Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(5)
“Why did you invite me here if you knew you were going to say no? I’m one of the main runners for buying the lot. That’s public knowledge. You knew I wasn’t coming here to admire your pretty eyes.”
Vicious tapped his chin with his laced index fingers, his lower lip poking out. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“For one thing, they’re not attached to someone with a pussy and a rack.”
“According to the rumors, you don’t limit yourself to one gender. Either way, I wanted to see for myself.”
“See what?” I ignored his dig. Homophobia was beneath me. Besides, he wanted to get a rise out of me. It wasn’t my first or last rodeo with a pompous prick. I always came out on top (all puns intended).
“What my successor looks like.”
“Your successor? Color me confused, blushing, and deafened by my ringing bullshit radar.” I smirked, scratching my face with my middle finger.
We were polar opposites. A single-parented, middle-class spawn sitting across from a trust fund baby. I had a blond man-bun, enough tattoos to cover the better half of North America, and today’s attire consisted of a Primitive shirt, black cargo pants, and muddy boots. He was wrapped head-to-toe in Brioni, with sleek black hair and porcelain white skin. He looked like a Michelin-starred steak, and I looked like a greasy drive-thru cheeseburger. Didn’t bother me one bit. I loved cheeseburgers. Most people would opt for a McGreasy double cheeseburger over a tiny piece of tartar.
Vicious stretched in his seat. “You do understand that I cannot, in good conscience, help you build a shopping center—focused around surfing or otherwise—in Todos Santos? You’ll nibble at my business.” He ignored my question, and I didn’t like it. I dropped the joint into the whiskey glass and got up to my feet.
He stared up at me. Serene, sincere, and utterly blasé. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not rooting for you, Bane. I’m just not going to equip you for the war you’re planning to enter. Because I’ll also have an army in this battle. Whoever is opening a shopping center there is going to bite into my shit, and when people bite into my shit, I devour what’s theirs, too.”
I scratched my beard, allowing it to sink. Of course Vicious and his like didn’t care for me. He was at the top. I was getting there. Squashing me was survival instinct.
Spencer looked down, jotting something in a golden notepad with the logo of Fiscal Heights Holdings, his company’s name. “But here’s someone who could help you. He’s been trying to lay down roots in Todos Santos for years now. He needs to build a rep here, and is getting pretty desperate. He might not have the street cred, but he’s got a clean name and the Benjamins.” He glided the note across the black and gold chrome desk, and I reached for it with my inked, callused fingers.
Darren Morgansen, followed by a phone number.
“Oil money.” He smoothed his tie over his dress shirt. “Even more important—he’ll actually hear you out, unlike the vast majority of businessmen in this town.”
He was right, and that irritated me.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked. I liked Baron Spencer. He was my first choice of business partner when I’d decided to make a bid on those acres. I knew other rich, influential people in this town, but no one was quite as ruthless as he was.
“I’m merely giving you a head start. It makes things interesting, and I like the element of surprise,” he said, twirling his wedding band on his finger. “Open this surf park, Bane. I dare you. It’d be nice to finally meet my match.”
Before I left his office building, I made it a point to take a shit in the restroom and tuck a few of the fancy Fiscal Heights Holdings pens into my pocket, just for funsies. Oh, and I might have fucked his secretary, Sue. She emailed me the contact details of all the service providers working for her boss’ mall. They’d become handy when I opened the surf park. The one that was supposed to rid me of the bullshit and pay for my mom’s mortgage.
Baron Spencer thought he was going to war with me.
He was about to find out that I was the war.
I met Darren Morgansen that same evening.
First cue that he was overly eager? He invited me to his house. As I said, business tycoons rarely ever meet with you in their private domain. Morgansen completely ignored the act. Said on the phone that he was excited for the opportunity to get to know a key player like me, which almost made me cancel on his ass. I was the one who needed to wine and dine his ego, not vice versa. But I was willing to overlook the weird dynamics if it meant putting together the world’s biggest surf park and making Todos Santos the next Huntington Beach.
Mostly, I saw an opening with the potential to make me as rich as the people who looked at me like I was trash, and I was happy to have a go at it. Not gonna lie—I hadn’t expected to get half this far in my journey into buying the lot. People actually paid attention to what I was saying, and that surprised me a little.
Morgansen lived in El Dorado, a gated community on the hills of Todos Santos overlooking the ocean. The neighborhood was the home to most of the heavily loaded brats in town. The Spencers. The Coles. The Followhills. The Wallaces. The kind of money one couldn’t make in a lifetime, but rather inherited.
The Morgansen house was a colonial mansion sprawled across a mountainside. Nothing like living on a cliff to inspire you to want to jump off it. There was a small pond and cascading fountain with (real) swans and (fake) angels shooting arrows of water at the front driveway, a garden, a hammam and a sauna next to the kidney-shaped pool, and a load of other crap I bet my right nut no one in the house had ever used. He had huge-ass plants lining up each side of his double-door entrance. This asshole’s gardening bill for a month is probably what I’d paid for my entire houseboat when I purchased it.