“Do you ever sleep?”
“Good thing I don’t or your ass would’ve just woken me up.”
“Good point,” I chuckle, flopping back on the sofa. “What’s happening in Savannah?”
He blows out a long, deep breath. “Behind at work, actually. My secretary decided that now’s the time to go find love or whatever she’s calling it and now I’m suffering the consequences of her lack of overtime.”
“So she’s getting laid and that pisses you off?”
“No. She’s getting laid and not doing her work and that pisses me off.”
“Fire her,” I offer, putting my feet on the coffee table.
“Yeah, easier said than done,” he mumbles. “She’s worked for me for ten years, and I’m happy she’s . . . happy. No, you know what, I really don’t fucking care,” he laughs. “I just need her to show up and be productive.”
Laughing, I run a hand through my hair. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I will,” he chuckles. “So, what’s keeping you up? A girl just take off?”
“Do you think that’s all I do? Fuck girls and then fuck off?”
“No,” he says, a hint of hesitancy in his tone. “But I was trying to avoid asking you how the meeting went today. You didn’t call me, and Mom wasn’t completely sold on your story . . .”
His voice trails off and a lump sits at the base of my throat. Even though this is why I called him, to try to work through some of this shit on my mind, it still pokes a hole in that little fucking bubble containing my nerves.
I don’t even know what to tell him without sounding like a pussy. I can go through what the management said, but that’s not the problem. Not the real problem of why I can’t sleep or eat or get myself off the fucking couch unless I have therapy. The real problem is that I feel like I did when I was fifteen years old and broke my leg in the biggest game of the summer league tournament. While my friends played on, then celebrated, I sat in my room and wondered if I’d ever play again.
That’s how I feel. Like a fucking kid. And I’m not about to admit that to Graham.
“What happened, Linc?”
Massaging my temple with my eyes squeezed shut, I feel the muscle in my jaw flex again. “I don’t have a lot of time to pull some magic out of the air before we start discussing my contract. They’re waiting to see how therapy goes, but it’s so fucking unnerving, G.”
“You expected that. You told me while you were here for Barrett’s election.”
“Speaking of Barrett, what’s he been up to?” I say, happy to change the subject.
“What’s he been up to? Up Alison’s ass,” Graham chuckles.
“Just saying—I’d be up every part of her she’d let me.”
Graham snorts, amused by my statement but too politically correct to admit it. He’s uptight and serious most of the time, but hidden back in the depths of his cold, calculated, black heart is a funny, easygoing guy that is a lot like me, although he’d probably fight you before he’d agree.
“Just saying,” he repeats back to me, “that’s probably going to be your sister-in-law. You should practice choosing your words wisely.”
“That takes the fun out of it.”
A long pause extends between us before Graham breaks it with one of his dumbass questions. “Have you given any thought to what you might do if this doesn’t go your way?”
I look at the ceiling and bite my tongue. I know what he’s thinking: baseball is all I have. It’s true. I don’t have some inherent trait that makes me valuable to anyone or anything besides the game. I’m not Barrett, with his political bravado. I’m not Graham and his business skills or Ford and his hero military shit. I’m the youngest brother, trying to follow along. One with no skill but throwing a ball, if I still have that.
“Do you have a plan, Lincoln?”
“I just want to plan on not being out of a fucking job,” I mutter.
Graham chuckles. “Whatever. Even if the Arrows let you go, someone will pick you up.”
“You don’t know how this works.”