Page 63 of Broken Brothers

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, who 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?”

“Mmm,” I said, thinking about it.

There really wasn’t much to tour. There were about eight people in here, and while by San Francisco and New York standards there was quite a lot of space, it reminded me of Claire’s office, except Andrew didn’t even have an office. I saw him because he waved to me immediately and stood up.

“I think Andrew will take care of me, thanks,” I said.

“OK, do enjoy!” the blonde gal said, nicely enough. I wondered just how different her reaction would have been if I had tried to flirt or, probably worse, dressed up in a suit and tie. I’d heard the stories of the bespectacled coming to San Francisco, only to get laughed at in silent—and sometimes in public—for dressing so “stuffily” and “ridiculously.”