I chuckle a little. She doesn’t like me much and for some reason, it amuses me. I stare at her openly because I know when she notices she’ll do that little huffing sound again. She's a pretty little thing. Elegant. The kind of girl who clutches her pearls when I get too close. The nameplate on her desk reads Emma Lynn Shaw. Even her name is prissy as hell.
Despite that, there’s something about her that I find compelling.
The phone on her desk rings and she answers, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. She nods and then places the phone carefully back on the hook.
"Tanner Marshall?" She calls out, looking around at the other people in the waiting room.
The little dog gives an irritated yip. No one else even looks up. Finally her gaze lands on me. I stand and walk over to her, stopping right in front of her desk. It amuses me that she pretends not to know my name. I've been here every Monday for the last five weeks. Surely she knows who I am by now. She also knows that I hate to be called by my legal name. I've told her to call me Tank every time. I’ve also asked her to dinner every time.
Then again, she looks like the kind of girl who wouldn't remember a guy like me.
"Is he ready for me?"
"Yes. Just go straight through."
Instead of walking down the hallway, I lean against the wall next to her desk. “So, I have to eat dinner again tonight. Just like last week. And the week before that. It’s a pesky recurring event, this dinner thing. I’m assuming you’re familiar with it?”
“I am aware of it, yes. Sometimes I go wild and have dessert, too. But you know what I like the best?” She leans closer like she’s imparting a secret. “Eating it alone.”
I wink at her. “One of these days you’re going to realize how much you’re missing out on.”
“One of these days. Not today.”
“Ouch. You’re brutal for such a tiny thing.” But I’ve achieved my objective. She’s almost smiling.
“Mr. Stevens is waiting for you.” She gestures toward the hallway again. Her eyes are gleaming as she turns back to her computer. She types a few words and then looks up at me from the corner of her eye.
"Thank you, Emma." I use her name deliberately just to see her blush again. Patrick’s office is the first door on the hallway.
When I push it open, he looks up. "Come on in, Tank. Have a seat."
I wave away his offer. "Look, I don't want to waste your time. You can just tell me. Did he agree?"
Patrick looks slightly uncomfortable and I can tell what's happened. "He didn't, did he? Then there's no point in wasting any more time."
"I didn't meet with your father. He sent his right hand man. Mr. Jonathan Boyd."
This news doesn't surprise me. "He couldn't even be bothered to deal with it himself? I'm sure he outsources everything. He probably has someone to wipe his ass when he needs it, too."
Patrick sighs. "I understand that your father isn't … well." He rifles through the stack of papers on his desk. "All these meetings haven't been entirely unproductive, however. I've gathered quite a bit of information that we didn't have before."
He looks up at me. I cross my arms but I don't leave. He's got me interested and he knows it. "What do you mean?"
"Your father's estate is larger than I was originally led to believe."
"He gave me and Finn both half a million dollars each. He's rich. I got it."
Patrick clears his throat. "From what I gather, the amounts he's given you so far are merely a trifle. Since I know your mother needs surgery, I was able to negotiate a higher initial payment as a measure of good faith. It should be wired into your trust fund by the end of the business day. But speaking from experience, money doesn’t go very far when you don’t have insurance. This money could be the difference in getting competent care for your mom. It's in your best interest to meet his terms. All he’s asked for are weekly meetings, an hour each time. Every week you show up, he’ll put money in your trust fund. You have very little to lose and everything to gain."
"So, what you're saying is, I have no choice. If I want money to help my mom, then I have no choice." Helpless rage boils inside me. I feel like I’m being slowly railroaded into this, like all my options are being taken away from me by life and circumstance.
"No, you always have a choice. You can walk away. But just be aware of what you're walking away from. This is a lot of money and from what I understand, your father is very ill. He doesn’t have a lot of time left.”
"Look, I'm not completely heartless all right, but I haven't seen the bastard in almost twenty years. He left us high and dry and he's been off gallivanting around Europe ever since. This money would have been nice when we were growing up and Mom was working her ass off trying to keep us fed."
"I understand that, Mr. Marshall. However, your father wasn't playing around that whole time. He was making his fortune in coal and steel and investing in green energy solutions. His lawyer indicated that if you should agree to meet with him, then the money you'll inherit will be …substantial."
"I don't want anything from him. He wasn't there for us in life and I don't want shit from him now that he's on his deathbed and feeling guilty."
