Page 4 of Richard

But the last two meetings had been particularly exasperating and exhausting. The twenty-something-year-old singer was petulant and expected to be babied. That was not his style. He did not believe in coddling anyone. He had reminded the woman that she needed him more than how he needed her. In fact, he did not need her at all.

That had put a stop to the whining and querulous demands for more than he was prepared to give. She had then tried to seduce him, constantly touching his thigh beneath the table.

He had removed her hand, eyes chilled to an emerald-like quality. He had told her in no uncertain terms that he preferred to do the chasing and was not into bedding spoiled children.

That had effectively shut her down.

She had left in a huff in the middle of the luncheon meeting, which left him with a few minutes before his next appointment, one he was not looking forward to.

It was then he had noticed the two women. From his vantage point, he could see the entire first floor of the restaurant. He had a standard table, somewhere private to conduct his meetings. He was a celebrity of sorts and turned heads.

He always has people sidling up to him, slipping him a demo or a flash drive with something they had recorded for him to listen to with the hope that he was going to be interested.

His eyes passed from one woman to the next, lingering on the stylishly dressed one with the no-nonsense chignon at the napeof her neck.

Of the two, the slightly shabbily dressed one was prettier, even though the lines of dissatisfaction and unhappiness were etched between her nostrils. And even from where he was, he could see tears sparkling in his eyes.

A call came in just then and effectively dragged his attention from the scene, enacting in front of him. He had left specific instructions with his assistant that he was not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency. The name that came up on his LED had his anger and impatience melting away.

“I hope I am not disturbing you. That gay bastard you have guarding your corporate realm warned me not to disturb you.”

“As if you could.” A brief smile touched his sculpted mouth as he reached for his special brand of scotch. “Rodney is just following instructions. He knows that his job and his ass would be on the line if he screws up. How are you?”

“The chemo did me in. Rich, I am ready to call it quits.”

“You are not a quitter.” He idly noticed the well-dressed woman rising from the table and saying something to the other.

“I am beginning to feel like one.”

A frown settled on his brow. Lenny Bolt was an iconic name in the country and western genre and had been at the top of his game for years before a rather brutal bout of cancer had taken over and turned his life into a quagmire of pain, treatments, and rapid weight loss. The two men were the same age and had become fast friends.

Richard had discovered the soulful singer in a badly lit club exuding body odor and cloudy smoke. He had sat inside his stained booth, listening to the man croon about a love lost and a friend gained, and realized he had a rare talent.

That had been almost fifteen years ago when Richard was just starting out. He had broken away from the corporate world ofbusiness law that had been his family’s forte for more than a century and decided he wanted to do something other than practice law.

His father had been apoplectic with righteous indignation and rage, but Richard held his ground. William McBride had predicted dismal and absolute failure, of course. “Don’t come running back to me when that happens.”

Richard was determined to prove him wrong. He could not hold a note, and if he started singing, people would cover their ears and run for cover.

But he had an uncanny knack of rooting out talent. And molding the raw and turning it into something golden. He had won many awards and had some of the most successful singers in the industry. But even then, his father had never acknowledged his success.

He had inherited the law firm, and it was still operational. He would go several times a month to check in and sit in on the board meetings. His vast holdings include real estate, a fleet of cruise ships, and recording studios.

He was in his mid-forties and looked as trim as a man half his age. But that was not by chance; he had a fully functioning gym, and he jogged most mornings before he started to work.

His mouth tightened as he reflected on his friend’s dismal prognosis.

“I will not tolerate that negative energy from you. We are going to fight this son of a bitch, and that’s that.”

The man chuckled softly. “Leave it up to you to wax eloquent. But you effectively lifted my spirit. Listen, I have an idea for a new song.”

“Lay it on me.”

*****

His mother was unseasonably dressed in fur. Ruth McBride (shehad reverted back to her first husband’s name after another failed marriage) was seventy-five years old, and good genes, as well as expensive body sculpting, made her appear twenty years younger.

She was ridiculously optimistic, and there wasn’t a mean bone in her body. Richard had inherited her coffee brown hair and emerald, green eyes, a throwback from her Irish origins.

---