Page 8 of Fifty-Fifty

“What kind of issue?” he probes.

I shove my truck back in park and let it idle for a minute. I can’t concentrate on the road right now. I’m too pissed.

“Apparently, I have three options. One, Beau, who’s a chick by the way, gets to stay at the inn and sends me half of the net revenue—”

“Which is what you’re doing right now, right?” Shane interrupts me.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, go on.”

I rub my hand over my face then lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes. “Two, we sell the place and split the profit. Or three, Beau and I don’t come to an agreement, and we lose the whole thing.”

Shane whistles through the speakers. “Ouch. That sucks. Obviously, option one wasn’t working because you’re down there. How’d Beau take to the idea of selling it?”

I can’t muffle the groan that slips past my lips.

“That bad, huh?”

I grimace. “Yeah. That bad.”

Shane remains silent for a second before saying, “All right, let me think about it. See if I can come up with something.”

I’m still sitting in Mr. Jenkins’ driveway when I see him appear from his front door before walking down the steps.

“Look. I gotta go. You still okay covering my appointments?”

“Yeah, man. No problem. Everyone at Ink’d is happy to help however they need to. Not a big deal.”

“Thanks,” I put my truck into drive once more, “I’ll talk with you later.”

“Wait.”

His tone makes me pause. “What?”

“Slater wanted me to let you know that if you can’t come up with the cash by the end of the month, then he’s going to offer the partnership to Ricky.”

I slam my palm against the dashboard.

“Ricky? Are you freaking kidding me?” I yell, my blood boiling.

Mr. Jenkins’ steps falter at my outburst, and I take a deep breath in through my nose in hopes of calming the hell down.

It doesn’t work.

Shane remains silent for a beat too long. “Yeah, man. I’m really sorry.”

“That prick would run Ink’d into the ground,” I seethe. “And even if I could come up with the money, it would take longer than thirty days! What the hell is Slater thinking?”

“Slater’s thinking that Ricky is a trust fund baby who can come up with the cash. He’s thinking that you don’t have much more than a six-pack of beer and your old beater to your name. He’s thinking that you won’t be able to pull through. That’s what he’s thinking.”

My jaw clenches. Shane’s right. It sucks to hear, but he’s right.

I’m about to pepper Shane with more questions when Mr. Jenkins stops walking and hovers a few feet from my truck. He’s trying to give me privacy, but his body language tells me that he needs to chat.

Shit.

“I gotta go,” I murmur into my cell, shoving my truck back into park for a second time.

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