King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  “It’s very subjective,” he says, hedging. “Everybody wants the fun work. I’m not sure why, but it’s good to be popular. Owning those cases makes me popular.”

  He takes a bite, chewing slowly. Then he explains the process to me as succinctly as he dares.

  “I know it’s fun work to do. I know it gives the juniors a chance to get out there in front of judges, or even in the press. Some of those cases might make a career, or at least get it out of the gates. Take the one you just wrapped up with the school system. I wouldn’t have just tossed that to you. I would have asked you to deserve it.”

  “And how,” I pose, “would I do that, without knowing how you evaluate whether it’s a case I’m qualified to handle?”

  Charles smiles again, a bright beaming smile as if he’s about to tell me a heart-warming story from his childhood.

  “That’s easy,” he says, leaning in. He winks. “You want the fun work, I get some fun in return. Quid pro quo. We both get something beneficial out of it. The more fun I have, the more fun you have. It’s just how this works.”

  What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck. Did he just say to me?

  I catch my breath. My fork trembles in my hand. I will it to stop, trying to gather myself.

  What was it my father said? ‘…give him a little more credit and deference…’

  Not a fucking chance.

  “Wow,” I say, checking all external emotional reaction. “And that works for you?”

  Charles nods. “Surprisingly well,” he admits, smiling self-assuredly.

  I see.

  “And do you get the guys on staff to blow you, too? Or is it the regular, take it up the ass approach? Are you a top or a bottom? Or do you do both ways?”

  Charles nearly chokes, coughing up bits of half-chewed baby cow onto his plate, mashed potatoes clogging his airway, oozing out his nose. He wipes his face with his sleeve, glaring at me.

  “What the fuck, Bryn? I’m not gay,” he states, his face wracked with confusion.

  “You’re not?” I ask earnestly, careful not to break form. “Well for fucks sake Charles, how did you make fast-track on the partner bid if you aren’t blowing the other partners? I mean, at least you must have sucked my dad’s dick to get the nice corner office, right? You just said that’s how this works. I’m trying to understand exactly which acts I need to perform and with whom? Who did you have to get balled by first, to get the pro bono cases?”

  I sit back in my chair, watching Charles face distort into abject horror.

  “Bryn—”

  “Man,” I observe wistfully. “So, if you had to take it up the ass to get the pro bono work, I wonder what John Singleton over in Contracts did to get that plum assignment? ‘Cause—you know—that’s the most profitable wing of the shop. I bet he had to do some really, grinding, kinky shit.”

  Our waiter passes. I raise my hand to him, begging him near.

  “Check please,” I say, handing him my card. I smile across the table at Charles. “I’m getting a Lyft. I don’t want to put you out of your way for a ride home. And I certainly don’t want any extracurricular fun with you.”

  Do I skip the chain of command and go straight to my father with this, or do I play it straight and take my complaint to HR? I’m not sure...

  One thing I am certain of, I’m not playing fair anymore. There’s more than one way to fast-track my career in the direction I want.

  I’m going for alternatives.

  Chapter 6

  Logan

  Anyone who says that nothing would change if they became instantly wealthy is full of shit. Money changes you, especially if you don’t start out in life having enough of it. It’s changed me. It remains to be seen whether it’s for the better or worse, but it’s definitely altered my world view.

  Despite changing all my numbers, staying away from social media, having my mail screened, and inserting a layer of paid handlers between me and the world, the world still manages to creep in.

  Today it was a phone call from Tim Dunigan at the law firm in D.C. It seems that Joe, my old boss, filed a lawsuit against me, claiming that I’ve materially damaged his business by quitting with no notice; by not informing him of my imminent celebrity so that he could properly prepare for the influx of inquiries regarding me; by not picking up my last paycheck or leaving a forwarding address, causing his accountant undue stress; and—this is the kicker—by withholding his share of the lottery winnings, since (he insists) he paid for half the tickets I purchased.

  There was other shit too, but those were the highlights.

  “We have to answer it,” Tim says. “I’ll send some paperwork your way for your signature. The basis is so frivolous, I’m reasonably certain I can get it dismissed. If not, then we’ll have to do some work, but don’t lose any sleep. It’ll go your way.”

  I wish I was as chill about this stuff as Dunigan. I worry. About everything. Even the good things.

  I’m worried about the fact that Mom hired two people—really great people, with training and unimpeachable references—to help with Drake. One is an occupational therapist who works with adults with autism. She’s going to help Drake become more independent. Her name is Shawn. She’s a sweetheart who really clicks with Drake. He sure likes her.

  The other person is Jon, another autism specialist who is working to expand Drake’s social horizons, as well as increase and improve the quality of his daily activities. That all sounds wonderful to me. Anything to get him to do more than just play video games and watch TV. It’s also scary. For twenty-five years I’ve spent every day being Drake’s window to the world. His windows are opening up, his world is expanding. Other people are involved in his life now.

  On one hand, that’s a great thing. On the other, it frees up a lot of my time. I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself. I’ve treated the renovation work with the house as a bit of a part-time job, working with the contractors and restoration carpenters to bring the place back from the brink. Really though, all I do is walk around looking at what other people are up to. I’m no carpenter. I just appreciate the effort they’re applying to the project.

