CHAPTER 15:
PUTTING ON AN OLD SKIN
Rav stared at the bank statement from the offshore account at ABL. He wanted that money. He wanted it very, very badly. There were things he could do with those funds. Seriously important things.
In the five years since he'd left his family business, Rav hadn't had a single day when he'd regretted it, when he gave much of a rat's ass about being—if not poor exactly, then financially limited. He'd almost taken a sort of rebel's pride in it. But today for the first time, Rav resented his situation. Bigly.
Rav grew up with wealth. His family had billions. He'd been raised in a series of mansions, from a New York penthouse to a waterfront in Malibu to an apartment in Paris. When Rav was a boy, he'd traveled with his mother, older brother, and older sister to these places. His dad was always doing his own jet-setting for business. At twelve, he'd gone to boarding school, then college, always with the expectation he'd go into the family business.
Rav's older brother, Rupert, became his dad's right-hand man in the global enterprise. And Rav—Reggie back then—took over the real estate division when he was twenty-two.
It was then that he discovered exactly how crooked his family was. From funneling a great deal of their income offshore to avoid taxes, to real estate transactions that acted as money laundering operations, to squeezing tenants—no swamp was too foul if Ford Everson, Esquire could skim profits off the top.
For years, Rav tried to work within the system. Anytime he tried to confront his dad about it—Isn't this illegal?—his dad would just snort. "Why do you think we have lawyers on staff? Don't worry. We know what we're doing." Or "What do you think this is, Disneyland? Grow a pair of balls, Reggie. Just because you're queer doesn't mean you have to be a pussy." Dear old dad.
The straw that broke the camel's back was a lovely little scheme in which his dad ordered Rav to fake a chemical leak in one of their Manhattan high-rises in order to get everyone to move out. They'd then "remediate" the danger and repopulate the apartments at current-rent prices. Rav visited the complex and saw the families struggling to live their lives there, families that would be out on the streets. He balked.
He went into his dad's office, slammed the door, and gave him the most expletive-filled resignation possibly in the history of mankind, and certainly in the history of father-son relationships. He'd told his dad to fuck himself five ways to Sunday.
Rav had gone home to his million-dollar apartment, packed up a few clothes and toiletries, and he'd walked out, leaving his company-owned Jag in the parking garage.
His father let him go. But every once in a while, he'd send Rav an unmarked envelope containing an article about his billionaire brother and his blonde, showcase wife on holiday. Or it would be a Home Digest piece about his sister Allison's newly decorated chalet in Tahoe.
Then one day, Rav received a notice of the ten million that had been put in his name in a Cayman Islands' bank account. Those funds could only be released on his father or his brother's say-so. And with that bank statement had come a letter with the terms of concession.
1) Go back to working for the family business in whatever capacity his father saw fit.
2) Sign a nondisclosure guaranteeing he'd never talk about the family.
3) Become a part of the family again, attending important family gatherings (a minimum of two a year) and doing family photo ops for the press.
At the bottom of this list had been a hand-written note from his father. We want you to come home, Reggie. We miss you.
It was the most heartfelt thing his father had ever written or said to him. A boyish part of Rav's heart wanted to consider that a message of love, to believe that he genuinely was missed by his family. But the more rational side of his brain realized it was the nondisclosure and the photo ops his dad really wanted. Rav had not replied.
But now, that ten million dollars taunted him. Jesus Christ, what he could do with that money in Mad Creek. He could build a world-class shelter that could handle hundreds of dogs, hire and train dozens of people. Maybe he could start some other business that provided jobs, gave the quickened a way to earn their own keep and the town a way to survive—and thrive.
The thing is, Rav had seen the quicken work. Yes, their volunteers had been a lot of trouble initially. They didn't know how to do much. But damn, they were enthusiastic. He'd managed a lot of people in his old life, and he'd never seen the kind of shining-faced can-do-ism he'd seen from all the quickened, each and every one. And they were far from dull-witted. Once they were shown something, they mastered it quickly and taught others. They happily did any task, no matter how small or, truthfully, disgusting. Damn it, half the town would work twelve hours a day at the shelter, seven days a week, for free, if only Rav had things for them to do.
There had to be a way to use all that energy and make the town self-sustaining. And if there was a way, Rav ought to be able to find it. That Harvard education should be able to create some goddamn good in the world just as easily as it had been used, in the case of his father's business, to suck people dry.
