She locks her eyes on mine until she’s satisfied that I’ve absorbed the gravity of what she just said—which I do.
Endeavor Sporting Goods is one of the few shining stars in a saturated retail landscape, combining high-end level concierge service with the inventory of a big-box behemoth. Basically, they’ve taken the bespoke shopping experience of Bergdorf’s, married it with a Target, and then applied that model to the world of fitness and outdoor adventure. And given their inclination toward freely spending money to elevate their brand, that means that this deal could be worth hundreds of millions of dollars to us. I take a deep breath.
“So what happens if this deal doesn’t go through?”
Mom tilts her head at me. “The deal will go through, that’s a given. Someone will eventually buy this property, and Endeavor plans to do business with whoever that is. But if it isn’t us, then Mason Enterprises may very well lose its reputation as the deal maker in this industry.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything I’ll regret. Because there is no good reason they’re choosing me to tackle this deal. Not when I’m best known for being the only family member who inevitably comes up short in the face of a challenge. I may be good at what I do in the PR department, but that came by way of figuring out what I suck at. And what I suck at is… this. Because somewhere along the genetic highway of our DNA, I didn’t inherit the gene that thrives on high-stakes negotiations and all the pressure that comes with it. Now here I am, burdened with the fate of a deal that will define our company’s reputation for the next decade or so.
No fucking pressure or anything.
She rests her hands in her lap. “You leave in the morning. You’ll stay until this is finished. I don’t care how long that takes.”
Purely out of instinct, I try to protest again, despite knowing that there’s no hope for getting out of this. I may not be naturally suited to a task like this, but when it comes to pleasing my parents, I’ve spent most of my life trying to live up to some unspecified level of achievement—and failing most of the time. But for some reason I keep trying.
And practically speaking, there’s no reason I can’t jump on the company jet in the morning and head to Colorado for a few weeks—or anywhere else, really. Other than one important event on my schedule later in the summer, I can do most of my job remotely. My two assistants in the PR department are more than capable of handling anything else that comes up.
Resistance is futile, so I simply let out a heavy sigh. Mom reads my resignation and smiles a little, then casts her attention over my shoulder.
“Anything to add, Buzz? Words of wisdom for your son?”
I turn to look at my father from over one shoulder. He’s a man of few words who not only loves his wife, he respects her acumen when it comes to real estate. There’s little chance he’s going to do anything but tell me to listen to my mother.
He gives me an easy smile and nods once. “Good luck, kid.”
I groan. Words of wisdom they are not. But even so, I’m going to need all the luck I can get.
2
Alec
Just one day later, I set eyes on the Rocky Mile Raceway. And when I do, it feels like I’ve entered an alternate universe—one that leaves me feeling a little queasy. In fact, if Marissa was here, I know exactly what she’d say.
“Be careful there. Your trust fund is showing.”
We always say that to each other when one of us lets the privilege we are born with turn us into a tone-deaf asshat. While we don’t apologize for our family’s circumstances, that doesn’t mean we’re immune to losing perspective or to taking things for granted sometimes. When we do, we need someone to point that out before we act like total jerks.
A sibling who isn’t afraid to call me on my shit is exactly what I need right now, because I’m thinking all sorts of ungracious things. Most of them involve how much I don’t want to get out of the car. And how I’d rather not see any more of the Rocky Mile Raceway than I already have—from the parking lot.
In my defense, I wasn’t prepared for the reality of this place. Not. At. All.
And, holy hell, there’s no way around it… this place is a dump.
I slow the luxury sedan I rented to a stop in the middle of the dirt lot and then ease forward into what I think is a parking spot, although I can’t be sure. There are bright orange traffic cones scattered about that seem to demarcate the parking area, but they also look like they’ve been run over by a tractor-trailer a few thousand times, so it’s hard to tell what their function truly is.
I peer out the windshield while keeping the engine running, the windows rolled up, and the air-conditioning turned on high. Directly in front of the parking lot, there’s a run-down white building with a few ticket windows. Just past that, there’s a concession stand. The stand appears to be a repurposed Tuff Shed that has been—disturbingly—converted into a place where food is prepared. Hanging on the walls of the stand are large signs made out of old particleboard with things like Rocky Mountain Oysters HOT and TASTY! and Deep-Fried Pickles YUM! stenciled on them.
I don’t even want to think about what the inside of that Tuff Shed looks like. Although with so many deep-fried options on the menu, I’m going to guess it’s… sticky.
Not much of the racetrack is visible from here, but I can see the grandstands, which even at this distance appear to be a few loose bolts away from crumbling into a heap. I sure as hell hope that these people have good liability insurance. Between the rickety stands and whatever antibiotic-resistant pathogens are looming in the deep fryer, every ticket holder is a lawsuit waiting to happen.
At the far side of the lot is a mobile home, complete with some cinder blocks serving as its foundation. A fucking mobile home. On cinder blocks.
If I didn’t know that my mother never jokes when it comes to prime real estate, I’d swear I’m being pranked. Just two nights ago, I spent the evening at a fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-plate fundraiser with three CEOs whose combined net worth rivals that of some midsized countries. And last night I went to bed in my master suite, all snuggled down in Italian sateen sheets while a German-engineered sound soother lulled me to sleep.
Now? Fast-forward a few hours and I’m sweating my ass off in a dirt parking lot, staring at a mobile home set on cinder blocks. If that isn’t sticking a pin into my privileged reality bubble, then I don’t know what is.
Painted in huge red letters on the side of the trailer is the word Office, along with an arrow pointing toward a small set of stairs that lead to a metal door. I let out a sigh and force myself to shut off the car’s engine. That’s step one. If I want to get this over with, I have to start somewhere, like walking into that trailer and introducing myself to the owner of this first-rate establishment. Once that’s out of the way, I can settle into my friend Declan’s private residence at the Four Seasons in downtown Denver, pour myself some wine, and decide what my next move should be. He was nice enough to let me borrow the place since he’s off partying on a yacht in the Adriatic, so at least I’ll have an acceptable home base to retreat to while I’m here.
Finally I gather the fortitude to step out of the rental car. I straighten my tie and run a hand through my hair, then stare down the mobile home like I’m about to conquer the gates of my archenemy’s castle. What I’ll find inside is a mystery. I’m guessing it will involve wood paneling—along with a track owner who has no idea what he’d do with millions of dollars in his bank account. He probably thinks he’s living large when they upgrade his hotel room at the casino to one that’s closer to the ice machine.