  The other thing I’m doing is working closely with Martha Davidson, the Director of Awards Initiatives with the new foundation. She’s the one who oversees screening and vetting of grant proposals received. She’s got a small team of non-profit experts and community relations types who go through the inquiries, interviewing people, assessing the legitimacy of their pitch, doing background checks, and more. From there, the proposals that make it through that tight sieve are brought to the board for consideration. The board makes comments, offering their opinion on whether the project should be funded or not. After that, Martha brings the whole package to me.

  I’ve got the fancy title of Chairman to go along with the fact that I’m bankrolling the operation. Somewhere around here I even have a box of business cards advertising the title.

  Once every two weeks Martha and I meet to discuss new inquiries and do a progress check on approved ones. She’s on her way over right now for our third meeting so far. It’s early days yet. Only a handful of proposals have made it through the gating system to the board. Of those, I approved funding all of them.

  It’s kind of cool to imagine that in only a few months every teacher in the Wake County School System will be able to apply for a supply card, so they no longer have to buy school supplies for their classroom out of their own pockets. That was a no-brainer.

  We’ve got a few programs like that getting underway. I’m looking forward to seeing some imaginative, bigger-initiative proposals show up for consideration. Martha assures me they will materialize. She says that kind—the ones that make the biggest impact—take time to put together. We’ve just gotten started, she says. I need to be patient.

  “I’ve got some things here that are going to make you so happy!” Martha beams, walking in, her arms laden with manila envelopes. “And one of them is a big deal.”

  She spreads
her files out on the kitchen table in front of me. The carpenters are still working on most of the rooms of the house. I’ll have an office soon, but until then the kitchen table will suffice.

  We get to work. Martha briefs me on the particulars of each application.

  There’s a proposal to launch a county-wide, tuition free, day-care and pre-K program for kids from non-English speaking families. It will focus on developing English language skills early, before the kids start school. I look at the statistics backing it up, at a case study of a similar program started in Los Angeles in the early 1990’s and the long-term results. It’s impressive. This is the kind of thing that will impact the entire trajectory of people’s lives. A couple of the board members have reservations about educating the children of illegal immigrants. I have no such scruples. I’m more concerned about perpetuating ignorance.

  “Done,” I say, signing off on that one.

  There are others, less ambitious, but just as worthy. In most cases the board has approved each proposal without reservation. I do wonder about the ones that, for whatever reason, don’t make it to me. I’m certain there are hundreds each week. When we started talking about this foundation, just days after I learned I won the lottery but before I had the money, we made the decision that anything we funded had to be beneficial to the entire community, not just one person. Otherwise, Tim explained, we’d whittle millions away on expensive cancer treatments for one sick baby. A better use of the funds, he reasoned, and I quickly came to agree, would be to fund a research program that could cure a lot of people. So far, we haven’t had any proposals like that, but I expect in time we will.

  “I saved this one for last,” Martha says, slipping a file in front of me. “It’s straight up community service work. Nothing novel about it, which is what makes it so compelling. The proposal outlines a legal aid network modeled on ones that have been in place in parts of the country for more than a century. It’ll be the first of its kind here. From what I’ve come to understand after researching this proposal and making targeted community inquiries, it’s long past due.”

  I read the summary. It’s concise, making the general case for the project, explaining how badly the low and no-income community is served by or even able to access the legal system.

  ‘…stolen wages…broken contracts… threats and intimidation… fear of reprisal, especially among minorities, members of the immigrant community, and low-status workers…’

  I can relate. I think of Joe and his rock-bottom pay, docking us fifteen minutes if we were two minutes late. Telling us to shove it if we didn’t like it. “Gear heads are a dime a dozen,” I heard him say a hundred times if he said it once. “I’ll have some other rook jerking off in your toolbox tomorrow.”

  “I like it,” I say, signing the paperwork to approve it. Then, almost in passing, I spot the names on the list of attorneys’ who put the application together.

  ‘Bryn Beckett, Esq.’ Her name is at the top of a list of seven other attorney’s, none of whose names I recognize.

  “Who put this together?” I ask Martha. “Who did you talk to?”

  She puzzles a moment. “We talked to all of them,” she says. “Are you asking who’s in charge of the 501(c)(3)?”

  I nod.

  “A young attorney, Bryn Beckett. Her father is senior partner at Becket, Burkhead, & Winslow, here in town. She’s got legal pedigree going back to—”

  “I know,” I say. “I know her.”

  Damn. Ever since we got back from Florida I’ve been trying to figure out how to make contact with her. She’s done it for me. She’s opened the door wide and invited me in.

  I grin, pulling back the page with my approval.

  “You tell Ms. Beckett I’d like to meet with her in person, at the foundation offices, to discuss the particulars. Don’t give her any encouragement. Tell her I’m hedging, and I want the pitch. The whole dog and pony show.”

  “What?” Martha asks, a deep furrow plowing her brow. “I don’t understand.”

  “Work with me,” I insist. “Set it up.”

