Chapter 6

Ford

“Mr. Caldwell, this is remarkable.”

My chest puffs up with pride a little bit. I can’t help it. Since I’ve been writing code from the time I could put my fingers on a keyboard, I know my way around a computer like it’s my lover’s body. My apps are in demand and so am I. When Nixon suggested this presentation to the Microsoft execs, I didn’t even balk. My brother’s eyes are glazed over with boredom, but I’m in my element. Although I detest public speaking, I love talking about my inventions. I bite the bullet knowing it’s my time to shine.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to keep pride from lacing my tone.

The last thing we need is for these major industry players to think I’m an arrogant douche. Except when it comes to this app I’ve developed to help kids with cerebral palsy, I am. It’s a game changer. Whenever I have the ability to help kids and make the world a better place, I jump at the chance. I want the rest of my life to be about making a difference, instead of increasing my personal bottom line.

As the executives talk amongst themselves, I shove some papers back into my briefcase. I zone out, allowing my mind to propel me backward in time, unable to prevent the memories that tumble through my head. Images break through from a time when life was simple and all that mattered was chess club, soccer, prom, college applications.

And love.

And love meant Haylee.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that her citrusy scent didn’t haunt my dreams. And the touch of her skin. And her taste…dammit, I’ve got to stop thinking about her like a crazed stalker.

“Nicely done, shithead. Everybody’s talking about how you’re the new boy genius in town.”

Nixon’s voice pulls me from the warmth of the past to the stark reality of the present. Even though she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, Haylee no longer belongs to me and indulging in the mental gymnastics that always ends with her in my arms doesn’t serve either of us. I don’t even care that he’s cursing at me since he’s keeping his voice down, per usual. Nix has the deadly calm tone down to a perfected art. Too many years dealing with Dante Giovanetti can do that to a man.

“Hey, if it helps the kids, right?”

I think about Lincoln, my baby brother. The most badass, smart, capable disabled kid in the whole wide world. Our mother died in childbirth, and Linc has cerebral palsy because of it. If it wasn’t for the braces on his legs, you’d never know. My eyes well up just thinking about him. Linc’s my hero.

You’re my hero, Ford. I can’t wait to become your wife and the mother of your children.

I can almost hear my unborn children screaming obscenities and banging around inside my scrotum. Their mother hates my guts.

“You said it,” Nix says, taking a sip of his water with lemon. His face is puckered up like he’s just sucked the tart fruit down. I’m not sure exactly what’s up his ass. Things are going great. Too great, probably. Nix has never been a glass-half-full kind of a guy. Now, Reagan… that brother’s glass overflows.

“Mr. Caldwell, could you please show us that demo again? I want to make sure my notes are rock solid,” Jim Mitchell, their VP of Marketing asks, tapping his pen against his yellow legal pad. I’m surprised that someone that high up in Microsoft still succumbs to the allure of the hand-written note. As if he’s reading my mind, he says, “I read in the Journal that people who write things down with a pen are ten times more successful than those that type them out on a keyboard.”

I nod and hit the power button on my laptop with a sharp jam of my finger. The screen flickers a few times before the home screen fires back up. It shocks me because my tech is world-class and this laptop’s only got a few hundred hours on it. Flashes of black roll across until a spectacular photo of the bay bridge that I took from my terrace on a clear morning lands and stays still.

Computer, don’t fail me now. I know how important this is to my new position as the VP of IT for Nixon’s company, Armónico Holdings. Even more, my brother’s not fond of looking like an idiot. Too many years of Dante yanking his chain has made him a little bit of a nervous Nelly.

Nixon powers up the overhead projector, and I connect it to the USB port on my laptop. The only way for all the people in this room to really see the functionality of the app is to project it onto the white screen in Nixon’s meeting room.

Jim looks over my shoulder and taps one of the icons on my screen. “Hey, is that the one you created for the fashion show a few months ago? My wife’s been raving about it. Before you go through the demo again, would it be possible for you to open it up? It would earn me major brownie points with my better half.”

“Of course,” I say, clicking on the icon.

My screen flickers again, and when I move my mouse to double click, it’s like some technological monster takes over the grinding machine. I hear a gasp. A woman from Microsoft has her hands up around her chest as if she’s a vampire trying to stop a stake from being driven into her heart.

Fuck you, Caldwell is projected on the black screen of death in bold, white letters that can’t be missed. I stare for a moment, mumbling apologies under my breath, but then decide to just power off the laptop. Nothing happens. I pound on the enter key, snapping it off, then watch in horror as it sails over toward Nixon and lands in his water glass. The laptop’s gone haywire, and I instantly know I’ve been sabotaged.

I’ll kill that motherfucker.

“Ford?”

I look at Nix, and he’s sporting a grimace worthy of a week’s constipation. Rummaging in my bag for a dose of Ex-Lax seems appropriate, but before I can be a smart ass, I’ve got to be competent and take the profanity off the boardroom table.

“I’m on it.”

After the gasp, you can hear a pin drop in the room as all eyes are plastered on the f-bomb gracing the screen. Before I can do anything, the unthinkable happens. The demo I created to highlight Taryn Mitchell’s app flashes on and off multiple times, practically blinding me. After a few seconds, it stabilizes. Everything seems fine, and I’m about to exhale. But then my heart starts galloping out of control.

