Boy Toy

by R. R. Banks

  “That was divine,” I say. “How did you enjoy your meal, Mr. Dempsey.”

  He nods. “Yeah, it was pretty good.”

  Pretty good. What an uncultured heathen. No doubt, he would have been eating some fast food sausage sandwich had I not invited him to join me for this sumptuous little feast. It pains me to know that such wonderful fare is wasted on such an unrefined palate.

  “Well,” I say. “I suppose the inevitable can't be put off any longer.”

  “I suppose not.”

  I sigh. “So, you mentioned that you had a meeting with my half-brother?”

  Dempsey nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “I did. This past Sunday, in fact.”

  “And?”

  Dempsey shrugs. “He's not happy.”

  I stare at him a long moment, my eyes narrowing. I hate having to drag information out of the man, but he's a poor communicator.

  “And what is he unhappy about, Mr. Dempsey?”

  “You name it,” he chuckles. “The roster, free agent signings, drafting – but most of all, he's upset about the losing.”

  “The losing?”

  Dempsey nods. “He's a competitor, that boy,” he says. “Doesn't like losing at all. Called me on the carpet about it the other day.”

  I take a sip of my mimosa, savoring the taste of it. “And what did you say?”

  He shrugs. “Same thing I always tell him. He doesn't run the team. I do. And until he does, all football decisions go through me.”

  “Yes, well,” I say. “My half-brother will never get a chance to make those – football – decisions. Not if everything plays out like I expect it will.”

  Dempsey sips his coffee, looking at me over the rim of his cup. “Why is it you hate him so much?”

  I look back at him evenly. “I don't know that's any of your business, Mr. Dempsey.”

  “No, I suppose it's not,” he says. “But I'm curious. I mean, when you came to me with this plan, it sounded like a business deal of sorts. That much, I understand. But the more I talk to you, the more I see how personal it is to you.”

  I take another sip of my drink and lean back in my seat. I suppose it costs me nothing to satisfy his curiosity. I just don't like people prying into my business – my personal business. But still, I know that I need to throw Dempsey a bone if I want to keep him on my side. I know that he's a fickle man and is willing to change allegiances if a better offer comes along – as a long list of coaches and front office personnel can attest to.

  “It's not so much Brady I hate,” I say. “It's his last name. More specifically, what that name represents to me. Keating. It symbolizes everything I hate in this world.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Of course, you don't,” I say. “But imagine growing up in a single parent home and learning at a young age, that your father wants nothing to do with you. Oh, he provides for you quite well. You want for nothing. But, when all you want is his love, and all you get is a check every month it leaves you a little empty inside. Compounding that, of course, is having your mother telling you that your father won't have anything to do with you because you a reminder of a terrible mistake – one that he does not care to continue dwelling on. That you are a chapter of his life best left in the past. Can you imagine how that feels, Mr. Dempsey?”

  He is silent and casts his eyes down to the table, fidgeting with his napkin.

  “I grew up knowing who my father is,” I continue. “And knowing he wants nothing to do with me. And now, knowing that he's dead and the only way I can make him suffer is to dismantle this little empire he's built – and get fabulously wealthy in the process – is what I hold onto. It's what keeps me going. Knowing that I'm going to take Brady's inheritance away from him – because he was the favored son and I was just an afterthought – is a thought that keeps me warm at night.”

  Mr. Dempsey shifts in his seat, obviously a little uncomfortable with my confession. But, I believe you should never ask a question you don't really want the answer to. He wanted to know, and now he knows.

  “A little too much personal, family drama for your tastes, Mr. Dempsey?”

  He clears this throat and still won't meet my eyes. “I – I just didn't know, is all,” he says. “It must have been – difficult. I'm sorry.”

  I shrug. “Nothing to be sorry about. You'd be surprised at what you can learn to live with. It is what it is, as they say,” I reply. “And now, I'll do what I have to do – or whatever the most apt saying might be.”

  A moment of tense silence descends over the table and I can tell Mr. Dempsey is still uncomfortable. What I told him is the truth though. My mother told me the whole story about her fling with Dale Keating. About his promise to divorce his wife to be with her – a promise the bastard obviously broke. It shattered my mother's heart.

  He paid well enough. His monthly checks were enough to put me through a very nice private school, giving me a wonderful education. They also paid for my college. I truly did want for nothing. Materially, anyway. When I was old enough, my mother brought me to San Antonio and we saw my father – from afar.

  She explained to me that the money he gave us – the money that afforded us a comfortable lifestyle, was money meant to keep us away from him. He was paying her to keep me out of his life. She told me that he wanted nothing to do with me and said he thought I would be better off forgetting he even existed.

  I remember the day we saw him. I was thirteen and we were in the crowd at some charity function he was giving a speech at. We were near the back of the room, mixed in with the crowd. My mother said it was important that he not see us and that even though I wanted to demand an explanation from him, I needed to not give into the emotion. She said it would only bring us trouble.

  And my mother had already had enough trouble because of Dale Keating.

  My mother was a good woman. A kind woman. A great mother. And it killed me that having never found real love again, she died alone. She deserved better than that. Much, much better. Better than Deal Keating could have ever given her.

