Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
They don’t bother to calm me down.
There’s a pregnant pause before anyone speaks again.
“Ian, you’ve been with us a long time,” Sam says, taking a sip of whiskey. “We like you. Consider you a friend.”
“Likewise,” I grunt with a nod.
“We’ve got the best attorneys in the business,” Samantha says. “They’re here to protect the company and everyone in it, and that includes you.”
I meet her gaze. “But?”
“But,” she says with the faintest smile, “if it comes down to you or the company . . .” She looks at her husband.
“You’ve got to get independent counsel, Ian. For your own sake,” Sam says.
It’s sound advice. No matter how good Wolfe’s lawyers are, if the SEC decides to pin something on me, the company would—and should—cut ties with me, thus severing access to their lawyers.
I need my own.
I’ve known this. I’ve known it since the second Lara McKenzie said the words “SEC” and “investigation.” But hearing it from my bosses makes it all the more real. And serious.
Joe thumps my shoulder in solidarity, but it’s an empty gesture. I’m not sure what grates more, the fact that none of them is confident I’m innocent or the fact that I’m getting the distinct sense they’ll hang me out to dry if I’m not.
Sam clears his throat, and I realize that the meeting’s over. They’ve done all they can do, said all they can say. They’ve also covered their own asses while giving me plenty of fair warning, which I guess I can appreciate.
I set my glass aside and stand. “Thanks for the time. And the whiskey.”
“We’d say the same thing to anyone in this situation,” Samantha says, standing and leaning across the table to shake my hand.
I nod, shake her hand, as well as Sam’s.
“I’ll stop by your office later,” Joe says, clearly intending to stay behind to talk with the Sams.
“Sure.”
“Ian.” I turn back again to Sam, female version. “We’ve given Ms. McKenzie full access to the west conference room on your floor for the course of her investigation. It’ll work in your favor to make her like you.”
I don’t bother to respond to that. It’s not until I get back to my office, door closed, that the anger sets in.
Not at either of the Sams. And not at Joe.
No, my anger has a very specific focus. A blonde, bespectacled, SEC kind of focus, and the lying asshole who set her after me in the first place.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ward off the panic. I can’t fight this when I don’t know who I’m fighting or why. I haven’t worked this hard, haven’t gotten this far, only to have it crumble around me because some blonde ballbuster has a liar whispering in her ear.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have every intention of ignoring whomever it is, but then I see the name, and it’s the one person I’ve never been able to ignore.
I take a deep breath to calm my storming emotions, then answer. “Dave. Hey.”
“Hiya, boy.”
I smile. Nearly two decades have passed since Dave Coving took me in when I was fourteen, but I’ve only ever been “boy” to him.
“What’s up?” I ask, lowering to my chair and spinning to look at the rainy morning. Of course it’s raining. All we need is an ominous clap of thunder, and I’d be inside one of those damn Netflix dramas.
“TV broke.”
I rub my forehead. “Did something hit it?”
He coughs, the sound devolving into a nasty smoker’s hack that has me wincing. “A bottle,” he says when the cough settles.
I roll my eyes upward. Shocking. “Phillies lost, huh?”
“They’re in a slump,” he grumbles. “Lost my temper at a bad call.”
I stifle the sigh. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time Dave’s lost a battle against his temper, and a bottle of beer and the TV paid the price.
And I pay for the TV. All of them.
It’s the least I can do. The man put a roof over my head for four years, a place to come home to during Christmas break from college, and he never lost his temper with me, which is more than I can say about the six foster homes that came before him.
“I’ll get you a new one,” I say, already reaching for a pen to make a note of it.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “I don’t need big and fancy. A little cheap one’s fine.”
“Sure.” We both know he’ll have the biggest flat-screen that can fit into his mobile home delivered tomorrow.
“So, what’s new with you?” he asks.
I hesitate. To Dave’s credit, he usually only calls when he needs something, but he doesn’t hang up the second he gets it. He stays on the phone long enough to check in. And what the hell, I let myself pretend he actually cares.
Usually I give him the highlight reel, sticking to my latest job coup or describing my box seats at Citi Field. Today, though, I hear myself giving him the real deal.