Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)
“Nice to see you too, Machlan,” he says. Propping his briefcase on a stool, he makes no attempt to hide the fact he’s surveying the bar again. “How’s business?”
“Closed, right now. But it’s good otherwise. I wish you’d come in last night. You could’ve seen for yourself.”
He adjusts his collar. “Not really my scene.”
My fingers clench at my side as I remind myself, once again, this is a business deal. I can’t tell him off and escort him out. I can’t lose my temper.
Yet.
Business deal or not, if he steps over a line—he steps over a line. The line of respect is there for everyone whether they wear an ironed shirt or not.
“I gathered all the data you asked for,” I say, scooting the binder his way. “Financial statements. A business plan. Letters from my suppliers showing I pay on time every month.”
His gaze falls to the blue plastic container and then back at me. “You know, Machlan, I appreciate you jumping through these hoops. I do. And it means a lot. But …”
“What?”
“You’re asking me to extend a line of credit that’s pretty substantial.”
He looks down his long, angular nose at me as though I’m the gum on the bottom of his designer shoe. My instincts buck against the insinuation, my body falling into a specific role I always do when dealing with situations like these—situations where someone thinks their shit don’t stink and mine does.
Looking him directly in the eye, appreciating the way he’s smart enough to squirm, I square my shoulders with his. “I’m not asking you to loan me thirty grand. I’m asking you to let me give you thirty thousand dollars and then take me at my word that I’ll give you the next thirty thousand in installments over the next six years.”
“I—”
“With interest,” I add. “You’ll make more money off me than off someone who can cough up sixty grand right now. You know that. And, if I don’t pay up, you still have thirty thousand in your pocket and get the property back too.”
He takes off his glasses and tucks them at his side. “I understand the way this works. Clearly. It’s what I do for a living.”
“Then why is this a hard decision?”
His shoulders fall as a breath streams in the air. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m not sure you’ll turn a profit over there. Not with the demographic you plan on going after.”
“Kids?” I laugh. “Kids spend more money than their parents these days.”
“But not at your price points. Look, Machlan, you’re not going to make a living off a juvenile version of a bar.”
I’m not sure if it’s the eye-roll I think he adds in as the glasses slide over his face or the way he nearly spits the words like my idea is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Either way, I heard a chuckle roll past my lips that most people are smart enough to realize isn’t a reaction to something entertaining.
Spencer isn’t that smart. He laughs.
“Look, Spencer. I’m not trying to make a living off your building, man. I make a living here.” I lift a brow, hoping he chooses this as a fight to pick, but he doesn’t, so I continue. “The building is something I want to do because I want to do it.”
“Let me get this straight. You don’t want to make money off this venture?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I don’t expect to make a living off it. I want to make enough to cover my costs. If I pocket anything after, that’s great.”
His glasses come off again. “I don’t understand why you’d go out of your way for this. That building needs a lot of work. It’s not easy starting a business. Getting permits. Getting tax papers in order. Why bother if you’re not turning a profit?”
I look at the ceiling. A barrage of memories trickle through my mind as I try to come up with words that would explain to someone like Spencer, someone who probably had the world handed to him on a silver tray, why this would matter to me.
When I look at him, he’s not as irritated with my lack of a response as I thought he would be. Instead, a curious look paints his face.
“When I was a teenager,” I tell him, my throat all of a sudden going dry, “my parents died in a boating accident. I was supposed to be there, spending quality family time. I promised them.” A swallow barely passes down my throat. “Instead, I was off with my buddies doing dumb shit, and they didn’t know where to even look for me.”
“So you were an irresponsible youth?”
“You have no idea.” I jerk my brain off that slippery slope and back to reality, ignoring the sadness that seems to fill every cavern in my body.