  He might be dead, but I am going to make sure he pays for it by making sure that Brady – the reason he chose to break his promise to my mother – suffers mightily.

  Mr. Dempsey clears his throat. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he says. “But, how are you going to make sure you take control of Keating Technologies? And the Copperheads?”

  “Brady will never live up to the terms of the estate,” I reply. “It's just not in him. Especially the marriage condition. He's no better than his father in that regard.”

  “Just to play devil's advocate for a minute,” he says. “But what if he does?”

  “In that incredibly unlikely scenario,” I say, trying to keep my patience, “I will deal with it. I have the ammunition needed to nuke any potential marriage situation.”

  “Sounds like you've covered all your bases.”

  “Indeed, I have,” I reply. “Which brings me to you and that – football team. I assume that things are going according to plan?”

  He nods. “They are,” he replies. “We're off to a winless start. We've already seen a drop in attendance.”

  “Good news,” I say. “But we still have a ways to go before we meet the trigger to get us out of the stadium lease.”

  He chuckles. “As long as I keep drafting the way I have and signing lower-tier free agents, we'll trigger that clause long before the deadline,” he says. “People want to come out and support a winner. And seven wins over the last couple of seasons isn't going to get it done. People will find something else to do with their Sundays.”

  “That's excellent work, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “Excellent work indeed.”

  “Assuming we can get attendance down to trigger the lease clause,” he says, “there's still the matter of getting twenty-four votes to approve your relocation bid.”

  I didn't understand much about football – which is why I tolerate a cretin like Mr. Dempsey. He knows the league inside an
d out and has helped tutor me on those things I need to know. He's also helped establish some connections for me – connections I am using to further my goals.

  “There are a few owners who still need massaging,” I say. “But I have been more or less assured that when the time comes to vote, I will have the necessary support.”

  “How can you know for sure?”

  “You just have to speak their language,” I say. “The owners are driven by one thing – money. And there is much more money to be made in South Florida than there is in San Antonio. A franchise there would be worth so much more than a franchise here. We're talking hundreds of millions of dollars, potentially.”

  Mr. Dempsey nods, clearly impressed. “Sounds like you've done your homework.”

  “Believe me, I have,” I say. “The minute I'm able, I will be moving your football team to a more – civilized and cultured city.”

  “And just so I'm one hundred percent clear,” Mr. Dempsey says, “once the move is complete, you will retain me as the CEO and General Manager of the team at the agreed upon salary.”

  “You have my word, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “If you can field a team bad enough to trigger the out clause with the stadium, and I get the approval to move to South Florida, so long as I own the team, you will be at the top of the food chain, making a very generous salary.”

  “Excellent,” he says. “I appreciate your reassurance, Tiffany.”

  I smile. “Of course,” I say. “We're in this together.”

  He drains the last of his coffee, bringing our business to an end – thankfully. But there's something I've wanted to ask him for a little while now. A curiosity to me.

  “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Mr. Dempsey?”

  “Please.”

  “Do you even like it? Football, I mean,” I ask. “Do you enjoy the game?”

  He shrugs. “I used to love it. Used to live for it,” he says. “But this game chews you up and spits you out. I've been a part of organizations that treat their people like dogs. There's no appreciation, no pat on the back for a job well done. You're only working until you get fired – and when you work in the front office, you will be fired. It's a question of when, not if. And after playing good soldier in that meat grinder for so long, I think it's time I start looking out for me. Doing what's in my own best interests because the team – the league – certainly won't. Interestingly, it was you who made me see that.”

  I nod and give him a small smile. He gets to his feet and shakes my hand before departing, leaving me at the table by myself. I motion to the waitress for another mimosa.

  I almost feel bad for Mr. Dempsey. Almost. I wasn't lying when I said as long as I own the team, he'll be the man in charge. What I didn't tell him though, is that the moment I have approval to move to South Florida, I've got somebody already lined up to purchase the team from me. And I doubt he's going to want to retain Mr. Dempsey – he'll want to bring his own people in.

  But, that's not my concern. Mr. Dempsey, like so many others, are simply pawns on the chessboard. They are there for me to move about and use at my discretion. And to this point, I'm playing the game like a Grand Master.

  Chapter Eight

  Amanda

  The coffee house is already buzzing when I show up for my morning shift. Danny is in his office with the door closed when I get there, so I wave at him through the window as I clock in, putting on my best smile and “happy to be here” face. The truth is, I am happy to still be here – I just have a hard time expressing it.

  Misty is already up front handling orders, but she's swamped. Poor girl can't keep up half the time when it's slow. When it's busy, she just about loses her damn mind. The line is long, going out the doors when I take my position up front.

  Misty is sweating and looking frantic as she tries to pull double duty – manning the registers and making drinks at the same time. When I step up to the counter, she looks over at me with sheer relief and gratitude in her eyes.

  “Short staffed this morning?” I ask her with a smile.

  “Mick is out sick,” she says. “Strep throat.”

  “Ha! You're a poet and don't even know it,” I tease her as I look over the drink orders in the queue.

