Page 6 of Luck of the Draw

“I’ll go make some more coffee and let you gentlemen handle this.” Liza smiled sweetly at Brennan, giving his forearm an affectionate squeeze as she strolled past him, her black stilettos knocking on the hardwood floors. He patted her hand and returned her smile before redirecting his attention to his dad and Connor.

This would be easy enough. Connor could always be depended upon. He had problems with his own father, and for all ten years they’d been friends, Brennan always had his back. Connor would do the same for Brennan in this situation, because that’s what friends were fucking for.

But then Connor rubbed his palms together as if he were preparing to do something patently mischievous—which was the other thing for which Connor could always be depended upon.

“Come have a seat over here,” Connor said, crossing the entryway and sitting behind Jimmy’s desk. He laced his fingers together, resting his hands on the desk, and Orson sat in the chair in front of it. Connor was now sporting a shit-eating grin, which wasn’t surprising. After all, fucking with Brennan was one of Connor’s favorite activities, and it was clear that was in the damn cards for this afternoon. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Riley?”

“As you know, my son has a…” Orson cleared his throat. “Auniquerelationship with your business.”

Connor cocked his head, still grinning like the snarky mother fucker that he was. “Meaning he sort of works here, but not really, and mostly just foots the bill half the time so he can hang out whenever he feels like it and get in with our artists.”

Brennan bristled, but folded his arms across his chest and patiently leaned against a nearby wall.

“Precisely,” Orson said. “I’m not pleased with the fact that he has no structure or accountability.” He placed one hand on the desk and leaned forward. “You know, he spent four years in the Marine Corps. He was one of the most highly skilled and decorated snipers in recent history. He broke marksmanship records left and right. But you’d never be able to tell that he’s ever followed orders from anyone.”

Connor’s posture noticeably straightened. “I did know all that. And I also served. I did three tours in Iraq for the Army and qualified for the Rangers.”

Brennan pursed his lips, shifting his weight, and managed to avoid rolling his eyes. Brennan had only done two tours, albeit in Afghanistan, andfucking A. Wasn’t that enough?

Orson gave an impressed nod. “Very good, very good. Your service is appreciated.”

Connor smiled politely. “Thank you.”

Orson gestured at Brennan. “Here’s what I’d like to propose. I’d like for you to take Brennan on as an official member of your staff, complete with a schedule, deliverables, and a salary. We will, of course, continue our financial agreement with the record label, and I’ll see to it that we increase it to cover whatever pay you deem is appropriate for him. That will start coming directly from me.”

Brennan squinted, inclining his face toward the two men.

His dad wanted him on a salary? What did that mean? Surely, he wasn’t suggesting—

“The problem, Mr. Deneau,” Orson continued, “is that Brennan has no financial accountability. This will teach him the value of an honest dollar earned.”

Brennan nearly scoffed.

Please. As if his dad knewanythingabout earning anything either. He’d been born into a pile of money just like Brennan had, and just like Orson’s father’s father’s father had. This would never stick. It would become too much of a hassle to keep up with, and Orson would set it aside in favor of activities that better held his interest.

Connor nodded sagely, and Brennan could see from the smug-as-fuck little twinkle in his eye that Connor was doing everything in his power to not cast a snarky glance at Brennan.

“I think that’s a fine idea, Mr. Riley.” Connor drummed the desk with his fingers. “Was there a salary you had in mind?”

God damn it, Sarge.

The shit-giving nature of their friendship wasn’t supposed to include shit that affected Brennan’s access to his trust fund.

And if that was in the cards…let’s just say Brennan was about to be a lot more fucked than either of the two men sitting at the desk realized.

The gambling at Harrah’s was a drop in the bucket compared to certain other places he’d been running a tab.

“No, no, I won’t attempt to dictate your financials any more than such a request already does.” Orson waved his hand in the air. “Whatever you deem appropriate. The point isn’t the amount. It’s that Brennan needs to understand that money is a finite resource, and it doesn’t come from thin air.”

“I see.” Connor flattened his palms on the desk. “I’m sure we can figure something out. I’ll meet with Mr. Hall first thing tomorrow, and we’ll get it all squared away.” Connor turned and finally cast Brennan the snarky smile he’d been holding back. “Whaddya say, Ri—uh, Brennan? Nine a.m. tomorrow?”

Brennan returned his look with a patronizing smile. “Sure thing,boss.”

“Excellent,” Connor said as he patted the desk and stood up. Orson followed suit, and the men shook on it.

“All right then, Brennan.” Orson crossed the room and gave him a hard pat on the shoulder, then glanced at his gold Rolex. “Looks like you’ve still got a full day’s work ahead of you. I’ll leave you to it.”

Brennan offered a wave to his dad’s turned back. “Thanks, Dad.”

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