Page 3 of Recruited By the Billionaire

Neither one of her friends were drama queens. They were busy professionals who didn’t roll like that. If they said it was serious, it was serious. And they wanted to meet her at a motel? Frankie was nobody’s fool. She knew what that meant too.

It was three in the afternoon. She had an excuse to get off early: she had to prepare for her party tonight. The hard deadline she had already pushed back once before, making it an even harder deadline, would just have to wait a little longer.

“I’m on my way,” she said to her friends and ended the call, grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys, and left her office. She walked right by Britney bitching to the other editors that had gathered around her cubicle. Britney tried to smile it off when they saw her walking by, and so did the other editors, but Frankie wasn’t thinking about any of them. If the reason for that call was what she feared it was, she had far bigger fish to fry than some entitled rich kid and her sycophants. She hurried out of the building.

CHAPTER TWO

Robert Marris opened his large, emerald eyes and woke up with a pounding headache. He had partied too hard the night before, at a get-together on his yacht, and could barely remember anything that happened before the cops showed up. But because of who he was, disaster was averted and nobody was arrested. But he knew, because of who he was, it was still going to be headline news.

He got up, went to the bathroom and peed, and then looked through the vanity mirror as he washed his hands. Bags under his eyes. His blonde hair getting more salt-and-pepper-looking every day. His strong jawline that used to give him a youthful, boyish appearance now made him look as though he was aging faster than even he thought possible. He looked like shit and felt even worst. He needed a shave, a bath, and a vacation. But he was the newest member of that rarified NFL owners club. His football team’s inaugural season was just around the corner. A vacation was out of the question.

He put on his silk bathrobe and made his way down the winding staircase that led into his massive, gourmet kitchen. His longtime publicist, Laine Peters, along with his longtime COO Jerry Wyndham, were seated at the peninsular thumbing through their respective cell phones. They were waiting for him to finally come downstairs. Because they knew his routine. They knew it would be early afternoon before he got up. That was why they had just arrived with mere minutes to spare. That was why, when they heard him coming downstairs, they looked at each other and smiled. They were right on the money once again.

His longtime chef, Andres Petrovka, heard him coming down too and hurried to sit the breakfast he had prepared, along with a fresh cup of coffee, on the kitchen table that overlooked the lake. It was where he knew the boss preferred to eat. But the boss wasn’t interested in eating. Robert walked right pass his big breakfast spread and headed straight for the full-sized bar on the other side of the room.

Laine and Jerry hurried behind him. Andres sighed in defeat. He was paid to cook meals the boss almost never ate!

“How bad?” Robert asked as he walked.

“Bad,” said Laine as they followed him. “Not as awful as last month and that scandal with the duchess, but still bad.”

Robert shook his head. “A man can’t have a party on his own yacht without it becoming a federal offense in this country-ass town? That’s bullshit.”

“It wasn’t just a party, Robert,” Laine reminded him. “It was a party that got way out of hand. The police had to be called. People nearly drowned they were so drunk.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“What she’s trying to say,” said Jerry, “is that you’re in a position of public trust now. You’re not some lone wolf venture capitalist anymore, who can buy and sell and wheel and deal and not have to answer to anybody. But now you’re the youngest owner of the NFL’s brand-new expansion team where all of the other owners are old, old men who didn’t want you in the club to begin with. You’re the owner of the Pensacola Admirals now. That’s a big damn deal. You have to act accordingly. You were given that team and this opportunity over dozens of other conglomerates because of the NFL’s belief that you would be a great representative for their massively successful brand.”

“Bullshit,” Robert called out as he stood behind his bar and poured himself a drink. “I was willing to put out the most cash and grease the most palms to get into this club. Money is why I got that team just like money is how I get everything else. Everybody can be bought, including the NFL. And they knew going in that the only person, place, or thing Rob Marris would be representing is myself.”

Jerry shook his head and looked at Robert’s shot of whiskey. “You are hands down the only person I have ever known that cures a hangover by drinking more liquor.”

Robert grinned, raised his glass to his old friend, and drank the whole shot. But Jerry could still see the distress in Robert’s eyes after swallowing it because his head was still pounding.

And Laine, who wasn’t an old friend but a devoted employee, was still worried. The other owners could tire of his antics and vote him out of that club just like they voted him in. He could lose it all. And since he was about to promote her to Vice President of Recruiting inside the Admiral organization,shecould lose it all. “Just like they gave that franchise to you, sir,” she said, “they can just as easily take it away.”

“I want them to try,” Robert said.

Jerry laughed. He knew how gangster his boss could be. He wanted them to try too. But Laine was still worried.

Robert noticed her anguish. “Okay, Laine, stop worrying alright?” When she still could not hide her concern, he exhaled. “Who’s complaining?”

“You’re trending on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram,” she said. “And those are the only ones I checked so far. All of the comments are negative. And when I say all, I meanall.”

Robert began pouring himself another shot. “Such as?”

She pulled it up on her phone and began reading one: “They wouldn’t give the team to my city. Oh no. Not the NFL! They give it to a guy who doesn’t even live in Florida and behaves worse than Florida Man ever behaved!”

Jerry laughed. “Now that’s funny,” he said.

“I do live in Florida,” said Robert. “I even moved some of my east coast operations to Pensacola to be near the team most of the time. That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

“He’s one of thousands, Robert,” said Laine. “That little escapade on your yacht is breaking news on every newscast in the state. Some city council members here locally want to reconsider the city’s commitment to pay for more stadium expansion. Some suburban moms, who feel you’re a bad influence on their young football-loving children, are planning a protest at the stadium. It’s bad, Robert.”

Robert started to drink another shot, but sat the glass back down. “Has Commissioner Sperling called? That’s all I wanna know,” he asked.

“Not yet, no.”

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