Wendell’s seventh-grade puberty-stricken voice half squeaked, half growled into the phone. “Mom forgot to leave me money for the field trip.”
I should’ve taken his call when I still had my job. This was like a double whammy. “How much do you need?”
“Twenty dollars. And a sack lunch.”
“When do you need it?”
“An hour ago.” He sniffled. “They took off already. I’m in the library.”
My heart cracked for him. “But you only called twenty minutes ago.”
“I was trying Mom, but she didn’t answer. I thought maybe I could still meet them…that you could drive me…”
“Ah, Wendell. I’m sorry. Is Lenny with you?” They were twins, but Wendall was the youngest in every sense of the word.
“Yeah. We have to sit in the library until school’s done.”
“Okay.” If I ignored my pride and moved back home, I could help Wendell and Lenny out. And my youngest sister that still lived at home. Mom and Dad would happily let me pick up open shifts at the diner and the thrift store. I stared at the people wandering in and out of the restaurant, oblivious to how I was reverting from professional career woman back to my sixteen-year-old self. “I’ll swing by and sign you two out and get you to the field trip.”
His immense relief was worth it. I never regretted helping my family. Could they rely on me less? Yes. But I was still that little girl watching her mom break down in postpartum depression and roam listlessly through the house. As the oldest, I witnessed her struggle to return to someone who didn’t hide in the bathroom and cry.
Didn’t mean I wanted to stay living at home. I couldn’t help myself or them if I didn’t get my loans paid down.
The job Ryan mentioned came to mind. It paid a lot. I pulled up his email. I had a mysterious job to apply for.
Chapter 2
Gentry
Brandy burned its way down my throat. The woman in the slinky red dress sitting on the other side of the bar eyed me with her artfully applied smokey eye.
Only a few months ago, I’d already know her name and be loading her in an elevator, leaning in close, murmuring about how beautiful she was and how sexy she made that dress look, and I’d be thinking of all the wicked things I’d be doing to her.
And then after I carried out each and every thought—in her hotel room, not in my room, house, or cabin because I’d learned my lesson—I’d grab my shoes and sneak out. If I happened to sleep over, I’d wake up for another round on the bed or in the shower or over the bathroom sink, and then I’d leave. I’d run home, take a quick shower, put on a fresh suit, and get to work.
If I didn’t sleep over, I’d still wake early and go for a run and then grab a good ol’ country breakfast before work.
Setting my glass down, I avoided looking in the direction of the woman. Nothing against her. It was all me.
Rodrigo appeared in front of me. He was wearing a white shirt with black trousers and suspenders, but it was his black mustache that capped the old-time saloon-owner look. He was the reason I loved this bar. Not only was he the bartender, he was the owner and could talk business like a master. This was one of his five bars and restaurants, but it was the only one he worked at.
“Want another?” he asked.
“Nah. I’ve gotta drive home.”
He appraised me. He’d never asked what was different, but by the way he studied me, he’d noticed that I was done with women. “The lady in red has been asking about you.”
I took another sip, ending up taking a bigger drink than usual, and hissed through the familiar burn. “What’d you say?”
“I said that you’d be stupid not to be interested, but that you come here to think about work, not play.” He tipped his head toward me. “I didn’t tell her that you’re Gentry King.”
“Accurate, and thank you.” It didn’t take more than a few minutes of talking to Rodrigo all those years ago to know that he succeeded in business because he could read people. He also knew how I’d used my name and the oil empire I ran to get enough women in my day. Which wasn’t that long ago.
He wiped down the bar around me. “You wouldn’t have thanked me six months ago.”
“Nope.” I wasn’t going to tell him why. If I sounded callous and superficial in my head, what would it be like to voice the reason why I quit messing around? “My son got married last fall.”
“I remember when you told me he was engaged. Congrats, man.”
I slid my elbows on the counter, hands folded in front of me, and sighed. I never talked about my kids’ business with anyone.
