Page 32 of Playboy Pitcher
Super. Now I have two slimy things in my car. Picking up the business card, I open Buford’s driver’s side door to chuck them both onto the pavement when something stops me.
Not his name. Not his title. Not his company.
The location.
Drake S. Prescott
Vice President of Communications
SWGeorge Corp, New York, New York
New York.
SWGeorge Corp headquarters is on Wall Street.
Emma’s story filters through my head like a movie on rewind.
“There are these two old-fashioned rich, tycoon, Wall Street-like families. The two fathers wanted their children to get married. Like merging-of-empires, arranged-marriage type shit.”
As the details rush back, I turn the bag of Skittles upside down, pouring what’s left straight into my mouth.
“He put a stipulation in his will that his daughter could only get her hands on her trust fund if she married that other dude’s son. After her father died, she married the other guy’s son, got her money, then got a big, fat divorce. Those fuckers—I mean friends—split the inheritance and then married the people they were really in love with. Smart, huh?”
“Holy shit.” I don’t know if it’s the sugar rush, or my requested spark of hope, but the longer I think about it, the less crazy it sounds.
That guy’s daughter was brilliant.
I don’t want the team, but I damn sure don’t want Drake getting his hands on it. The addendum clause states I have to keep the franchise in my immediate family, or it defaults to him.
But nowhere does it state that said family has tostayfamily.
The solution is simple.
All I have to do is find someone willing to commit fraud. Someone who knows how to keep his mouth shut. Someone who can play a role. Grimacing, I rack my brain thinking of possible candidates, only to reject them just as fast.
Then I smile.
Someone who’d have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Someone on a temporary injured list and a permanent shit list.
Starting the ignition, I peel out of the parking lot with the pedal to the floorboard. Steering with my knee, I snatch my phone from the passenger’s seat and send a quick text to Emma.
You’re a genius.
Her response is immediate.
Obviously. About what?
When I don’t respond, those three little dots flicker again and another text pops up, this time in all caps.
WILLOW? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?
I don’t answer. Sending her a kissy-face emoji, I exit out of messenger and hit the speed dial for a recently entered number.
He answers on the second ring. “Willie?”
“I need to get someone’s address from you.”
