This is why everything costs so much! Price gouging! I had to pay almost $10 for a loaf of specialty bread today. I used to pay only like $5!
I go to the search section on the app and look up the landlord for Bobbi’s bakery. Floyd Baggett. I hit the profile, then tap on the gear icon at the top and enter my passcode.
The screen fills with details about him. God must’ve been in a hurry when He created Floyd. The man’s been mediocre—or worse—all his life. Hasn’t been able to hold a job or a relationship for more than a few months.
He inherited the building Bobbi’s bakery is in when his mother passed away six months ago. Floyd quit his job in Denver the same day, ostensibly to deal with his grief and work on mental health and self-care. Apparently, such care involved strippers and hookers.
His financial situation was shit, but the money left by his mother took care of his debt. But now he’s buried in IOUs again. He even owes money to Uncle Sam and the state of California. He’s got some balls to take on both the federal and state governments. They won’t break your knees to get paid, but they do have a lot of excruciating methods to extract money out of you. Since a nine-to-five would interfere with his degenerate lifestyle, he’s trying to jack up the rent on Bobbi’s Sweet Things.
Which won’t do. Bobbi isn’t laboring away to fund this disgusting man’s existence. I tap the corner of my phone. How should I deal with him? Arrange for a seemingly innocent incident that puts him out of commission for a while, since his property manager seems saner? Bury him in so much debt he has no choice but to sell the building?
As I ponder my options, my brothers start to arrive. We’re all busy, but we make sure to keep in touch and have regular brunches and dinners. It’s just the seven of us against the world. Unfortunately, our dad is an oblivious, self-centered piece of shit who didn’t really want to have kids. But he sure got stuck with some when the seven of us were born within four months of each other after his vasectomy failed. And our mothers… Well, they have their lists of priorities. And we aren’t always on them.
People in L.A. view our parentage with envy. After all, our father, the vaunted Ted Lasker, is one of the most successful movie producers of all time—having had nothing but mega-hits during his prolific career. And our mothers are generally successful in their fields as well. Any one of us could be a star any time we wanted, with throngs of women screaming our names and paparazzi taking pictures of our every private moment. What a glorious life!
Ugh.
“Good morning,” Emmett says with a wide grin. He’s happy because a new business he funded made more money than he expected. GrantEm has been raking money in like crazy. The firm has made all of us ridiculously wealthy as well. A lot of people incorrectly assume we got our fortunes from our father. To be fair, his idea of parentingisthrowing money at his children, but he doesn’t throw billions.
Griffin just grunts. There are dark circles on his face larger than Texas, but he’s still a handsome bastard, inheriting his chiseled features from his fashion model mom. He can be grouchy as hell and people still love him. Well, except for his econometrics students because he hands out Cs and Ds like candy on Halloween. They’re probably deserved, too—Griffin is anything but unfair.
Currently his T-shirt has a mysterious yellow stain that didn’t come out in the wash. His attention to fashion has degraded significantly since his wife had triplets.
Grant, Nicholas, Huxley and Sebastian walk through the door. The latter looks like there’s a chunk of lemon in his mouth.
“What’s the problem?” I say as we start to grab food and coffee.
“Preston being a dick?” Grant asks.
“Yes. My piece-of-shit half-brother got arrested for dealing drugs.”
“Well, you wanted him to work—” Emmett begins.
“Stop sounding like my mother,” Sebastian says.
“—and that was probably the only thing he could find.” Preston is the type of guy who’s dumb enough to stick his finger into a pile of dogshit to see if it’s chocolate.
We go to the table and sit down. I grab two extra croissants because I need some carbs if I’m going to stay alert and fuel my brain.
“Will Jeremiah take the case?” I stuff my mouth with half a hair-free croissant. Jeremiah is Huxley’s mom. A scary Harvard-trained lawyer who believes the only acceptable outcome isn’t just victory, but complete evisceration of the other party. She can make anything go away—if you can afford her andifshe feels like taking you on.
Sebastian shakes his head. “She refused.”
Huxley raises his hands, palms out. “I’m not getting involved. She said she’d only do it if I joined the firm.”
He’d rather jump into a pit of fire carrying a case of Chinese fireworks than become a lawyer. He went to Harvard Law for the sole purpose of showing his family that he wasn’t cut out to be an attorney, except he graduated summa cum laude. That just made his family want him more. The obvious solution would have been to flunk out, but his ego is too big to feign stupidity, even if it’s for a good cause.
Eye on the prize, man. Eye on the prize, I think. But what I say is, “Ah, she shouldn’t have to waste her time defending that dumbass.” I’m brimming with good humor because that’s the mask I wear and that’s what I want my brothers to see. It’s safer for them. “I would’ve dealt better drugs and also not gotten caught.”
“Not something to be proud of.” Griffin sounds like a teacher imparting the wisdom of life:Just say no.
“I’m proud ofallmy abilities.” I wink, then chomp down on a piece of bacon and try to resist telling Huxley about a possible betrayal brewing in his family. His grandmother has been meeting with Andreas Webber, one of the name partners at Huxley & Webber. I’m certain they’re plotting against him behind his back since they have no reason to meet and they aren’t having a clandestine affair. They show photos of their grandchildren to each other every time they meet, and nobody coos over pictures of grown-ass adult grandkids or tries to pair them up like they’re playing some kind of fantasy wedding match up. But what am I going to say if anybody asks how I know? Huxley’s grandmother doesn’t do social media, and Andreas only posts about golf. I’m not admitting that I keep an eye on my brothers to make sure nothing dangerous is headed toward them. They might take it the wrong way.
Suddenly, Grant says, “Hey, you bought stuff from Bobbi’s Sweet Things and aren’t sharing?” He gestures at the mountain of carbs, then at the bag from Bobbi’s bakery I left out. “This doesn’t taste like her stuff.”
“There’s nothing to share.” I’m happy she made the effort to come over, but it would’ve been better if she hadn’t ruined the croissants with cat hair. She could’ve just spat on them instead, so I could’ve eaten them in innocent ignorance. If she tried to taunt me later, it wouldn’t have mattered. We’ve already exchanged saliva—many times—during other activities. “I saw the bag and took it.”
Sebastian looks at me like I left my brain back in Africa. “Youstole bread? What’s wrong with you?”