He peered at me. “Not a reason for congratulations?”
“It should be. His new wife is a nice girl. Sweet. Montana born and raised.”
“But?”
I needed to quit talking. “I don’t know if he loves her.”
Rodrigo cocked his head. “Then why marry?”
Wasn’t that the hundred-million-dollar question that only a few knew the answer to. “Aiden was under pressure to get married.”
“I know that wasn’t from you.”
And it wasn’t from Aiden’s mother. Everyone knew my story. King Oil CEO loses wife in tragic accident.
It was no fucking accident. Manslaughter was what the meth-head who beat my wife to death got. I called it murder, but the courts hadn’t agreed. And by the time they passed their sentence on the perpetrator, I was steeping myself in so much sex that I didn’t have to think about how unfair it was that I was left alone to raise four boys and run a company that wasn’t my family’s legacy. Well, it wasn’t before I met Sarah. Once she died, it’d been my sole purpose to keep it running at full potential and secure my four boys’ fortune.
Then I learned what Sarah did with that fortune.
“My wife,” I finally answered, even though it wasn’t an answer. “She…before she died…” Business was too ingrained in me. I couldn’t tell Rodrigo the story behind the marriage. It was family business, and Sarah’s mother would go nuclear if she learned I said anything. I said something parallel with the truth.
“My wife’s mother is determined to see all the kids married.” Happily or not.
Confusion crinkled Rodrigo’s brow. “So, your son got married to please his grandmother?”
“Basically.” There was nothing grandmotherly about Emilia Boyd.
“Hmm.” He was smart enough to know there was a crap ton I wasn’t saying. Like how my late wife Sarah got the payout of her parents’ partial sale of the oil company and tied it up in a trust for each of our four boys. A trust that played too fast and hard with their future by setting a deadline for when they should get married.
I’d raised them to work hard and take care of themselves. Fuck their trust money. But their grandmother had a much different opinion about losing the money, a somewhat legitimate reason. And she was a force on a good day. The result had me at the graveside, asking, “What the hell, Sarah?” more times than I could count.
I wasn’t good company, even for myself, tonight. I knocked on the countertop and rose. “I’d better head home.”
“Gentry.” Rodrigo didn’t shout my name. Billings, Montana, was small enough that even if people didn’t recognize King Oil’s CEO in person, they’d know my uncommon first name. “Aiden’s a good kid. A good man. He’ll take care of his wife.”
My smile was small. “She won’t go without, that’s for sure.” Unless it was love, laughter, and a warm, inviting home. Then she was on her own.
As I walked to my pickup, I couldn’t help but replay my argument with Aiden the night before his wedding, which had conveniently been two days before his twenty-ninth birthday, the day the rules of his trust would kick in.
It’s just money, Aiden. Don’t start your marriage with a lie.
My marriage, my business. He’d shot me a stubborn look that was so similar to his mother’s. My money, my business.
You let your Grams make it her business. Sarah’s father passed away year
s ago, but her mother, Emilia, owned controlling shares of King Oil. And as soon as she’d learned about the trust situation, she’d badgered Aiden about getting married.
Not even Grams can force me to marry. Kate’s a nice girl. What are you complaining about?
Exactly. She’s a nice girl. How do you think she’ll feel to know you’re not with her because you love her?
Aiden’s hard features had turned even stonier. Women are a means to help us get what we want. Isn’t that what you’ve always taught us?
I loved your mother, and when she died—
Did you? Or was it because you walked right into a multi-million-dollar job and marriage once she got pregnant? Because you sure jumped into her best friend’s bed quick enough after she died. Aiden had stepped into my space, his normally rigid countenance filled with anger, startling me. It’d been a long time since I’d seen any emotion in him. And everyone else’s bed. Women got you through the grief. Women got you through your mid-life crisis; women get you through the stress of your job. So, Kate is going to help me get what I want, and if you don’t want to see her hurt, then don’t tell her.