A woman appears in living color that looks more like the crypt keeper than Gigi Hadid, encompassing the entire white screen, larger than life. And buck naked.

“Eww,” one of the execs says, looking away.

“What in the hell is going on, Caldwell?”

Reagan’s the best at thinking on his feet, so he stands and grabs the metal pointer. “From a legal standpoint, there were numerous complaints about an unattainable body image, and so our users were demanding more mature, fuller figured models that would be more in line with the average American clothing buyer.”

Mitchell snorts and waves his hand in a wide arc. “Seriously, that was your choice? If she’s average, I’m ready to compete on American Ninja Warrior. Most ninety-year-old grandmas aren’t buying clothes on the Promenade. She looks like she’s in the market for a walker and Bengay, not an exclusive Michael Kors.”

An exec sitting at the end of the table scoffs and slaps his hand down on the table. “It reminds me of a time back in the sixth grade when I walked in on my grandma naked except for her support hose. Thought I’d never want to look at another woman’s body again. Even in Playboy.”

It’s clear that Reagan has completely lost control of the conversation. The slideshow plays on, each image worse than the last. The only ‘models’ being displayed are hideous in every sense of the word.

“That one’s so old her memory’s in black and white,” Mitchell says, leaning back in his chair.

Another guy counters his one-liner with one of his own. “Hey, don’t talk that way about my nana, God rest her soul. Didn’t your parents teach you never to disparage the dead?”

The situation spirals into a black abyss of bad jokes and uncomfortable chuckles. Finally, I rip the power source from my laptop and fling the cord on the ground. The projector sputters and hisses into a dark mass of plastic. Dammit, my life’s gone from bad to worse in a flash of granny porn. What red-blooded man doesn’t have a fantasy of a business meeting gone wrong in a flaming trail of XXX elderly ladies?

Shit.

Microsoft had asked for this meeting, and word on the street said that they’d been about to make Nix an offer with ten zeros behind it. Fucking Dante’s — and I know this must be the asshole’s work — feeble attempt at revenge had probably sent it swirling down the toilet bowl. But then again, it isn’t really feeble because he’s accomplished his goal even though that probably wasn’t his original intention. If he did know about this meeting, it’s even worse. We’re going to pay and pay big. An eye for an eye. I planted the virus that ruined his charity fashion show, and he attempting to ruin our billion dollar deal with the tech giant.

My black bubble of regret bursts and I fall back in my chair in the meeting room. Reagan’s still standing at the front of the room holding his pointer. He looks like an Armani clad dominatrix, slapping the thing in his palm like he’s trying to calm a nervous tick. Ever the comedian, he’s the only one who hasn’t cracked a bad joke in the space of the last ten minutes.

The ringing of the phone sounds like a siren announcing that Dante’s unleashed a tornado of fuck you on the entire Caldwell family. Reagan leans over and picks up the handset.

“Yes, Carol?”

After a few seconds of mumbling and head nodding, he pushes the button for the speaker.

“Mr. Mitchell, your assistant asked to be patched through and put on speaker. Apparently, it’s an emergency.”

I jump when a deep, booming voice floats over the speakers. Mitchell’s assistant is a woman. But after a few seconds, it seeps in bone deep. I know that voice.

Motherfucker.

“How’d you like the new PowerPoint slides, whelp?”

Nixon’s muscles tense and for a second, I think he’s going to lunge at the phone like a black panther and swipe it from the mahogany table with a fierce slap of his trembling hand. He fists it instead as his eyes narrow above his flaring nostrils.

“Are you responsible for this?” he asks, rage peppering every syllable.

“Now, now, I can almost see your red cheeks in my mind’s eye,” Dante says. “Is it from embarrassment or anger? They’re almost the same emotion, you know.”

“I think your work here is done,” Nixon says. If I didn’t know better, I’d never know that he seethed with rage. But I’m his brother, and I can read his subtle clues better than most.

Reagan leans down and hangs up on Dante before he can spout any more of his evil bullshit.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Mitchell says, scratching his chin. He doesn’t seem pissed, but he’s not happy either.

“A rival casino owner thinks he’s in line to be the next Jay Leno,” Nix says, brushing it all off as if it’s meaningless. But it means everything. At least it does for me. I didn’t spend ten years of hundred plus hour workweeks, along with gallons of blood, sweat, and tears building my reputation to have it burned to the ground on the verbal arson of a dipshit. “He plays a practical joke, we play a practical joke. It’s kind of like a good old boys’ club out here in Vegas.”

If Nixon wasn’t sitting right in front of me, I could swear he’d pop a Xanax and wash it down with a scotch chaser. Instead, he takes a sip of his water as if it’s just another day at the office and not the start of the latest battle in what appears to be a never-ending war. There’s a fucking leak somewhere, because Dante knows too much. I’m going to get my best tech friends on it so we can seal that sucker up with Gorilla Glue.

The executives pack up their electronics and notes and start to file out. “We’ll be in touch, Ford. Why don’t you send me a copy of the real PowerPoint tomorrow? If it contains any more naked pics, make sure I don’t get it before breakfast.”