The Truth

But the deal is a good one. It’s an acceptable risk for the potential payoff. The distraction the meeting offered was even better, but now that it’s over, my brain drifts back to the woman downstairs.

I wonder what Tiffany is doing and how her morning has gone. Would she have had a point of view on the project? Or choked on pulling the trigger on such a big deal? Something tells me she would be unapologetically bold and confident in her decisions regardless of the dollar signs involved.

I wonder other things too . . . things I have no business contemplating. Like how her black hair would look spread out on my desk, her tits lifting proudly like they did yesterday, and what I’d find if I pushed that camel skirt up to discover the soft skin of her thighs . . .

I can feel myself stiffening in my suit pants when I’m pulled out of my fantasies by a perfunctory knock on the door, and Ricky and Billy come in without waiting for permission to enter. They’re the only people in the company, besides my assistant Vanessa, who would dare do that.

But my nephews-slash-bodyguard-slash-friends have always been the type to ignore minor obstacles in the pursuit of their goals. They always have and always will. No wonder they made such effective defensive ends back in high school football. Opposing quarterbacks often weren’t sure what the hell to do before they had two hundred and thirty-odd pounds of thick-necked bad intent in their face.

Even now, their wide bodies and quietly intimidating presences fill the room more than the entire acquisitions team did. I know they’ve got a soft side hidden deep inside, though. They’re both huge mama’s boys at home. They just don’t look like they give a damn about the world.

Billy speaks up. “Hey, Bossman, we’re heading out to lunch. Want us to bring something back for you?”

I look at my watch in surprise. The morning passed by quicker than I realized. I should stay right here, drink a smoothie from my private refrigerator, and give my brain a short break.

Ricky, though, sees my thoughts and tries to tap my brakes. “Or you could go with us?” he prompts. “Maybe get yourself some real food?”

I look at him sharply, not appreciating the taunting tone. He might as well be telling Billy ‘I know something you don’t know’ with his question. Ricky said he’d keep his mouth shut about what he saw on Saturday morning, but I’m doubting that now.

Actually, I bet there’s not a single thing Ricky and Billy don’t discuss. I imagine they’ve had in-depth conversations about everything from bench press routines to zit creams. If they were more intellectual, I’d say they’ve discussed the classics . . . but for Ricky and Billy, WrestleMania is pretty much high culture, and they tend to top out at ‘who’d win in a fight, Captain America or Deadpool?’

The correct answer, is, of course, Captain America. I know because I’ve actually heard that debate. More than once. With the same result every single time.

Billy backhands Ricky, the sound more of a solid thud than it should be, but bones hitting solid muscle mass does that. “I told you. Uncle Daniel’s not going out. He’ll work straight through like he always does.”

Ricky doesn’t flinch at all and just shrugs. “He doesn’t always,” Ricky argues. “Maybe today, he’ll do something different.”

The suggestion hangs in the air. I could do something different.

“Maybe he’ll do something different,” he echoes, throwing his voice high in an imitation of Ricky that would only be accurate if he’d been kicked in the balls by a woman wearing steel-toed, pointy heels. “Dumbass.”

Billy’s right. I do usually work through lunch, but today I find myself nodding and telling the boys, “You know what, I think I will grab a bite before I tackle the afternoon’s appointments.”

Ricky smirks triumphantly while Billy looks shocked. I don’t acknowledge the questions in their eyes.

In fact, I don’t admit the truth even to myself, instead trying hard to convince myself that I’m going out for some fresh air to get energized for the afternoon. That the reason I’m going out isn’t because it’ll give me an excuse to walk through the lobby two more times than I normally do on a daily basis.

A moment later, I’m impatiently bouncing in the elevator as I watch the numbers light up. Seriously, when have a few floors ever taken this long?

“Hey Ricky?” I comment as we wait. “Do you know the last time someone came out to look at these elevators?”

“Ah, no, Uncle Dan,” Ricky says, his rare use of ‘Dan’ barely catching my attention. “Why?”

“Just curious . . . after lunch, talk to building maintenance. These things are going too damn slow.”

“Sure thing,” he agrees easily. I’m not sure why it sounds like he’s clearing his throat to disguise a laugh, though.