But big ideas took big money. That was rule number one of entrepreneurship. And Rav did not have big money. Neither did the town. There was only one way to get the ten million in that bank account—for Rav himself to go back to New York and be his dad's sycophant. And that he couldn't do. Not in a boat, not on a train, not in a hat, not in the rain, not with a fucking gun to his head.
Rav growled in frustration. There had to be another way.
A week later, Rav stood in front of the mirror. He had a creepy sense of déjà vu, as if the mirror were a magic looking glass, and he was staring back in time.
He straightened his aqua silk tie and ran a hand over his head. The barber in town, who ran one of those vintage places with the twirling post out front, and who, if Rav were a betting man, he'd guess had once been a Maltese, had given him the works. His beard was gone, leaving baby-smooth skin. The buzzed-sides-and-long-bangs style he'd worn for the past few years had been turned into a conservative short-all-around look. He wore a starched white shirt, bespoke suit jacket, and pants. His ink was entirely covered.
He blinked at his reflection. He didn't want to be this guy. He'd buried this man five years ago. The illusion of going back in time was so complete that for a second Rav had the idea that Mad Creek, and the dog shifters, had all been a dream.
Then there was a knock on his bedroom door and Sammy walked in. He stood and stared, his mouth hanging open.
"W-what did you do that for?" Sammy asked.
"Hey, bruh."
"Why do you look like that?" Sammy appeared to be more shocked than either approving or disapproving.
Rav felt a pang of disappointment. It would have been nice if Sammy had said he was hot, or even got a look in his eyes that indicated any attraction. After all, even though Rav didn't want to be the guy in the suit anymore, he knew it was a good look on him. It had always gotten him hungry stares in the past.
But Sammy? Nada.
Rav sighed and adjusted his cuffs. "I'm driving to San Francisco. Gotta see a man about a horse."
"What horse?"
Rav winked at Sammy in the mirror. "That's an old saying. It means I have business."
"What kind of business? Are you going to pick up dogs?"
"Not this time, Sammy, my man. I'm going to see some people."
"What kind of people?" Sammy persisted. "What sort of people live in San Francisco? Are they nice? Are they Sandy? Ha!"
Rav rolled his eyes. "Goof. The people I'm going to see are very successful people that I once had a business relationship with. People I went to Harvard with. People that aren't total douchebags." Rav smiled wryly. "It's a short list."
Sammy fiddled with the handle of the door, not happy. "When will you be home?"
"Tomorrow. I wanted to talk to you about that."
Rav turned and stepped to the doorway. He put both hands on Sammy's shoulders and looked into those golden eyes. Shit. He needed a day away. This physical pining was getting absurd. Maybe he should make an effort to get laid while he was in the city.
But he knew he wouldn't. He didn't have the time. And he didn't want someone else.
"I should be back by dinnertime tomorrow, but until then, I need you to take care of things here. Simon told me he could be here all day, and Tim said if you needed anything, you could call him. You have my cell phone too. Can I count on you?"
Sammy got a glint in his eye. He raised his chin. "Yes. I can do it. You could be gone weeks—months! And I could take care of everything!"
Rav raised his eyebrows. "Er… good? I think. And, listen, if you want to sleep in my bed tonight, instead of the couch, feel free."
"Without you?" Sammy glanced at the bed, and Rav swore he saw a flicker of something there—regret? Probably Rav was imagining it.
"Only if you want to."
"Okay."
"Right. I'd better go."
Rav couldn't resist the urge to lean forward and kiss Sammy's forehead, rub his cheek on that thick, soft brown hair. Jesus, he was pathetic. He pulled away and grabbed his bag with his laptop, left the room.
It felt hard and wrong, pulling away from the shelter, heading to the city for meetings wearing a suit. Rav didn't want this. He wanted to hang out with dogs, wear jeans and T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and ride his Harley. He wanted to sport his FU ink and beard, and just do good in his little fucking corner of the world while ignoring pretty much everyone and everything.
But that vanishing act could only serve him for so long. There were bigger issues now, issues he couldn't ignore. If wearing a suit was what it took to get the job done, then that's what he'd do.
He just hoped that he didn't have to sell his soul to save Mad Creek.