Boy Toy

by R. R. Banks

  “You didn't call me in to talk about the Copperheads,” I say. “So, what's on your mind?”

  He sighs big and leans back in his chair, tipping his hat back on his head. “You're twenty-eight now, kid,” he says.

  I smile. “I am,” I say. “I'm staring the big three-oh in the face.”

  Kendrick nods. “Yeah, that you are.”

  He falls silent and just stares at me as if waiting for me to figure out his meaning. I take a sip of my drink and lean back in my own seat, starting back at him. I know what he's after – what he's going to say – he's called me in here for the same song and dance every year since my folks died. It's a conversation I don't particularly enjoy having – and he knows it.

  But, as the executor of my parent's estate, it's his job to have the talk with me, so I play my role. For the most part.

  After a moment, he chuckles and shakes his head.

  “It's a shame you don't play cards, kid,” he says. “You've got a hell of a poker face.”

  “Well, maybe I'll surprise you and show up to your monthly game.”

  He guffaws. “Oh, I don't want to play with you, kid,” he says. “You'll take me to the cleaners.”

  I finish my drink and set my glass on the corner of the desk. “I know why I'm here, Kendrick,” I say. “And the situation hasn't changed yet.”

  He strokes his beard and nods thoughtfully. “Nobody even piquing your interest, kid?”

  “Not really, no.”

  He sighs. “You're starting to run out of time,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  “I've got two years, Kendrick,” I say. “That's more than enough time.”

  Kendrick laughs. “I forget sometimes that you kids today don't take much time to shop around.”

  I shrug. “I figure that when I find the right one, I'll know.”

  “And if you don't?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Find the right one?”

  “I will,” I say. “I just haven't been looking all that hard yet.”

  Kendrick leans forward and clasps his hands on the top of his desk. He looks at me for a long moment – much in the way I imagine a doctor would look at somebody right before telling them they have six months to live.

  “Now, I don't want to come off sounding harsh, kid,” Kendrick says. “I want you to know that I think of you like a son and that I only have your best interests at heart.”

  Kendrick isn't one to soft-shoe or preface much of anything he says. His lack of filter is one of the things I admire about him. Which makes the fact that he is soft shoeing and prefacing his comments a little worrisome to me.

  “I would never think otherwise, Kendrick,” I say. “Say what you have to say, hoss.”

  He nods. “Okay then,” he says. “I need you to start taking this seriously.”

  I cock my head. “I do take it seriously.”

  “Do you?”

  He pins me to my seat with that steely gaze of his – a look I was sure struck the fear of God into many a witness in the courtroom during his trial days. I shift in my seat uncomfortably and clear my throat, doing my best to hold his gaze – and failing badly.

  The truth of the matter is that I'm not taking it as seriously as I should. I know it. But I hate the fact that I have to jump through the hoops being required of me to claim my inheritance. Although my parents loved me – and loved Nicholas – more than life itself, they were worried about my life choices. While not disappointed in me exactly, they were concerned about me straying off onto the wrong path. Living life as a non-stop party, rather than having solid morals, ethics, and priorities.

  If there was one thing my parents taught me – drilled into my head actually – it was the importance of putting in an honest day's work as well as how vital it is to have my priorities – as well as my head – straight. They knew that as the only son of a family that was worth billions and owned half of San Antonio, that it would be all too easy to waste my life on the non-stop party circuit.

  And after Nicholas was born, they began to worry even more that I was headed down the wrong path. They wanted to ensure that I set a good example for my son and that I valued the right things – hard work and family.

  They thought that I might need a little guidance on the road to responsibility, which is why before they died, they re-structured their estate and tied my inheritance to a set of conditions. Right now, I receive a generous monthly stipend to live on. It's not a fortune, but it's enough to keep me and Nicholas pretty well off. It's a stipend that will continue in perpetuity – so long as KT remains a viable company – if I don't satisfy the requirements of their estate.

  And those requirements are utterly life changing.

  By the time I'm thirty, to receive my full inheritance, I will need to be married. My parents believed in the stability of a two-parent home. And it was their belief that a child benefitted more from having two loving parents. I don't necessarily agree – I know plenty of successful people who come from single parent families. But then, I don't really get a say in this.

  The second condition is that by my thirtieth birthday, in addition to being married, I will also need to assume my role as the CEO of Keating Technologies – or KT, as we usually call it. They expect me – like my father before me – to learn the company from the ground up. To be intimately familiar with all of its different divisions and what each branch of the company does.

  The problem is, I'm not my father. That man was brilliant and took a genuine interest in all sorts of things – things that bore me to tears. He was a man ahead of his time and a giant in the world of technology. But I'm not that guy. I'm not that smart. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I'm smart enough to know what I do well – and don't do well. And technological things are most definitely not in my wheelhouse. Not even close.

  I sigh. “I do take it seriously, Kendrick,” I say. “But I don't know that I'll be able to satisfy the requirements of the estate. I'm just not my father. My passions aren't the same. And neither is the way my brain works. My father could look at some piece of equipment and more or less take it apart and rebuild it all again to make it better with nothing more than a box of tools. He invented some gadgets that are incredibly cool – but are also things I don't understand.”

