Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(6)
Morgansen greeted me at the gate of the neighborhood, and I pretended to not already have an electronic key for it. He then showed me around his mansion like I was contemplating buying the place. We strolled through his front lawn, backyard, and the two downstairs kitchens. Then we climbed up the curved staircase to the second floor—“let me show you my offith”—he had a lisp. I inwardly let out a thank fuck breath. Finally, we were going in the right direction. We walked past a closed door, and he stopped, brushing his knuckles over the wooden door with a hesitant knock, pressing his forehead to it.
“Honey?” he whispered. He was lanky, crouched like a beatdown teenager, and morbidly WASP-y. Everything about him was mediocre. Brown, lemur-like eyes, bony nose that stood out like a weakness, lips narrow and pursed, salt and pepper hair, and a bland suit that gave him the unfortunate look of a Bar Mitzvah boy. He looked like an extra in someone else’s story. I almost felt sorry for him. He had the kind of inborn averageness no money in the world was going to fix.
There was no answer from the other end of the door.
“Thweetheart, I’m in my offith. Let me know if you need anything. Or…or tell Hannah.”
Breaking news: rich guy has a spoiled daughter.
“Okay. Going now.” He stalled, loitering against the sound of silence. “Jutht down the hall…”
Morgansen was a peculiar creature in the three-comma club. He was submissive and contrite, two things that inspired my inner bloodthirsty bulldog to chew him like a squeaky toy. We walked into his office, the door closing shut behind us on a hiss. Darren pushed his hair back then proceeded to wipe his palms over his dress pants and laugh nervously as he asked me what I wanted to drink. I told him I’d have vodka. He pressed a switchboard button on his oak desk and sank into his cashmere seat. “Hannah, vodka pleath.”
I was seriously starting to second-guess why Baron Spencer had given me this clown’s number. Maybe it was a joke at my expense. This dude may have been rich—correction, he was swimming in it, and had a house the size of the marina to prove it—but he was also a goddamn wreck. I doubted a scaredy-cat like him would shell out a cool six mill for twenty-five percent equity to a total stranger with a dubious reputation. I made myself comfortable in my chair, trying not to think about it. His eyes trailed my movement. I knew what he was staring at, and what I looked like.
People often asked me why. Why did I insist on looking like I was auditioning for Sons of Anarchy, with tattoos covering a good portion of my body? Why the man-bun? Why the beard? Why the fuck-you attire of a beach bum, with pants still stained with surfboard wax? Honestly, I didn’t see the point in making an effort to look like them. I wasn’t them. I was me. I was an outsider, with no lineage, fancy last name, or historic legacy.
Looking like every father’s nightmare was my way of saying I was out of the rat race.
“You’re quite the character in Todoth Thantoth.” Morgansen fiddled with the edges of his thick planner. I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to my professional reputation or my personal one. The rumor around town was that Café Diem and the hotel had been bought so I could smurf my protection money, and they weren’t exactly wrong. I porked every chick with a pulse, sometimes venturing to blowjobs from guys when I was feeling drunk and adventurous, then proceeded to engage in paid-for affairs with whomever could get me an inch closer to the total domination of Todos Santos’ recreational venues. I entertained the forty-year-old wives of men I looked up to professionally for the sole purpose of pissing them off and was the shameless arm-candy of even older women whom I knew could sponsor my brand and me. I was a manwhore in the biblical sense of the word and people viewed me about as trustworthy and loyal as an ounce of coke.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, just as Darren’s housekeeper pushed the door open, entering with a tray, two glasses and a Waterford vodka bottle in hand. She poured me a glass, then whiskey for Darren from the bar behind him, all meek silence and bowed head.
“P-pleath do,” Darren stuttered. “I’ve been meaning to network with you for quite thome time. My family moved here four yearth ago.”
Like I didn’t know. Todos Santos was known as an upper-cruster: a morosely white town that put one’s pedigree above their morals and reputation. Every time someone moved in, people knew. Every time someone moved out, people jumped on the gossip train, wondering what they were trying to hide. The Morgansens had managed to fly under the radar thus far. Not necessarily a good thing. It meant that they hadn’t managed to form strong connections despite coming from oil money, and that was suspicious.
“How are you liking it here?” I snapped my gum, looking around in boredom.
“It’th…intereth-ting. Very hierarchical.”
I grabbed my drink, knocked it back in one gulp, and placed the glass back on the tray in front of a thoroughly shocked Morgansen.
“Neat. Shall we get to business?”
Darren’s forehead crumpled once again.
He motioned with his hand for me to start pitching. I did.
I told him about the prospect. About the piece of beach that was going to make a fantastic SurfCity center. Then I told him about my plan and took out blueprints one of the finest architects in L.A. had made for me. I told Darren about my vision for it, then pulled out some statistics about the ever-growing population of teenagers in Todos Santos—rich people loved popping out kids, and kids in SoCal were either into skateboarding or surfing, plus, we were close enough to Huntington Beach, San Clemente, and San Diego to hijack their hardcore surfers. Not to mention the amount of pro competitions it was going to attract to Todos Santos. I explained how I needed a nice, bowtie name to put on my proposal to make sure someone took it seriously, and how he would be able to sit back and watch his money grow. I refrained from adding that sticking it to Baron Spencer, with his luxurious, half-dead mall downtown, would raise us to the position of deities. It was the truth, but Morgansen looked like the kind of person who’d crap his pants from the prospect of pissing someone off. Least of all Baron ‘Vicious’ Spencer.