He’d stormed away, and my past unloaded on me. Fifteen years of indiscreetly sleeping around, and I saw in one instant how my kids judged my actions and were paying it forward in a harsh way. Not only that, but if Aiden’s attitude was an indicator, none of them thought very highly of me.
They thought me sleeping around so soon after their mother’s death meant I hadn’t cared about her. They knew that we didn’t get engaged because we’d been crazy in love. She got pregnant when we were eighteen, and I’d married her as soon as we got our diplomas—thanks to pressure from her parents. But I had loved her though. Losing her gutted me. I hadn’t wanted to raise our kids without her. She’d been my partner and my best friend.
I hadn’t found anyone else I was willing to partner with like her. But ours hadn’t been a sweeping, romantic love story. We’d been young and willing to stick it out for the sake of our kid. Then another kid. And another. And another. We got caught up in the whole family thing, figured we might as well get the child-bearing years out of the way so we could have our fun when we were older.
Our parents helped us, but when hers had offered me a position at the oil company, I’d jumped on it. Sarah had run my family ranch that was now my youngest son’s career.
I slid into my pickup and shut the door behind me. There was an unmistakable bite in the air, and the news was forecasting snow. I had a work trip in the morning, but I should make it to Wyoming and back before the weather got too bad.
Honestly, it wouldn’t matter if I was in Wyoming or my house. It’d be me and an empty room. I was getting used to spending my nights alone. My heavy travel schedule required a lot of hotel stays that had come with plenty of opportunities to meet new women. Learning to live with myself was a good thing.
If I kept telling myself that, I might believe that I didn’t miss the married life as much as I thought.
My phone rang, saving me from my thoughts. I answered using the control on the steering wheel.
Emilia’s voice blazed through the cab. My stomach clenched—my usual stress response when it came to her. Good thing I stuck with one drink.
“Gentry.”
That was her hello. Saying your name like it was a curse word. Sarah had been the best of both her parents, missing Emilia’s thorny personality and no-BS attitude and her dad’s business acumen, which had been dubious at best.
“Emilia, what can I do for you?” Call me an ass-kisser, but this woman still held my job in her hands. She owned controlling shares of King Oil, and I think she’d want to be buried with the paperwork in her cold dead hands. Oil had been discovered on land she and DB no longer owned but had held mineral rights to. The fight over that with the landowners had been contentious, but in the end, Emilia and Boyd came out on top.
They’d built the exploration and production company, becoming one of the most successful E&Ps in the continental US. After DB died, Emilia sold some leaseholds and promoted me to CEO. She’d also changed the name to King Oil. Which had surprised me, but with Emilia, there was always a reason, and it was to brand the company with my family’s Montana legacy. Between DB and the original landowners and our neighbors, the Cartwrights, the company needed a fresh image. It was probably why they’d pushed Sarah and me to marry.
“I need the jet,” Emilia barked. “I have a job applicant I need to fly to Denver.”
What the hell was in Denver? I knew what was there for me. My second son, Beckett. He owned a tech company that he ran out of Denver, but he used the company’s Learjet as often as I did. But I knew visiting Beckett wasn’t the reason Emilia was interested in Denver. She’d never been an involved grandparent unless it was to teach the kids about investor shares and fracking.
“I’m taking it for a meeting in Wyoming tomorrow. You’ll have to talk to the pilots, but it might be free after that.”
“She can go with you.”
“Who?” In Emilia’s mind, the jet was King Oil property and, therefore, hers. Never mind that Aiden and I used it often for work, as did Beck. Xander wandered the world, but hardly touched our private plane. And Dawson didn’t leave the ranch.
“Her name is Kendall Brinkley, and she needs to get to Denver to interview with Beck.”
“With Beckett?” What the hell was she doing hiring people for Beck? He bought and sold apps and programs. If it wasn’t black gold, Emilia didn’t have time for it. And she resented that Beckett had gone into business himself and didn’t lend his talents to the company.