  “I think you underestimate yourself, kid,” he says. “You sell yourself short.”

  I shake my head. “I don't though,” I say. “I know what I'm good at and what I'm not good at.”

  Kendrick looks at me and strokes his beard again. “And, in your estimation,” he says, “what are your strengths and your weaknesses?”

  “I just told you, that I'm not mechanically or technologically inclined,” I say. “I didn't inherit that gene from my dad. And I know if I take over KT, it is going to fail because I don't understand three-quarters of what it is they do there. And that isn't what I want to happen to the company my father built. That's not the legacy I want to leave behind – the man who destroyed his family's empire.”

  Kendrick laughed and shook his head – which irritated me a bit. There I am, baring my soul to the man, and he laughs?

  “I'm sorry, kid,” he says. “I don't mean to laugh. I really don't. But please, go ahead. I understand your weaknesses. Tell me your strengths.”

  I grin at him. “Am I on a job interview here, Kendrick?”

  He gives me a small shrug. “Not at all,” he says. “I'm just curious. Strengths, kid. What are they?”

  “Honestly? Football,” I say. “I know the game inside and out. I sure as hell know it a lot better than Rick goddamn Dempsey. I could turn the Copperheads around and make them a winning organization again a hell of a lot sooner than Dempsey could.”

  Kendrick leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers as he looks at me. “Know what I see when I look at you, kid?”

  “This should be good,” I say with a grin. “Tell me. What do you see, hoss?”

  “I see a man who has the world on his shoulders,” he says. “A man who thinks he has to do
everything on his own. And a man who's terrified of that burden. Of that responsibility.”

  “I don't know that I'd say I'm terrified –”

  “I would,” he replies. “Kid, when I look at you, I see a man who is trying so damn hard to live up to his parent's legacy. To try and fit into their shoes. To be perfect. But here's a news flash, son – it ain't ever gonna happen. You'll never be perfect and you'll never fit into their shoes.”

  “That's comforting, thanks.”

  “But here's the thing,” he went on, “you don't have to be. And you shouldn't kill yourself trying to be. You can only control what you can control – and what you can control is you and what you do well.”

  “What is it with people and the motivational pep-talks today?” I ask and smile.

  “Maybe it's because some of us see the potential in you, kid,” he says. “Potential you obviously don't see right now.”

  “Thanks, Kendrick,” I say after a long moment.

  He sighs and leans back in his seat again. “There is, of course, the practical aspect of all of this,” he says. “I unfortunately have to remind you that if you fail to satisfy the obligations of the estate as they're laid out, while you'll continue to receive your monthly stipend, control of Keating Technologies, will pass to your sister –”

  “Half-sister,” I correct him.

  “Half-sister,” he says. “Tiffany Greene.”

  I sigh. Tiffany was the product of my father's one – indiscretion. He screwed up. And to his credit, he'd be the first person to tell you that. He told my mother right after his drunken one-nighter with a cocktail waitress in Dallas and begged for her forgiveness. It took some time – and a lot of couples counseling – but they were able to put it behind them.

  Not that they didn't still have their rocky moments now and again. Especially after Tiffany came along. My father provided for her, but because he'd chosen to stay with my mother and me, Tiffany's mother became bitter and poisoned my half-sister against him. Tiffany grew up loathing my father, and now that he was gone, that contempt has apparently transferred to me.

  I know that she's next in line to inherit the throne of the Keating Technologies empire and I think because she's second in line, rather than a co-equal partner with me perhaps, it's only added fuel to her hatred. She sees me as a rival, not as family.

  Lucky me.

  Still, she's family – the only blood family I really have left anymore. So, because of that, I do my best to keep relations with her amicable. I hope that one day she can drop the contempt and be a better person, but I'm not exactly holding my breath.

  “Kid,” Kendrick says, his tone serious as the proverbial heart attack. “Tiffany Greene can never get her money grubbing mitts on KT. Ever.”

  I look at him in surprise. In all the years I've known him, he's never had a bad word to say about Tiffany. Granted, he never said much about her at all, but the level of venom I hear in his voice is surprising all the same.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “If Tiffany assumes control,” he says. “She is going to break up KT and sell it off piece by piece. Mark my words, kid. She's not interested in running the empire. She's only interested in selling it. And that includes your precious Copperheads. And knowing her and what a vengeful little bitch she can be, I'm betting she'll jettison your team first.”

  Hearing Kendrick speak the way he is – even more bluntly than usual – tightens a knot in my stomach. Knowing that Tiffany is only interested in dismantling KT – destroying everything my father built – just to turn a buck and satisfy some petty, made-up vendetta in her mind utterly sickens me.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask.

  Kendrick shakes his head. “I'm afraid not. I've heard it through the grapevine that she's already got the wheels in motion,” he says. “She doesn't think you're going to be able to meet your burden and that KT is going to pass to her without much of a fight.”

  “What wheels could she possibly have in motion?” I ask. “I've still got two years to meet my obligations.”

