More Than Hate You (More Than Words)

“Isn’t Rogan a bartender?” I remember that from my online research.

“Part-time. For now. But he’s got two fucking degrees. We keep hoping he’ll do something more practical with them than sling drinks.”

“Why doesn’t he?” Not that I care, but I’m curious.

“Because he hates mornings and he loves a different piece of ass every night.”

I can’t say I don’t understand his motivation. “Since he’s still making cosmos for the single ladies of Deep Ellum, maybe you can help me get in touch with your dad?”

Jeremy didn’t expressly say so, but I’m guessing the old man hired him.

“No one told you?”

“What? I’ve only talked to Shane so far.”

He sighs. “What a fucking douche. Dad hired you to help my brother out, so what does he do? Pawn you off on everyone else—without telling you the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Dad is in a bad way. He’s getting older, and his doctors recommended he totally unplug for health reasons. Shane promised to handle everything, but I think he just planned to drop it all in your lap.”

That doesn’t shock me. “Any idea how long your father will be away from the office?”

“Until his health improves. Who knows when that will be?”

“Well, I wish him all the best.”

But maybe I can use this to my advantage… After all, if Shane is supposedly helming the organization right now—which he’s clearly not—who’s leading the charge to win Wynam’s business?

I’d love to ask, but I can’t without risking my cover. There’s an answer, though. I’ll find it.

“Thanks. I found Dad a great, out-of-the-way, ultra-private spa in the Catskills. He’s learning yoga and meditation. He needs to rewire his brain to be more in sync with his body. Frankly, I think he needs to sell Receptacle and—”

“Reservoir,” I correct automatically.

“Whatever. It’s a risk to his health, and he’s wealthy enough that he should never worry about money again. Make Shane find his own way in the goddamn world. I found mine. And when Rogan gets his shit together, he will, too. Our oldest brother needs to grow up or fuck off.”

Can’t say I disagree. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Rawson.”

“Just Brady. And hey, if you change your mind about that online fitness platform, let me know. I’ll hook you up with a month’s pass.”

I already have a tough workout regimen, and Evan is a taskmaster in the gym if I ever think about slacking off. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And here’s Rogan’s number, just in case. He might be more interested in saving Dad’s effort at data storage domination than me. Worth a try, anyway.”

Then Brady is gone.

I stare at my dimming phone with a sigh. Now that my second hope is gone, what are the odds that I’ll have any luck with Rawson’s youngest?

Slim to none, but I have to try.

Monday morning—Rogan’s time—I call and leave a message. At least he calls me back the same day, though it’s four o’clock in the afternoon.

“Mr. Rawson?” I ask.

“That’s my dad. I’m just Rogan. Brady mentioned you’d be calling me. What’s up?”

If the youngest son isn’t involved, I can shorten this conversation a lot. “I’m the consultant your father hired to help streamline Reservoir. Are you planning to join the organization?”