His kingdom. His legacy.
Until he handed it to me.
The handoff was supposed to be clean. Retire, travel with Mom, let the next generation take over. That was the plan. That was the deal.
He never quite connected that letting go was part of the arrangement.
“Everett.” He stops in the doorway, taking in the scene. His eyes move from me to Roman to Caleb to Nolan, cataloging their presence with the narrow-eyed stare straight out of an old Western. “Our reputation is crumbling to shit and you’re hanging out with your friends. Not a care in the world?”
Just let him vent it. Let him open that pressure valve for some relief so his head doesn’t actually explode before my eyes. “Nope, had a kickoff meeting.”
“I didn't realize we were having a meeting.”
“We just wrapped up.”
“I take it they’re partly responsible for the bullshit I watched take the top slot in the eleven o’clock news?” He gestures to Roman, Caleb, and Nolan whose gazes swing in unison to me.
Their expressions all say the same thing.
Your move.
“They were part of the planning, yes.”
“And since when are we letting just anyone make decisions about our lodge? This isn’t some frat party. It’s a legacy. And your beer buddies shit all over it.” He glares down at them and crosses his arms before pinning me with a hard stare. “Now what the hell are you going to do about it?”
“The first thing I’m going to do is clear a few things up.”
“Good. Now that’s more like it. Put your foot down.”
“Those “beer buddies” are my business partners.”
And there’s the sound. The sound that plays in a duel.
Cue the standoff music.
They wait.
They stare.
Then someone flinches and all hell breaks loose.
The flinch isn’t so much a flinch, more like a stroke in the making.
“Partners.” He repeats the word like he's choking on it. “Since when the hell do we have partners?”
“Since we needed them to survive.”
The temperature in the room drops about fifteen degrees.
“Would someone like to explain how the hell this happened?” Bruce's voice is dangerously calm. The kind of calm that precedes thunderstorms and family therapy.
Roman clears his throat. “Well?—”
“Don’t. By someone, I mean him,” he says jabbing a finger in my direction.
“The lodge needed capital,” I say, calm now.
“At what cost?”
