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We were quiet for a moment. I finally understood why Bruce Marshall had played me around. That day a few months ago, when I first approached him with my idea, I threw Tate’s name around as a mutual acquaintance, thinking it would give me legitimacy, since there wasn’t one businessman in the entire world who didn’t know Tate personally. I hadn’t taken into consideration his notoriety. Nor his ability to make anyone an enemy.
“Then why did you go to Row’s event?” I asked. “You knew Tate would be there.”
Bruce headed toward the door, and I followed. “I refuse to show him I still care.”
“Even though you clearly fucking do,” I chuckled.
“Even though I clearly do,” he agreed. “But I am very suspicious of people who consider themselves his friends and show the same behavioral patterns as him.”
“I don’t think Tate sees anyone as a friend, me included,” I said honestly. “And I’m nothing like him.”
I jerked the door, about to go outside, but Bruce slammed his shoulder against the wooden thing, trapping us in together. Our eyes locked. I knew I could take the old man down easily, but I wanted to see where he’d take this.
“Son?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll sign that contract, but you are going to prove to me you are nothing like your hellion friend. Understood?”
I nodded. I didn’t appreciate being treated like a child, but I was also so close I could practically taste victory on the tip of my tongue.
“If you let me down, I’ll be the Tate in our story,” Bruce elucidated.
I smirked indulgently. “Sure.”
He could think what he wanted.
He was going to make me filthy rich.
DYLAN
It was not a soft landing back in New York.
First of all, Max called me on my return flight to announce Faye was doing a lot better and was scheduled to come back to work this coming week. While I was happy to hear she was doing well, I also knew it meant fewer shifts for me. I dreaded going back into the unemployment market and suffering through job interviews—if I even got invited to any.
Second, three days after we were back, I came down with the mother of all flus.
It wasn’t an ordinary virus; I seemed to sport every single symptom available, including ones that were brand-new: congestion, fever, a cough, a sore throat, an ear infection, and two pink eyes. My muscles ached, and my head felt like the home of a hundred-ton metal.
It was the first time in my life I’d found myself unable to take care of Grav properly.
Problem was I didn’t actually have any help available. Cal and Row were in London, Mama was in Staindrop, and my go-to person, Rhyland, was holed up in an important technology conference for the next three days. I knew he’d shelled out money on a booth for App-date to get some prelaunch hype, and he had back-to-back meetings with investors, so he couldn’t afford to get sick.
I also knew he literally couldn’t afford milk these days, so he needed this to hype up his app.
I had no choice. I found myself calling Tuckwad.
I rationalized to myself in a million different ways as I put the phone on speaker, holding it close to my mouth. I watched Gravity run aimlessly around the house, bored and cabin-fevered, begging for someone to entertain her.
He was going to stay here with us, not leave the house, so I’d be able to supervise them. And his last visit hadn’t been a complete disaster—they’d seemed to tolerate each other. Besides, maybe he needed to be thrown in at the deep end. That was what parenting was all about. Plus, I didn’t really care if he caught whatever plague this was.
He finally answered, sounding smugger than Conor McGregor getting ready for a bar fight. “Hey, hot stuff.”
God, I hated him.
“Hi, Tucker. I have a favor to ask…”
“Wow,” he bristled. “You sound like shit, dude.”