“I’ll get back to you,” I told Shane, then took the call. “Dane here.”
“Good morning, Dane,” chirped one of my mother’s assistants. Lisa? Lori? They all sounded the same. “Hold for Ms. Davenport, please.”
I steeled myself and waited.
“So you’re telling me I send you to the west coast on business,” my mother said, like we were already mid-conversation or something, “to represent my interests, you meet with the gala organizers and you shake hands, Dane, that’s all I need you to do, and tobehaveyourself—”
“And I will.”
“And you don’t even answer your phone when I call you.”
“We’re talking on the phone right now,” I replied calmly. Really, previous to my on-screen debut in a leaked sex tape three days ago, my mother wouldn’t have given a shit about me answering or not answering my phone. Or going to Vancouver to “represent her interests” at some gala. Or any of this bullshit.
Christiana Davenport did her job, extremely well. And so did I. No hand-holding needed.
But as I was quickly discovering, this was the going price of a sex tape scandal in my family: round-the-clock babysitting in the form of heightened security, endless meetings with our legal team, teams of publicists breathing down my neck, and my mother—right up my ass.
“Yes.I’mtalking and you’re listening,” she informed me. “And here’s what’s about to happen. In addition to meeting with the gala organizers and the venue, you’re to meet with the ‘women in media’ who are attending the gala, before the event, as my representative.”
Fucking great.She was assigning me homework.
As if I didn’t already have enough to do as Senior VP of a multi-billion-dollar corporate conglomerate.
I rubbed my temple. “Which women?”
“All of them.”
“Mom, are you—”Day drinking? Fucking losing your mind?I took a breath. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You’llmaketime, son of mine.”
Shit. She only rolled out theson of minewhen she was seriously pissed at me. I thought she’d really calmed down since the mind numbing, two hour lecture aboutmoralsandstandards of behavioryesterday.
Guess not.
“You’ll start with the women who run the businesses we own,” she went on, “then work your way down the guest list. We have photographers and media outlets at the ready to spot you in Vancouver and report on your return to glory. You will be the gentleman I raised you to be when you meet with these women, you will shake hands with each and every one of them, and you’ll beseendoing so.”
“Uh-huh.”
I could hear her acrylic nails tapping an agitated rhythm on a hard surface. “I need to feel your enthusiasm on this, Dane.”
“Oh, I’m enthused.”
“A Davenport always shakes hands,” she reminded me, unamused.
Right. The Davenport handshake.
A handshake would make these women forget about the sex tape scandal, for sure.
“And this is a wise use of my time, because…?”
“Because Bradley and I believe this is the right move.”
Of course. Bradley. VP of Finance at my family’s corporate empire, Valhalla Media Group, and the right hand of the President—my mother—who was the right hand of God—my grandmother, our Co-Founder and CEO. Bradley had always hated me. Maybe because I’d been handed my job on a golden platter while he’d actually earned his. He probably had my very public demise, as showcased last night onEntertainment Tonight Canada, replaying on an endless loop. I wondered if he’d updated his resume to apply for my job yet.
“Are you still there?” my mother asked sharply.
“I’m here.” Unfortunately.