“Wilma quit,” she said as if that answered everything.
Beckett’s long-time grandmotherly assistant had left to move to Florida. That didn’t answer what Emilia was doing hiring his assistants, but fighting her was a losing battle. “All right. Give Ms. Brinkley instructions to the Billings airport and let her know to be there at nine. The Wyoming stop is first, and she needs to be comfortable flying to Colorado herself.”
“She’ll be fine.” I thought she was done with me, but no. “And Gentry.”
“Yes, Emilia.”
Her voice sparked like a cattle prod. “Keep your hands off this one. I mean it.”
Chapter 3
Kendall
A private plane. I wasn’t bolstered by the fact that Ms. Boyd didn’t answer my leading questions about if this was really an escort gig. The job sounded like the real deal, even if I did interview at a restaurant I could never afford to eat at and not at King Oil headquarters. But then I could be flying off to get trafficked, and my family would know nothing about it thanks to all the contracts I signed.
That’s a non-disclosure. It means if you talk about any of this, or anything related to this job or my family, I will sue you. And I will win. I don’t pay obscene amounts of retainer fees to employ rookies.
Emilia Boyd scared the shit out of me. But through her hard demeanor, not once did she call me honey, dear, or sweetie like so many of my older clients had. She didn’t dumb down what she was saying. If she felt like she had to explain something, she laid out a description and moved on. I felt more respected for my brain in the twenty minutes I spent with her than I had at any point in my other career.
Last night, I’d spent hours researching Beckett King online. Tech savvy. Owned his own company. Made more in a year than I’ll make in a lifetime. What startled me the most was that he was a King, but didn’t work for King Oil. Yet, Ms. Boyd had interviewed me for his executive assistant opening.
I also couldn’t figure out why the company was named after Beckett’s dad’s side and not the Boyds. But I’d stumbled across an article about the sale and rebranding. Smart move. Donald “DB” Boyd had fueled a gossip mill in Montana for being just shy of a crook. It had hurt the company’s reputation nationally and threatened to spill over the growth the company planned internationally. And if uncompromising Ms. Boyd would be considered a bitch by today’s misogynistic standards
, then fifty years ago, she probably landed on several corporate shit lists.
She’d called me last night and told me I’d be flying out today with Gentry King. Holy ballsacks, as my oldest brother, Brendell, would say.
Gentry King.
I’d spent more time than I should searching for everything I could find on him. If I was going to get sold off, I should at least know who was making the sale. Turned out, he was more likely to eat me alive than sell me.
A shiver traced down my spine. Several articles pegged him at close to forty-nine.
Gentry King did not look like he was in his late forties. In the pictures, he was usually with a drop-dead gorgeous woman at his side that likely didn’t grow up eating Dinty Moore beef stew and canned peas while her parents worked late. His eyes crinkled at the corners, but there wasn’t a single wrinkle on his face. The maturity that lined his features kept my gaze lingering longer and longer on each photo. But that’s what happened when I’d been married to a man-child who thought I should still do his laundry after our divorce.
Mr. King was almost twenty years older than me. I could find him attractive, but I had no business lusting after him if we were sharing a plane ride.
Ms. Boyd’s words ran through my mind. Don’t worry about the interview with Beck. He’s got a good heart, and I’m his grandmother. He’ll give you the job. But I want you to call me. Nailing the interview is the first phase.
First phase of what? I had asked.
We’ll talk when we reach that point.
What the hell was going on?
I gripped the handle on the door and gave my car one last look. Should I leave a note for my parents in case I didn’t come back? All I told them was that I was flying to Denver for an interview, and they wished me luck—and asked if I’d be home to pick up the early morning shifts at the diner this weekend.
That was the shove I needed to accept the interview.
I hauled my luggage out. Picking my way over the slippery parking lot, I tucked my chin into my plain brown winter parka and went to the entrance Ms. Boyd described. A freaking private plane.
King's Crown (Oil Kings Book 1) Page 2