  Misty giggles as she waits on the next customer and I see my next order is a large black coffee, no cream, no sugar. Easy enough. But as I start to prepare his drink, I realize we're out of coffee. At least up front. It's a busier than normal morning, so she must not have had a chance to grind up the beans to make more fresh coffee.

  “Geez, Misty,” I mutter under my breath “We're not much of a coffee shop without the basics, are we?”

  She so busy trying to take somebody's order that she doesn't hear me, but I get to work scooping the coffee beans out of the barrel, putting them into the grinder. Everything is made fresh here – no Folgers or store-bought, pre-ground coffee here. All of our beans are roasted fresh overnight and delivered in the morning.

  “Excuse me?” a male voice speaks up from behind me. “How much longer will it be?”

  “Just a few more minutes, sir,” I say. “Appreciate your patience, we’re working as fast as we can.”

  See? That was nice, right? That wasn't so tough. I can do this. I can make it through the entire day without berating somebody. But when I hear him muttering low and under his breath, the certainty that I actually can make it through the day without verbally abusing somebody begins to evaporate.

  “Is that what you call it,” he mutters. “Looks more like chatting as much as you can.”

  I clench my jaw tightly and resist the urge to say something as I continued making his coffee. But because none of the beans have been ground yet – something Misty should have done before we opened this morning – the line is getting more and more backed up.

  “Seriously, Miss,” the man says again. “It's just a black coffee. It's simple. Basic. It's not one of your fancy ass overpriced lattes, darlin'. How hard can this be?”

  I turn around and stare into baby blue eyes and a face I'd seen a hundred times before – just never in the coffee shop. But Brady Keating is San Antonio's most eligible bachelor according to the tabloids and gossip rags in town – most eligible bachelor meaning spoiled, pompous ass, who treats women like playthings. Seriously, in almost every article I see about him, he's with a different woman – most all of them the supermodel type. Of course. What other sort of woman would he date? Certainly not a woman like me.

  In that moment, I realize that I know far too much about his life for never having met him – which says a lot about my life, given that I'm reading the damn tabloids and gossip rags in the first place.

  “I said it'll be a few minutes,” I say, trying my best to sound pleasant and not let my tone of voice get too snippy – something I'm really struggling with. “I'm making it fresh. Unlike the pre-packaged, processed crap you get other places, we actually roast and grind our own beans. Hence, it takes a little bit longer.”

  “Do you grow the beans too?” he asks. “Because this is taking so long, it seems like you must be growing the damn things back there too.”

  I finish making his coffee and slam the cup down on the counter harder than necessary, calling out his name, “Brady!” as if he isn't standing right there. The force of me slamming his cup down made a bunch of it spill – scalding my hand in the process. Didn't really think that one through very well. But it made Brady scowl at me and shake his head in irritation, so I'll call it a draw.

  Smiling sweetly, I tell him, “I can make you a new cup, if you'd prefer – but it will take a few minutes.”

  He looks at me like he wants to put me through the bean grinder and I'm trying to hold that phony ass smile on my face. I am trying so hard not to be snippy or rude. So, so hard. I'm making a Herculean effort. But Brady is really trying my patience this morning.

  “No, I'll just take my half a cup of coffee and go,” he says, using a napkin to wipe the cup off before taking it from me. “Thanks for remi
nding me why I usually go across the street for my coffee.”

  “You mean the snooty, pretentious place that sells overpriced, burnt water? Fine by me if you prefer that garbage. Probably suits you better anyway,” I say, unable to prevent myself from blurting out all my thoughts again. “No skin off my nose. Just know that people who know and appreciate a good cup of coffee come here. Hence, the long line of fine, discerning coffee connoisseurs.”

  Brady just stares at me, and for a moment, I swear he's amused by me. There's a twinkle in his eye and a small smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. I open my mouth to say something snarky to him, but then remembering that I'm supposed to be on my best behavior, close it again – which only seems to amuse him even more.

  Though it pains me to admit, he's a good-looking man. Probably about six feet tall, short dark hair, blue eyes a girl can get lost in. He's athletic and trim – I can tell he works out. And the man knows how to dress. In a dark, well tailored suit and cowboy boots that probably costs more than I make in a decade, and a black Stetson hat – he looks like he just stepped out of a modeling shoot for good looking Texas men.

  Oh, and that voice – I could listen to him talk all day. He's got a slow, smooth drawl that just drips off those luscious lips of his like honey. Being from California originally, I'm not used to the accent and can't help but be charmed by it still.

  But then I give my head a shake and remember that he's an insufferable prick. Maybe he enjoys antagonizing baristas in his spare time, but I have no patience for it. I turn around to make the next order and come face-to-face with Danny. He's standing so close, it startles me.

  “Oh, hey, Danny,” I say, smiling politely.

  Danny isn't smiling. His hands are crossed in front of his chest, and I wonder how much of that little back and forth he's heard. Brady is still standing there, as if he's waiting to see me get my ass chewed out and is even more amused by it. I stare daggers at him because he's enjoying this way too much.

  “Office. Now,” Danny says, his tone ice cold.