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“So a family lunch?” I muse into the phone. “Considering all the shareholders are family members. Right, Pops?”
I can almost hear his teeth grinding. “You are required to be there.”
He says it like if it were up to him, I wouldn’t be there. Which is probably true. Color me surprised when at eighteen I inherited shares in the family company, Moore’s, a luxury retailer world-renowned and based in New York. Think Harrods, but American. I love the damn store, even though it was drilled into my head from a young age that it wasn’t my destiny. I was the second son. The spare. The just-in-case. They let my younger sister Liz and me know, repeatedly, that our older brother would be given the reins. Liz, because not only was she third in line, but worse, a girl. Me, because… well, I’m me. My father had no choice but to divvy up the shares. My maternal grandfather made sure of that. But control? Hell to the no.
I blow out a quick breath and force a smile into my voice. “I’ll be there, Daddy-O.”
“Thomas has some information he wants to go over. Try to at least act professional.”
Professional like having created a multimillion-dollar app? Like successfully investing in start-ups since I was twenty, without a dime of family money?
But I refuse to take the bait. Instead, I reply cheerfully, “Will do, Stanley.”
Dead air. No goodbye.
Nice.
I wish I could say that this type of passive aggressive conversation is unusual between the old man and me. That Stan is normally a friendly, loving father, proud of my accomplishments and always inviting me over for family lunches and golf outings with his cronies.
But if wishes were real, I wouldn’t be sitting on a park bench ordering argyle sweaters for Mike Hunt.
* * *
Bell
Momma always said there’s an Elvis lyric for every situation. And right now, sitting in my lawyer’s office, in front of the man representing a thief and my former employee, I can surely feel my temperature rising. Well, temper is more like it. And he for sure isn’t a hunk of burning love.
Not with more hair on his upper lip than a 1970s porn star.
“Listen here, little lady…”
Annnnnd, I zone out. It’s either that or strangle the bastard.
Look, I live in Texas. The odds are stacked against me that at some point I’ll be referred to as “little lady.” If I was lucky, it would have been by a cute, wizened old man playing chess in a rocking chair who means it with dignity and respect. However, luck is not on my side today.
Reminding myself that lawsuits are serious, even if his has no real foundation, I try to refocus on what the pompous, beer-bellied lawyer across the table is saying. But all I see is his 1970s porn ’stache and fake gold Rolex. John, my former employee, is underestimating me if he thinks he’ll win his ridiculous countersuit with this ambulance chaser.
“So if you drop the suit, my client will—”
“No.”
Porn ’stache blinks. “Excuse me, missy?”
“My name isn’t missy, and it sure as hell isn’t little lady. It’s Campbell King. Ms. King to you. I’m not dropping the lawsuit. And frankly, your client’s countersuit is laughable at best. Your client, my ex-employee, is guilty of corporate subterfuge. There are records, emails, and security footage.” I glance over at my lawyer, Leslie Peterson, who is trying to hide her smirk by looking down and shuffling the stack of evidence in front of her.
“This is simply a misunderstanding. My client assures me that you just didn’t know the system in which he was—”
“Trying to take credit for my work and poach clients? Yes, Porn ’stache, I one hundred percent understand the system he was using.”
A laugh bursts from Leslie, and she tries to hide it with a cough. Shoot, I said Porn ’stache out loud. Not very professional. When provoked, I have a tendency to say what’s on my mind without much thought. It’s a habit I developed after staying quiet one too many times in the past.
But seeing as Porn ’stache isn’t a client, has called me little lady and missy, and works for my asshole ex-employee, I don’t have one fuck to give.
Leslie clears her throat and addresses the ’stache. “On top of which, your client, Mr. John Dudley, who, I may add, didn’t even bother to show up at this meeting he requested, signed an ironclad agreement not to compete during his two-year contract with King Marketing.” Leslie’s crisp East Coast accent cuts through the room. A clear contradiction to ’stache’s and my Southern drawls. “So Ms. King’s lawsuit will stand. Mr. Dudley will cease his unlawful marketing start-up with King Marketing’s client information, which was taken illegally, and he will pay the penalty for his subterfuge against my client’s company.”
Porn ’stache narrows his eyes. “This is what happens when you let women in business. They make a play for a guy and then get all emotional when he doesn’t feel the same way.” His cheeks get bigger, his eyes smaller, so I can only assume he’s smiling under that overgrown caterpillar on his lip. “Oh yes,” he says, looking at me, “Mr. Dudley told me all about your little crush on him, Ms. King.” He looks at Leslie, who is no longer smiling. “We could always add sexual harassment to this suit if this is how your client wants to play it.”
I choke down a surge of outrage at Porn ’stache’s blatant lie but remain visibly calm. John had been hired as an intern. When my former assistant left on maternity leave, then fell in love with being a stay-at-home mom to her sweet little girl, John applied for her job. As he’d just barely had the necessary qualifications and I’d been in need of an assistant ASAP, I gave him the job. Much to my current dismay. Though he’d always given off a skeevy vibe, it hadn’t been until IT made me aware of his illegal activities that I’d fired him.
