More Than Hate You (More Than Words)

Evan laughs like he’s sure I’d never do that, then heads off with a mock salute.

If I feel like a jerk for being less than honest with Sloan, I feel downright shitty for holding out on Evan.

I stifle my emotions. No denying I like the woman, but my allegiance is strictly to Evan. Our wagons are hitched. He dragged us both out of poverty with his brilliance. Sure, I helped. But we have a massive financial stake in the future of Stratus. I can’t afford this guilt. And it’s not like I’ll be shutting Reservoir’s doors, just preventing them from overseas expansion. They’ll survive.

I think.

With a sigh, I push my way back into my office and grab the phone. “I’m back.”

“Good. I’m here with another glass of Cab, which is still more exciting than almost everything in my life.”

“And everyone?”

“Definitely. So tell me the names of those funds again, by department. I have access to a lot of the information on their shared drives. I might be able to find something…”

After two hours and her third glass of wine, Sloan finds only the barest of information about the projects’ creation and initial budgets, which seemingly coincides with the size of the previous year’s overages. So each of the organization’s VPs are taking the profits they reported and funneling them back into a secret project? For what? Every single one of these funds were green-lighted by Shane Rawson. The budgets for this year are even bigger, but she still can’t find much detail.

Since I know he’s no business brainiac, it smells bad.

I’m not here to help Sloan; I need to remember that. If I leave this alone, somehow convince her this is not as fucking odd as I think it is, maybe Shane will destabilize the company so much Reservoir won’t be able to pursue Wynam’s business at all. But before I can stop myself, I ask the obvious question. “Any chance Bruce Rawson’s oldest son is embezzling through the use of these manufactured projects?”

Sloan is quiet for a really long time. “I would hope he has too much oversight for that.”

Is she kidding? Who the hell does she think is overseeing him? Bruce is checked out for health reasons. Brady is too busy building a fitter America one IG post at a time, and Rogan is sampling all of DFW’s finest tail after tending bar at a super-swanky hotspot five nights a week. Shane has the keys to the kingdom, and no one—not even the VPs—has the authority to withhold funding.

“Are you sure?”

She’s quiet for even longer. “I should go. I’ll think about this over the weekend. I’m hoping that once the wine wears off, I’ll figure out something obvious and logical I’ve overlooked and be able to call you Monday with an oops-I-screwed-up message.”

It’s not going to happen, and something in her voice tells me she knows that, too. “If it doesn’t?”

“I’ll figure it out. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

She’s about to hang up when I find myself blurting, “They don’t deserve you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You work circles around almost everyone. Those problems you solve? They aren’t just Tech’s. They aren’t just Finance’s, either. You help everyone.”

“Not HR. I don’t understand half their rules, and I’m not about to step into it with my ignorance.”

She’s diminishing her contribution. I wonder why. “You do more than Shane Rawson. Way, way more.”

Sloan swallows. “I don’t know what he does all day. But I appreciate the vote of confidence. I always do my best to make sure the organization succeeds. Everyone does.”

“Do they?”

“Granted, people haven’t been as accountable as they were when Bruce occupied the corner office, but overall, yeah. Why do you ask?”

“I want to make sure the organization is taking care of you, too. You’re smart, dedicated, not afraid of a challenge—”

“Thanks. It’s really flattering to be noticed. But why do you keep bringing it up?”

She asks a great question. I don’t have a great answer—not even one to give myself to explain my own behavior. “You must not realize how many people in corporate management I see every year or the fact that you stand out so head-and-shoulders above them you could write your own ticket, so I’m curious why you don’t.”

“Who says I’m not, Mr. McBride? Good night.”

March 12