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AARYN

A fter going home for a shower and dry clothes, I come back just as the band is starting to pack up while AJ’s buddies disperse the crowd. I join Errol and AJ in what I guess passes for the office at Finn’s so they can tally up how much money they raised.

Since I’ve never been back here before, I glance around in curiosity. Yikes . It’s easy to see where Errol has already imposed a sense of order. Looking at the remainder —piles of papers, sticky notes, envelopes and God only knows what else — gives me a headache.

I’m impressed and proud of Errol’s dedication to this business. My earlier optimism from before the run-in with Bundy returns. With all the hustling they’ve both done in recent days, they’ll be able to keep Finnegan’s Wake from capsizing.

My high-flying mood comes crashing down when AJ scrubs a hand over his eyes.

‘Fuck, man,” he mutters, staring down at a calculator.

I’m shocked to see tears glittering in the big biker’s eyes.

I dart a glance at Errol, my pulse quickening, only to see the same dejected, near-tears expression on his face, too.

“We didn’t fucking do it,” AJ rasps, his voice breaking.

“We’re like seventy grand short,” Errol adds. His swallow bobs in his throat as he runs a shaking hand through his hair.

I’m stunned. This isn’t the way this story is supposed to go. We were the good guys — and the underdogs, to boot. This was supposed to work out. I watched the man I love stress himself out, lose sleep, push himself way out of his comfort zone and generally bust his ass to pull this off.

I’m not naive. I know getting an A for effort means jack shit in real life. But still. “It’s just not fucking fair,” I say to nobody and the universe at the same time.

AJ is wiping tears away and doing a terrible job covering up the fact that he’s crying. Errol doesn’t bother hiding it. He drops his head into his hands and lets go. Hearing him and seeing his shoulders shake brings a lump into my throat.

Guilt washes over me. I should have done more. I’m supposed to be fucking smart. I should have evaluated the whole mess of a situation objectively, realized that the idea of raising this much money in that kind of time was fucking impossible and shifted into problem-solving mode.

Listening to Errol cry makes me feel like a piece of shit. He rescued me from getting my ass handed to me by Bundy like the nerd that I am, and I didn’t even have the decency to have a smart-guy solution to this clusterfuck in my back pocket. I haven’t held up my end of this at all.

It suddenly hits me that I am bone-tired, dead-on-my-feet exhausted. I pull out my phone to check the time and see that I missed a call. The number has a Silicon Valley area code, but it’s not anybody who comes up in my contacts.

I bite back a groan as I tap to play back the message. One of the Marcus minions I’ve been in contact with must have gotten a new number. It’s virtually guaranteed to be a highly technical question about my software. The last thing I want to do right now is deal with this.

I don’t recognize the voice, but I sure as shit recognize the name on the message.

I feel my eyes getting wide as I listen.

It’s short, but when it ends, I hit play again, certain I must have misheard something.

Errol looks over a minute or so later, wiping his eyes, as I stare down at my phone with my mouth agape.

“Everything OK? What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “I — I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But I have to make a quick call.” I duck out to the darkened parking lot and hit the callback icon.

Even though it’s late in the day on Saturday, the man himself picks up.

I’m more than a little surprised; I assume he has people to gatekeep for him, people whose entire job it is to ask callers very politely who the fuck they are and what the fuck they want and what gives them the fucking audacity to think that Hunter goddamn Houlihan wants to hear from them .

I end up tripping over my words like an idiot when it dawns on me that he left me that message from his personal line, not the official one where he makes and breaks fortunes on a weekly basis.

The world of tech start-ups has no shortage of angel investors and venture capitalists and private equity bros who circle around it like so many birds of prey. Even the brainiest and most brazen geeks in the industry have to cobble together funding from an assortment of these raptors. I sure did.

There’s only one cheat code for bypassing this nerve-wracking, low-key humiliating marathon of begging for money: Hunter Houlihan.

Whatever size check you’d get from those other losers? Tack another zero onto the end. Shit, tack another three zeros and a comma onto the end. When Hunter Houlihan sees something he likes, he doesn’t fuck around; he goes all in.

But Hunter Houlihan doesn’t take calls — he only makes them. And now, he’s calling me . My heart sinks at the thought that I’m going to have to tell him he’s too late; I already sold my firstborn in a fit of pique. Until he tells me why he’s calling.

Even though the rest of the conversation takes place with my brain operating in some surreal, out-of-body plane, I must stammer out the right combination of responses, because as I head back in, my phone vibrates with an incoming text from a different unfamiliar number, this one very politely inquiring about my flight preferences.

Errol meets me at the door, concern on his face. I give him the quick version of who Hunter Houlihan is and his expression grows puzzled. “But you already sold your business to Marcus, right?”

“Yeah, that’s why I thought he was calling at first, too. But he didn’t want to buy my company.” I take a deep breath. I’m not sure what it’s going to feel like to say the words on my tongue, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to buckle up for the ride they’ll set in motion.

“He wants to hire me.”

