The second I finish that thought, I give myself a mental slap. Jesus. Where is Marissa when I need her?
I make my way across the empty parking lot, cradling a large gift basket that’s stuffed with gourmet Texas treats, including a good bottle of red from Declan’s family’s winery. As I walk toward the office, I look around for signs of life, but it’s Wednesday afternoon, and according to their sad little website, Rocky Mile Raceway only has events on the weekends during the summer. Colorado isn’t suited to dirt racing when there’s snow on the ground, which means this place is probably a ghost town for five months a year, and an empty track doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t take a business genius to wonder how they manage to keep this place afloat on so few days of revenue each year.
When I near the office, I notice that the door is propped open. The sound of a television blares from inside. I make my way up the stairs and rap on the doorframe.
“Hello?” No response, so I knock again. The TV volume cranks down just as I call out a little louder. “Anybody home?”
Finally the TV goes quiet and a gruff male voice answers, one thick with either fatigue or annoyance. Maybe both.
“Of course someone’s home. The TV’s on, isn’t it? Either come on in or leave so I can finish watching Iaconelli take this next cast.”
A muttered curse word follows. I peer inside and spot a tall, reedy-built man sitting behind an old desk piled high with stacks of papers, soda cans and fast-food bags, and other assorted junk. He’s wearing raggedy cargo shorts, a neon-yellow tank top, and a wide-brim Panama hat. He’s kicked back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and his feet up on what little free space there is on his desk. I’d guess he’s in his early sixties, but I could be wrong. His leathery skin indicates that he’s spent a few decades outdoors without ever putting on sunscreen.
He focuses his attention on the other side of the room, where a large flat-screen TV hangs on the opposite wall. I glance over to the TV and note what looks like a fishing show, then scan the rest of the room. Just like the desk, the rest of the place is crammed to the gills with junk. There are filing cabinets along one wall, a small love seat in front of the TV, and a mini fridge that’s acting as an end table for the couch.
And feel free to call me Nostradamus, because I was right about the wood paneling. It’s everywhere. Thanks to its dark walnut coloring, the small space feels claustrophobic, enough that I have to tamp down an urge to turn on a heel and walk away. But leaving is not an option, so I take a deep breath and paste a big grin on my face.
“Afternoon! Are you Wesley Wells?” I call out, widening my grin a little more. Quickly I realize how fake and weird it must look to him since I suddenly feel like I’m wearing a creepy Halloween mask. I force myself to tone it down into something less happy serial killer.
And for the record, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that this is Wesley Wells, esteemed owner of Rocky Mile Raceway. The picture of him that’s on the info page of their website is probably twenty years old, but it’s definitely the same man sitting in front of me.
My weird grin and over-the-top greeting earn a narrow-eyed glance from him as he scans me from head to toe. Then he rolls his eyes and lets out a tired sigh.
“Track isn’t for sale,” he grumbles and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Business cards go in the fishbowl, fancy hooch and other assorted bribes on the table. If you can’t find room on the table, then put it on the floor.”
With that, he returns his focus to the TV and starts to crank the volume back up. On the screen, some guy with an East Coast accent is yanking a fishing pole around as if he’s trying to land something the size of a whale while hollering about how he loves to “bump the stump.” I have no idea what that means when it comes to fishing, and frankly, I don’t want to know. When he finally pulls his quarry from the water, the fish is about the size of what’s in Declan’s koi pond. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t get it—all that hollering and splashing to land something that looks like it belongs in a rich guy’s backyard.
A cheap folding table has been shoved into the corner behind his desk, and it’s overflowing with gift baskets, wilted flower arrangements, and dusty bottles of alcohol. There’s a goldfish bowl at the front of the table, filled almost to the top with business cards.
I hold back a heavy sigh. I knew that Mason Enterprises wouldn’t be the only developer interested in this property, especially after reading through the complete file on my plane ride out here. Not only is the racetrack surrounded by thousands of new homes with high household incomes, the entire state of Colorado continues to have one of the strongest economies in the country. Those two factors, combined with the carrot Endeavor Sporting Goods is dangling in front of salivating developers, mean that this property is a fucking gold mine.
I shove the gift basket onto the table but decide not to toss my business card into the bowl. Wesley Wells might want me to leave without saying another word, but that can’t happen. I’m stuck here until this situation is in hand, and walking away without even introducing myself doesn’t get me any closer to that goal.
I stride over to Wesley Wells’s desk and stand right in the way of the TV. He doesn’t quite scowl, but the expression on his face makes it clear that I’m interrupting his precious TV time.
“I know that you want me to turn around and walk out of here, Mr. Wells, and based on the way that table is about to collapse, I understand why. Just bear with me for ten minutes.” I extend my hand his way. “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking for.”
After leveling a hard look at me, he jabs the mute button on the TV remote and reaches forward to shake my hand.
“Fine. But call me Wes. Whenever one of you Eddie Haskell types, all dressed up in your fancy suits, strolls in here and calls me Mr. Wells, it just pisses me off.”
I nod once. “Got it. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Wes.” I reach into my suit pocket for a business card, handing it his way. “I’m Alec Mason with Mason Enterprises.”
Wes scans my card and raises a brow, suspicion washing over his expression. I settle into one of the metal folding chairs across from his desk and brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next.
“Did you lose a bet or something? Because when my kids get wind that someone else is here from Mason Enterprises, they’re going to hit the roof.”
For a split second I consider asking why exactly that is, but ultimately, I know that Tate did something vile, so the details don’t really matter. I draw in a long inhale and debate how to answer, settling on a frank approach.
“Tate Marshall is a prick. I know that as well as you do, trust me. I’m here because Mason Enterprises is my family’s company. Our reputation matters to me.”
Wes taps my business card absentmindedly on the arm of his chair.
“Pretty sure that your family’s reputation doesn’t matter to my family. We’re not losing any sleep over you.” He gives my suit another once-over. “If you’re smart, you’ll just have them fuel up the fancy jet you came in on and go back home.”
“And if I’m not smart?” I counter.
Wes lets out a chuckle. “Then I suggest you meet my daughter and see how that goes. Fair warning, Sage isn’t someone who changes her mind once she’s made it up. Then spend some time with my son and do your best to crack him open. Get those two on board and we might have something to talk about. I love this place, but it’s their future a hell of a lot more than it is mine.”