. Do you think you can provide that?”
“Sure,” I said, shrugging as if the request didn’t bother me in the slightest.
At that moment, three drinks came over—the gin and soda I had requested, plus another gin and soda and a vodka tonic.
“You ordered yourself one, I see,” Claire said. “I was going to be polite and get you the second one.”
“Well, that’s kind of you,” I said, trying to find the most formal words that I could. “I’ll call this my last drink of the night. Just to be safe.”
Safe in many ways.
This was the second sign that Claire was up to something. Again, maybe I was misreading it. Claire had the odd dichotomy of being incredibly sweet with her behavior but also being so quick and so direct that it didn’t leave time for interpretation. I had a feeling Claire was the type of gal you could take both to your parents’ home and before a judge in the court of law.
But she would not have bought a second drink for me unless she wanted something out of me. And I was too alert for me to get fucked over on another business deal—even if she didn’t explicitly acknowledge that part, she had to have known. Morgan would have at least hinted at the idea, it was too overt and too obvious.
Claire, to her credit, didn’t push back, or at least she was smart enough to keep her distance. She simply nodded, said “Let me know if you’ll need me to call an Uber,” and left it at that.
For the rest of the evening, our conversation and our interaction remained fairly neutral. I probably read a little too deep into a couple of actions she made, but could you blame me? For what I was just getting over, I had to be hyper-vigilant in the face of all possibilities—including the one that Claire intended to flirt her way into something beyond just two attractive people in their 20’s were.
Which even acknowledging that was a problem. I now began to see Claire as an attractive woman—not that I ever saw her as unattractive, but she was relatively plain in comparison to the fiery appearance of Layla. But that very plainness was what made her so beautiful. It didn’t come with the strings attached.
When I finished my last drink, Claire gave her card to the waiter and ignored my protests to pay.
“It’s the least I could do for someone like you, Chance Hunt.”
Oh no. She’s saying my last name like Layla would. Houston, we have a problem.
“Thanks,” I said, not trying to be cold but not trying to show that I had any interest beyond general appreciation. “So, it’s getting late, I’m going to head out.”
“OK,” Claire said, seemingly unfazed by my sudden need to leave. “Thank you for meeting me. I’ll be in touch.”
I’m not sure if she was making a point or she simply moved on quickly, but given that the waiter came back with the receipt as she spoke, she had signed and walked out before I had even begun to move out of my seat. Maybe it was her way of saying she wasn’t going to let me just walk out on her. Or, maybe, realistically, she just moved quickly from point A to point B, even if those two points were social interactions and not business transactions.
Yet, I couldn’t dismiss anything. After Layla Taylor, anything seemed possible.
Time would tell if that was a blessing or a curse.
Chapter Six
Claire never texted me the rest of the weekend, a fact which put me profoundly at ease. Perhaps the alcohol had simply made her a little more flirtatious and aggressive than normal, but she probably didn’t actually have feelings or that kind of attraction to me. If she had, she would have said more than what she had.
Layla, on the other hand, kept it up. It was never quite to the point that it was stalkerish and annoying, and I probably didn’t help my cause by responding to her every so often. I told myself that it was because I didn’t want to be rude, but that was a lie that I hadn’t confronted. The most polite thing, if I really wanted to cut her out, was to do just that so I didn’t string her alone.
I knew the truth to some extent, but I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, even in my own head.
Fortunately, Morgan had a flight to San Francisco booked for me that very Sunday with a meeting for Monday morning with Andrew Patel to discuss Virtual Realty. He had already arranged the hotel room and everything—in that regard, the connection to a pure-blood Hunt sure made a true hell of a difference.
Even on the flight over, I remained vigilant about protecting myself, making sure to print off any documents I wanted to review instead of viewing them on my phone or my laptop. I never got the sense I was being followed or monitored, but that was precisely the problem with Edwin Hunt. If he wanted to spy on me or follow me, he would not hire someone so incompetent and foolish as to be caught at an airport. Instead, he would have the best money could buy—and boy, money could buy some really nice investigators.