Errol blinks in surprise. “What? Hire you for what?”

“He’s got a team that helps him vet the companies he invests in. He’s brilliant when it comes to picking out winners from all the half-assed ideas out there, but he has people who help him vet prospects on some of the more technical aspects of their software architecture.”

“And he wants you to help him do this?”

“That’s what he said.” I huff out a laugh. “He wants me to fly out there next week.”

“Wow.” Errol’s quiet for a minute. “I don’t have any idea how much this job pays, but I’m guessing it’s a lot.”

I don’t want to brag, but it is. “Yeah.” To change the subject, I add, “And the craziest thing of all? You won’t fucking believe how I got on Houlihan’s radar.”

Errol shrugs. I’m bursting to tell him. “Fucking Tyler.”

“ Tyler ? Like, that Tyler?” Errol’s eyebrows disappear under his hair.

“Yep. Small fucking world, huh?”

“You said you seriously screwed him.”

I snicker. “Oh, I did.” Errol’s frown deepens.

“And he thought it was fucking brilliant. He was pissed, but he apparently told Houlihan in so many words that I’m a shrewd, cutthroat asshole who’s playing chess when everybody else is playing checkers.

” I start laughing for real. “I guess he thinks I did it on purpose —like I was planning all along to sell it out from under him like that.”

Errol rolls his eyes. “Never mind that it was him banging your ex behind your back that kicked the whole thing off.”

I snort. “No kidding. Although —” I’m not really the sentimental type, but I stop myself just to look at Errol’s face.

“I’m not upset about how everything turned out.

Tyler did me a favor. I wouldn’t trade what you and I have now for anything —any amount of money, any career recognition —in the world. ”

Errol throws his arms around me with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. “I’m so proud of you, Stud,” he murmurs into the hair above my ear. When he pulls back to look at me, there’s a mischievous smirk on his lips.

“Hmm, mild-mannered geek has a secret dark and ruthless side?” He gives me a poke in the ribs and narrows his eyes at me playfully. “Now why does that sound familiar?”

I chuckle as the memory drops back into the front of my brain, unbidden. “Right. Clark Kent.”

Errol lets out a peal of laughter. “No, you dork.” When he smiles at me again, his expression is sultry. He gives me that little eyelash flutter. “I mean you , Stud.”

“ Oh . um…” I think about it for a couple seconds and feel a smile creeping onto my face. “Thanks, Babydoll.”

I think Clark Kent was on my mind because I’m hoping like hell there’s still time for me to be the hero here. “By the way, I told Houlihan I couldn’t come out until Wednesday.”

“OK.” Errol shrugs. “Wait. Why? What do you have going on here?”

“Busy couple of days, actually. Because as soon as I have the offer letter in hand —which I should by around lunchtime on Monday —I’m going to try my damndest to finish what you and AJ started.

I know my finance guy has a bulldog of a tax lawyer on retainer.

If I can get ahold of him Monday morning, he should be able to intercede — buy us a little more time.

Especially with what you and AJ pulled in today.

If I can borrow the shortfall, I’ll make payments on it until I get the cash from selling the business and just pay off the rest all at once. ”

Errol’s eyes get wider and wider as my words sink in. “You’d bail out Finn’s?” he asks, his voice incredulous. “You don’t —you shouldn’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

Errol frowns. “But taking a job is a big commitment! And working for this Houlihan guy —is it work you’d even like doing?”

I shrug. “I have no idea. But I’m sure I can stick it out for six months or a year, at the very least. I figure even if I hate it, I’ll walk away very well-connected to the people I’ll want to know if I ever plan to launch a new venture in the future.”

I flip my glasses onto the top of my head and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“But listen, Babydoll — I don’t mind putting some money into this place because I know how much it means to you, but it’s got to be better-managed.

I like AJ and all, but I don’t think he’s got what it takes to run this bar. ”

“Yeah, I know,” Errol nods in agreement. “More importantly, I think he knows that now, too.”

“Why does he want to own Finn’s?” I ask. “Does he even like owning a bar?”

Errol gives me his usual half-shrug. “I think it’s the idea of having the place, of making a kind of second home for people. And, honestly? I think what he really likes is cooking.”

“What?” I did not see that coming.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s definitely his favorite part. He’s been dragging his feet on hiring a new cook. I finally figured out it’s because he likes being in the kitchen himself.”

“Is the food any good?” I’m realizing that I’ve never actually eaten at Finn’s.

“Depends on who’s cooking,” Errol says with a rueful smile.

“Which is part of the problem. You can’t expect a customer to be happy with some awesome thing AJ randomly whipped up one day, and then come back two days later when it’s the other cook, whose idea of menu variety is regular and crinkle-cut fries. ”

I laugh to be polite, but the humor is lost on me because my mind is already spinning. And for once, it’s not bouncing in a million different directions. A plan is coming together, and as soon as it coalesces in my head, it feels inevitable, as if it already exists outside of my imagination.

“I have an idea.”