I was back on the brakes. "Fuck, come on, people. It's just rain." I touched the screen on the dash to call my assistant but as often happened, she read my mind and called first. Kelly was a hard-working, single mother of three, and she was nothing short of amazing. On my recommendation, Grant had offered her an account executive position, but she chose to stay in her current position. She claimed that I'd fall apart without her, and she didn't need the extra stress. She was probably right. And after being my executive assistant for four years, she knew me better than any other woman in the world.
"Hey, Kel, I'm on my way."
"Are you driving?"
"Yep, until I figure out a way to fly in from Malibu, I'm stuck driving in traffic. What's up?"
There was a long enough pause from her end that I glanced at the monitor to make sure the call was still connected. "Kelly?"
"Damn it, Nash, where the hell were you last night? I must have called a dozen times. Don't you ever check your messages?"
I grabbed my phone from the front of my briefcase. It had been tucked inside there all night. Kimberly had met me in the driveway as I pulled up from work. Without a word, she had walked straight into the bedroom leaving a long trail of designer clothes in the hallway. I dropped my briefcase on the entry table, followed the trail and never looked back.
"Sorry, I was unplugged for the night."
A terse laugh shot through the phone. "Oh, I think you were plugged in all right, just not into the real world. Rad moved the phone conference up two hours. You weren't here, so they signed off. George Stockton looked mad as hell."
"What the fuck do you mean? When—"
"They called about an hour after you left work. I called and called, but you know what? Sometimes I've got to take care of things at home. You should have answered your damn phone." Kelly's voice wavered. She always kept her cool but not this morning. "I hope she was worth it." She lowered her voice. "Because Grant is walking around the building with fire shooting out of his ears. He tried to call you too. You better get in here fast and make nice."
I smacked the steering wheel hard. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." I glanced ahead to the wall of brake lights in front of me. "If you know a secret way to get around California traffic then please let me know, Kel, because I'm not getting there anytime soon. There's a fucking layer of mist on the road that has everyone freaked the fuck out."
"Hey, don't snap at me. This is on you."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry." Another call beeped through. "Shit, Grant is calling. I'll see ya later, Kel."
"Morris, I just got the message—"
"And why the fuck is that? You are working with multi-million dollar investment deals, but you can't answer your goddamn phone?"
I knew Morris Grant well enough to know that it was easier to let him vent than to interrupt or step in to defend myself. Not that there was anything to defend.
"When I hired you, you were a solid, no-nonsense young man. I know your dad, and I know you had a very strict upbringing. I was young once and I understand the whole sowing the wild oats thing. But you're out of control. You need to step back and reflect on your lifestyle, Nash."
"Yes, sir," I said, and thought back to the million times I'd had to say the same damn phrase to my dad. I never called him Dad. Ever. He would not have allowed it. "Don't forget, I'm the one who lured Rad Video to MG Enterprises. I'll make this right. I'm going to call—"
"I've already stepped in to try and fix this huge mistake. You have one more shot at this. George Stockton is in the desert at the Palm Desert Motorcycle Raceway. Apparently, even tech nerds like to race motorcycles. He said you could meet him out there to finish up the details. He'll be out there until noon, so you'd better hurry."
The traffic was moving at ten miles per hour, and Palm Desert was at least a hundred miles east. "I'm heading there right now." I was finished with the imbeciles tiptoeing through the light rain. I pushed my foot down on the pedal and slalomed through the maze of brake lights.
3
There was more activity than I expected at the raceway, which was basically a massive oval track lined by short stacks of spectator stands in front of a trailer selling hot dogs and drinks. At least a dozen multi-colored easy-ups dotted the grounds. Trucks and trailers of every shape and size were parked near the shade tents. Three riders were geared up and hauling ass around the track while others stood by watching and timing them. These weren't the big bikes, the chrome monsters that roared easily past two hundred, but the riders were racing at a respectable speed on their modified, tamer versions of the professional bikes.