I made sure to sit against a wall while I read the work on Virtual Realty, the better to protect myself from potential witnesses, and I made sure that my plane seat was at the very back—a rather stark contrast to the private jets or, at a minimum, first class service I was used to, but I didn’t care. I’d had my fun. I was here for a purpose, not for a feel good flight to stroke my ego.
Along the way to the Bay Area, I kept thinking that Virtual Realty, as incredibly good of an idea as it was, as quickly as it was taking off, and as well-positioned as it was to succeed, had something holding it back. Its sales figures showed growth, but it wasn’t the kind of growth that something like this should have had. The ability to give people a tour of the home without having them drive over should have been a game-changer in the housing industry—more people would be able to take an educated look at it.
I would’ve pegged the business at having sales in the seven figures, maybe even the low eight figures, by now. Instead, while profitable and growing, it barely trickled into the seven figures, which seemed more akin to a niche business or a successful one-man operation. This told me that either leadership was hiding something from us—which I didn’t take as insidious, just proper negotiating on their part—or they were incompetent but had stumbled across a wonderful idea.
The former scared me a little bit, but I knew from my time with Edwin Hunt how to sniff out all angles. I also knew from myself how to do so without confrontation and without putting the other person on edge, of course, but if I had to flip the switch, I could. A lack of information just meant the chance for someone to crack.
If it was the latter, it actually left me quite excited. Morgan and I could bargain from a position of strength. Maybe we could even hire people ourselves or, if it really worked out, I could hire myself into a certain role. Who’s fucking laughing now, John Burnson? You see dollars, I see true value.
Of course, I had no delusions that we could invest and suddenly make myself CEO with a high six-figure salary. That was just ridiculous. And yet... it wasn’t too ridiculous.
My flight landed in San Francisco and I patiently waited for the other passengers to get up. I looked closely at everyone to see if anyone had “stalled” or kept looking back at me, as if making sure I remained. Paranoid? Sure. But with ruthless billionaires, you had no choice but to be paranoid if you didn’t want to get gruesomely fucked over.
As I waited, I pulled out my phone to see who had texted me. Morgan. Mrs. Hunt. A couple of college friends.
And wouldn’t you know it, Claire McLendon.
I breezed through everyone else’s text message, even Morgan, w
ho had messaged me to remind me about the meeting time, 10 a.m. PST. That wasn’t going to be a problem, given that I would probably wake up at 4 a.m. here without even trying. Once I got to Claire’s, I wasn’t sure if I was happy or disappointed that it was relatively vanilla.
“Have a safe flight to SF,” was all she wrote. No emojis, no exclamation mark, nothing.
It was the most Claire message that she could have written.
And I was fucking terrified that I was beginning to consider the meaning of her messages and her words. That was a fucking dangerous sign for my ability to control myself. And I didn’t have a choice—like Layla, I had intertwined a business deal into my interest. At least now I had experience and could spot it from a mile away.
No more.
No action.
... I hoped.
THE NEXT DAY AT 10 a.m., I went to a small building on a sloped hill that looked decaying and out of shape but probably cost over $500,000 given its location in San Francisco. I knocked once, examining myself in the reflection of the glass storm door.
I’d made it a point to dress as casual as I could. I wore jeans, Puma sneakers, and a casual gray t-shirt. In New York City, the business owner would have asked if I was homeless. In San Francisco, wearing a suit would have drawn questions about my mental state.
I didn’t like being so dressed down. It felt like I was “dressing down” to the occasion. But, hey, we were here to make Virtual Realty a shot, not the other way around. I had to impress them on behalf of Morgan & Chance Holdings.
A petite young woman with blonde hair, a nose piercing, and a couple of tattoos on her forearms answered the door, smiling.
“Chance Hunt?”
God, I hate when women call me my full name. Too many bad memories of Layla.
“Yep,” I said, gruff and with a stern look on my face after hearing my full name.
“Welcome, come on in,” the girl said. As I stepped inside, I heard hip-hop playing from the office, saw a ping-pong table set up but not in use, and smelled fresh bagels. “This is Virtual Realty. Do you want a tour?”
Bruised (Hunt Brothers Saga) Page 5