  He shrugs. “I don't know all the specifics yet, obviously. But I do know that it takes time to dismantle a company as big as KT,” he says. “Got to have buyers lined up, ready to bid for this division or that division. Have to have all of your legal ducks in a row too. Tiffany wants to hit the ground running. And the day after you turn thirty – if you haven't met your obligations – she wants to parcel KT out, pocket the cash, and do whatever it is she does. That's her plan.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “When you've been around as long as I have, kid,” he says, “you make a lot of friends – friends who are willing to give you a heads up when it's needed.”

  A knot forms in the pit of my stomach – a knot wrapped up in a ball of dark anger. I don't want to believe that Tiffany would do that – would dismantle my father's life's work. But I also know that Kendrick wouldn't be sounding the alarm if there wasn't some fire underneath all that smoke.

  “Well then,” I say, “I suppose I have some things to sort out.”

  He nods. “I'd say you do,” he replies. “But you need to know that you aren't in this alone. You don't have to put the weight of the world on your shoulders and your shoulders alone, Brady. You have help. All you need to do is reach out for it. Go and talk to Thomas. Seriously. I think he can help you.”

  I pick up my hat, putting it on as I get to my feet. Kendrick comes around his desk and gives me a firm embrace.

  “I love ya, kid,” he says. “I want what's best for you and your son. I truly do.”

  “I know it,” I reply. “And I appreciate it more than you know.”

  I leave his office, my head spinning a million miles a minute. Tiffany is making moves behind the scenes and I don't know that there's anything I can do to stop her.

  Chapter Seven

  Tiffany

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Dempsey,” I say as he takes a seat at the table.

  “You too, Tiffany.”

  I bristle at the familiar use of my name – I don't consider us to be that close. But Rick Dempsey is a useful tool – one I need to achieve my goals – so I will endure him. For now, anyway.

  We are sitting at Brevia's, a lovely little outdoor cafe that served a wonderful breakfast. Brevia's is one of the only redeeming things about this disgusting little cowtown. I grew up in Dallas and like it well enough – but, I much prefer the tropical climate of Miami.

  San Antonio though – it just seems to have a foul odor that saturates the air. There's so many things about this city I can't stand. And I hate having to come here. But, I unfortunately have to from time to time for business. My hope is that a couple of years from now, when I take control of Keating Technologies and then sell it all off piece by piece, I won't ever have to set foot in this cesspool again. I should have enough from the sale of the company to live a luxurious life in South Beach.

  If the sale goes well enough – as my advisors continue to assure me, it will – I might even be able to buy my own island in the Caribbean if I wanted to. I love having options. Options that don't include being tied down to this little dump of a city.

  The waitress comes by and offers Mr. Dempsey a mimosa. He declines and orders a black coffee instead and it's all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes. Who doesn't drink mimosas with breakfast?

  “So, I had a meeting with your brother the other day,” Dempsey says.

  “Half,” I say. “Half-brother.”

  “Right,” he says. “Anyway, he's not really happy with the –”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “Let's not ruin what should be a splendid breakfast by talking business through it.”

  “Come again?”

  “I enjoy breakfast, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “I don't like having it spoiled by unpleasant news. And judging by the tone of your voice – and the mention of my half-brother – this is going to be an unpleasant conversation. So, let's j
ust enjoy a nice breakfast first, and get to the unpleasant business after. How does that sound?”

  “Ummm – fine, I suppose.”

  “Excellent,” I say. “I took the liberty of ordering breakfast for us – I hope you don't mind. But they have Eggs Benedict and strawberry crepes that are simply to die for.”

  Mr. Dempsey chuckles. “I'm a simple man,” he says. “Pancakes and eggs would've been just fine for me.”

  I bite back the scathing reply that popped into my head. He's not from Texas originally, but Mr. Dempsey is taking on the simplistic nature of the natives – and I find it appalling. Such unrefined tastes and uncultured attitudes. It's no wonder I don't belong in Texas – I simply don't fit in here. Most probably think it sounds arrogant to say, but I'm above them. Better than them. I don't think it's arrogance – it's just a statement of fact.

  The waitress brings our food and sets it down before refilling my mimosa and disappearing without a word. I take a bite of the crepes and moan in delight.

  “Delicious,” I say. “I only wish Brevia's had a location in Dallas. It's the only about this city I can stand.”

  Mr. Dempsey chuckles. “Yeah, I can't say I'm too fond of San Antonio either.”

  Well, at least we have that in common. When my father passed away and Mr. Dempsey was appointed to run the football team, I knew I had my in. I don't really know him – I only know people who know him – but I know his type. He's a man obsessed with power, personal prestige and wealth. Those are things I've been able to offer him – at least for now. And only so long as he does what I tell him to do.

  The football team is the last puzzle piece in my master plan. But it's also the one that has the potential to bring in the biggest prize. But for me to maximize that prize, a few things are going to have to fall into place. And to ensure that they do, I need a man like Mr. Dempsey on the inside, working for me.

  Eventually – and regrettably – our meal ends and the waitress appears to take our dishes away. When our table is clear, she comes back and refills our drinks again before disappearing again.