  This is going to be fun.

  * * *

  Checking my reflection in the glass walls surrounding the conference room, I straighten my tie and check my hair. I’m not usually this vain, but today is special.

  Martha’s behind me, testing the AV system to make sure everything works. Bryn should be here any time. I was able to convince a couple of the board members to come sit through this thing, just to show numbers. They’re all retired guys with not much better to do, and they’ll help give our end of the table the gravitas I lack. I’m hoping to make a lasting impression.

  “Do me a favor, Martha,” I ask. “At least once during this thing, could you call me ‘Mr. Chandler,’ and make sure she hears you do it?”

  Martha lets out a huff, cutting her eyes at me. She’s on board. I explained everything to her. She still thinks I’m being silly, but cute.

  A few minutes later and it’s game-on. Bryn walks through the front door, glancing about nervously. A couple of the men from the board greet her, shaking her hand, showing her toward the conference room where Martha and I are strategically positioned with me at the head of the table, discussing matters of great societal import.

  I stand as Bryn comes in, walking around the table to meet her. I put my hand forward—a very clean hand, with trimmed nails, buffed to a high luster—to shake hers.

  “We meet again,” I say, doing my best to maintain a passive expression.

  “Indeed, we do,” she responds brightly, gripping my hand. She’s trying to act confident and completely at ease, but she’s got dark circles from sleeplessness under her pale green eyes, and her smile is tight, unsure.

  Nevertheless, she’s still takes my breath away. She’s gorgeous. Even exhausted and rent with anxiety, she still stops my heart. But I can’t let her know that. Yet.

  “Let’s begin.” I show her to her end of the table. “We’re anxious to see what you’ve got for us.”

  The board members take their seats at my end of the table. I hope she feels the unbalanced weight of the arrangement. Judging by the way her fingers tremble while she syncs her laptop with our AV system, I’d say she feels it keenly.

  Her pitch is well-prepared, thoughtful, and thorough. Her arguments are rational and backed up by credible research, balanced by anecdotal examples driving home the value of the project. She knocks it out of the park, but I’m not about to let her enjoy the moment.

  “Thank you very much. You’ve given us a lot to consider,” I say. “Do you have any questions for us, before we let you go?”

  I’ve practiced this non-committal dismissal over and again. I’ve got it nailed.

  “Ahm…” Bryn starts, not quite knowing how far, or if to push at all. “Do you have any idea of time frame for a decision? Is it days, or weeks, or…”

  I lay my palms flat on the table. “We have a process we go through. It takes time. We’ll be in touch.”

  With that, I stand, signaling to everyone that I’m done, so they are too.

  I pass Bryn by, pausing only to shake her hand, thanking her again, before beating a hasty retreat to the back rooms to wait for everyone to leave. She looked at me like she’s stunned, a genuine deer in the headlights expression. It’s great.

  I pulled it off perfectly. She’s on the ropes. I have her exactly where I want her.

  In one week, I’ll call her myself to give her the good news. Until then, she can sweat bullets.

  It’s about time she did.

  Chapter 7

  Bryn

  What a miserable day. I have a cold. And HR wants to see me—again—about this shit with Charles. He claims I made it all up, and he’s somehow gotten every female junior attorney in the company to sign a piece of paper stating they’ve never been the subject of harassment, inappropriate comments, or untoward requests from superiors.

  If that’s true, they’re the only seven women in America who can claim it with
a straight face.

  A couple of the male juniors have come over to my side, attesting to the fact that they’ve seen Charles say and do things they thought were wildly out of line. So far, however, it’s just a meandering ‘she said, he said’ that seems to be going nowhere fast.

  On top of all that, I have a filing due downtown before the clerk’s office closes.

  If this day gets any worse...

  My cell rings. One more thing… I glance down. I don’t recognize the number. I should just let it ring. Then again, I’m hoping for that one call that could change everything.

  “Hello. Bryn Beckett,” I chirp, trying to cover the scratch in my voice and nasal congestion.

  “Bryn, it’s Logan Chandler. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  Holy shit! I sit up straight, stretching out, kicking my office door closed with the pointy toe of my shoe.

  “No!” I say. “It’s a great time. How have you been?”

  I feel like a moron even saying that. I bring my hand to my head and try not to groan. He just won the freaking lottery. How has he been? Busy, overwhelmed, surprised, incredibly happy, incredibly nervous. And he’s doing the whole helping-the-world thing on top of that. There’s no easy answer to that question when the whole world is resting on your shoulders.

  Still, he doesn’t seem to notice, or mind.

  “I’m good,” he says, his tone languid, easy. “How about you?”

  “Everything’s great,” I say, struggling to sound upbeat. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, I wanted to let you know that the foundation has approved your proposal…”

  Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!!

  “…with a few conditions.”

  Oh shit.

  “Okay,” I respond, determined to keep the brightness in my tone. “Tell me.”

  “I’m really excited by this project. It’s probably one of the most ambitious and most necessary we’ve seen so far. I’d like to take a special interest in its progress, get regular briefings from you on how it’s going. See if we can help out in additional ways.”