Page 41 of Plum

Fuck it.

I navigate to the background check service we use, and I pull up Plum’s report. There’s more missing than there. She has no social media. No high school diploma. There’s a short criminal record that I scroll past without reading. I know, or I can guess, and I don’t want to know.

There are two addresses listed for her, the Steel Bones MC clubhouse, and then her house. Her mother, though. There were pages of addresses, sometimes long gaps between domiciles. A half dozen addresses were Gilson Avenue.

The mother, Lorna, died from complications related to hepatitis when Plum was fifteen. No father on the birth certificate. No grandparents, other relatives. The mother had a rap sheet ten times as long as Plum’s. Soliciting, assault, possession, panhandling, breaking and entering.

I read it all, but there’s nothing to explain why this woman is under my skin.

We have less than nothing in common.

I’m restless, though, and I’ve got this awful day-after-Christmas feeling, as if everything good is over. I’m almost grateful when Eric interrupts, bounding into my office without knocking per usual.

“Brother! Where the fuck were you earlier?” He sprawls into the chair across from my desk, scrolling and tapping, grinning at his phone.

“Lunch with Mom.” I minimize the report on Plum and spin to face him.

“That sucks.” He finishes whatever he’s posting and looks up. “What’s she worried about now?”

I sip my bourbon, consider my words. “Apparently, Thomas has been talking about taking a more active role in the company again.”

“The fuck you say.” Eric’s eyes flash. “What’s he gonna do? He doesn’t even know the business model anymore.”

I have to play this carefully. “Mom thinks he wants to spend time with you.”

“Bullshit. Don’t act like you don’t know the man. He thinks we’re too far off the chain. He needs to tug the leash. Show us who’s boss.”

“He’s majority shareholder. He is the boss.” That’s the difference between Eric and me. Eric always assumed that what belongs to Thomas Wade belongs to him, and that his hard work is his own. I’ve always understood how much I owe my stepfather, that I work for him.

It doesn’t sit easy, never has, but it’s a trade I made a long time ago with my eyes wide open. I play my part, and I get access to resources most people can only ever dream of.

Poor Eric doesn’t realize it’s a contractual relationship. He still thinks it’s a family.

“That’s why we need to stop fucking around. Cut ties.”

“And lose the IP.”

“And create ourownIP. Don’t you want to do something without having to put Dad’s name on it?” Eric’s leaning forward, earnest, his cheeks flushed from whatever’s in the flask or baggie he keeps in his jacket pocket.

He’s oblivious to the irony. I do this, and I’ll be putting a different Wade’s name on my ideas. I can’t pull the VC money without Eric’s connections. He’s the public face of Wade-Allyn, and no one would risk the kind of startup cash we need on one-half of the dynamic duo.

“Thomas gave me his name. It seems like a fair trade.”

“Man, that’s the past.” Eric’s standing now, pacing. “And you know this isn’t some heart-warming story of fatherly love. Heownsyou. How are you cool with that, man?”

My grip on my bourbon tightens. “Yeah? Who owns you, Eric?”

“At least Iwantto leave. Make something that’sours.” I can see his passion, and once upon a time, I felt it, too.

Lately, though, it’s all felt hollow. Trading one set of strings for another. I love the work, but the work comes with the bullshit, and at the end of the day, the work keeps me alive, nothing more. To be honest, nothing in my life has made me feel as alive as this last week, and how fucked up is that?

“I don’t know.” I wave a hand. “The grass isn’t always greener.”

Eric’s face flushes bright red. “Are you backing out?”

I don’t know. I can’t seem to care about any of this. “We’ve been talking about this for years. Since when do you have a timeline?”

“Is this about Renee?”

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