“Well, the money he's wiring into your account is another five hundred thousand. That money comes with no strings attached. If you agree to his terms, you’ll receive even more. Congratulations, Mr. Marshall. You just became a millionaire."
Despite that, there’s something about her that I find compelling.
The phone on her desk rings and she answers, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. She nods and then places the phone carefully back on the hook.
"Tanner Marshall?" She calls out, looking around at the other people in the waiting room.
The little dog gives an irritated yip. No one else even looks up. Finally her gaze lands on me. I stand and walk over to her, stopping right in front of her desk. It amuses me that she pretends not to know my name. I've been here every Monday for the last five weeks. Surely she knows who I am by now. She also knows that I hate to be called by my legal name. I've told her to call me Tank every time. I’ve also asked her to dinner every time.
Then again, she looks like the kind of girl who wouldn't remember a guy like me.
"Is he ready for me?"
"Yes. Just go straight through."
Instead of walking down the hallway, I lean against the wall next to her desk. “So, I have to eat dinner again tonight. Just like last week. And the week before that. It’s a pesky recurring event, this dinner thing. I’m assuming you’re familiar with it?”
“I am aware of it, yes. Sometimes I go wild and have dessert, too. But you know what I like the best?” She leans closer like she’s imparting a secret. “Eating it alone.”
I wink at her. “One of these days you’re going to realize how much you’re missing out on.”
“One of these days. Not today.”
“Ouch. You’re brutal for such a tiny thing.” But I’ve achieved my objective. She’s almost smiling.
“Mr. Stevens is waiting for you.” She gestures toward the hallway again. Her eyes are gleaming as she turns back to her computer. She types a few words and then looks up at me from the corner of her eye.
"Thank you, Emma." I use her name deliberately just to see her blush again. Patrick’s office is the first door on the hallway.
When I push it open, he looks up. "Come on in, Tank. Have a seat."
I wave away his offer. "Look, I don't want to waste your time. You can just tell me. Did he agree?"
Patrick looks slightly uncomfortable and I can tell what's happened. "He didn't, did he? Then there's no point in wasting any more time."
"I didn't meet with your father. He sent his right hand man. Mr. Jonathan Boyd."
This news doesn't surprise me. "He couldn't even be bothered to deal with it himself? I'm sure he outsources everything. He probably has someone to wipe his ass when he needs it, too."
Patrick sighs. "I understand that your father isn't … well." He rifles through the stack of papers on his desk. "All these meetings haven't been entirely unproductive, however. I've gathered quite a bit of information that we didn't have before."
He looks up at me. I cross my arms but I don't leave. He's got me interested and he knows it. "What do you mean?"
"Your father's estate is larger than I was originally led to believe."
"He gave me and Finn both half a million dollars each. He's rich. I got it."
Patrick clears his throat. "From what I gather, the amounts he's given you so far are merely a trifle. Since I know your mother needs surgery, I was able to negotiate a higher initial payment as a measure of good faith. It should be wired into your trust fund by the end of the business day. But speaking from experience, money doesn’t go very far when you don’t have insurance. This money could be the difference in getting competent care for your mom. It's in your best interest to meet his terms. All he’s asked for are weekly meetings, an hour each time. Every week you show up, he’ll put money in your trust fund. You have very little to lose and everything to gain."
"So, what you're saying is, I have no choice. If I want money to help my mom, then I have no choice." Helpless rage boils inside me. I feel like I’m being slowly railroaded into this, like all my options are being taken away from me by life and circumstance.
"No, you always have a choice. You can walk away. But just be aware of what you're walking away from. This is a lot of money and from what I understand, your father is very ill. He doesn’t have a lot of time left.”
"Look, I'm not completely heartless all right, but I haven't seen the bastard in almost twenty years. He left us high and dry and he's been off gallivanting around Europe ever since. This money would have been nice when we were growing up and Mom was working her ass off trying to keep us fed."
"I understand that, Mr. Marshall. However, your father wasn't playing around that whole time. He was making his fortune in coal and steel and investing in green energy solutions. His lawyer indicated that if you should agree to meet with him, then the money you'll inherit will be …substantial."
"I don't want anything from him. He wasn't there for us in life and I don't want shit from him now that he's on his deathbed and feeling guilty."
“Well, the money he's wiring into your account is another five hundred thousand. That money comes with no strings attached. If you agree to his terms, you’ll receive even more. Congratulations, Mr. Marshall. You just became a millionaire."
