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Chapter 9
Wes
I prefer working at home – the estate or the penthouse – rather than our main headquarters building.
I get more done there.
I am interrupted significantly less.
While being here, I am somehow magically always needed significantly more.
My being here – according to J.T. – is good for office morale.
I’m not entirely sure that’s true and not something he’s simply concocted to guarantee that I don’t backtrack into my preferred reclusive lifestyle.
Especially when he’s not here to properly monitor that I’m getting enough “in public” time.
Tugs of frustration are delivered to my black tie at the same time I bite into my cell, “So, another rejection?”
“Individual venues are allowed to carry our beer per their own respective policies, but at this time, we cannot make a bid for national sponsorship for the major leagues. However, the Wilcox brand-”
“I don’t want our whiskey for sporting events. I want our beer.”
“I’m aware,” my second in command grumbles back, “but at this time, Wes, it’s not an option. This is one of the drawbacks to any new endeavor.”
An unhappy grunt is all he’s given.
“I’ve got calls in to get meetings with minor league organizations and internationals. We may just need to start there until one of the majors becomes available for doing business. We need to have patience.”
“We need to have reach.”
“You need to get laid.”
The accusation cracks my jaw.
“You only get this…non-understanding when you haven’t heard the cat purr in a while.”
Airy croaks are all that manage to escape prompting him to arrogantly chuckle.
“Exactly.”
“Mr. Wilcox!” Hasty knocks on my office door across the room suddenly occur. “Mr. Wilcox!”
“Go find the Morgan brand a viable home.” Ending the call precedes me replying, “Yes?”
Zaidee peers her panicking face around the blockade. “Um…you have an emergency call from Hill on line one.”
My brow furrows. “Did he use the word emergency or are you?”
“He did.”
The transition from sitting on my light gray office couch to hovering over the nearby matching desk on the phone is damn near instant. “Wilcox.”
“There’s been an accident,” Hill professionally states causing me to drop my cell. “Involving Bryn.”
“What?!” Gripping the office device tighter in my hand occurs at the same time I growl, “What type of accident?!”
“According to Connelly-”
