Page 14 of Token

“Right. Take care, Kennedy.”

And that was the last she’d see of Nate Vaughn for a while.

4

Two years later

Men are impossible.

“Mr. Carter—”

“Please, I told you to call me Peter.”

Yes, but that had been last year, when she’d had higher hopes for him and the company. He’d had an entire year and had yet to institute one change she’d painstakingly detailed in the diversification and inclusivity plan Token had created for the company. A plan for which he’d paid the agency a nice chunk of change.

Spine straight, legs decorously crossed, and clasped hands resting comfortably in her lap, Kennedy sat in her ex-client’s office, a massive redwood desk between them.

Peter Carter, the president and CEO of Moves, prided himself on being able—at fifty-eight—to bench-press two and a half times his body weight. (He may have mentioned it a time or four during their last conversation.) The thick hair on top of his head was all his—he’d slipped that in too—although the same couldn’t be said for the color, which she attributed to Just For Men medium brown.

In meeting with him today, Kennedy had been strategic, selecting a tailored pantsuit because the lastandfirst time they’d met, he’d remarked—quite casually and with absolutely zero sense of self-awareness—that legs like hers were made for dresses and skirts. This he’d said directly to her face. She’d responded with a bland smile, and then politely asked if the company had mandatory sensitivity training for all its employees, including management. Without batting so much as an eyelash, he’dunironically replied that while the company abided by the state mandate, he personally hadn’t attended the sessions, and what a shocker that had been.

Not.

“All right, then,Peter, but I’m not sure what you want me to do for you.” Just five minutes into their meeting, and the man was already wearing on her nerves. “You were supposed to start diversifying this division last year. That was the agreement.”

Granted, it was verbal, but an agreement, nonetheless.

“I didn’t know they were going to start grading us and putting out a fucking scorecard.” He sounded defensive and resentful.

Kennedy’s eyes widened a fraction. Since when had they reached a point in their acquaintance that the f-word could be thrown around so blithely and without so much as apardon my Frenchtagged on to soften the impact? And how very nice of him to admit he hadn’t expected anyone to hold him accountable and therefore had had no compunction in going back on his word. Unfortunately, she dealt with too many men like him. Reluctant to do even the bare minimum, andonlydoing so when it threatened their bottom line.

“It’s a scorecard, Peter, not a lawsuit.”

“But that kind of publicity is bad for the company. And whatever’s bad for the company is bad for business.”

And that business was athletic footwear and apparel. Of course, he didn’t want his customers to know that Moves would be getting a failing diversity grade. Not in this political climate. She could already see the hashtags on social media excoriating the company. There’d certainly be calls for a boycott, which would have a decent possibility of gaining traction, given the nature of the products and target audience.

“Which is why I can’t help you this time.” She wasn’t being entirely truthful. All right, fine. She didn’twantto help him. Not this time. He was looking for another quick fix because he had zero interest in doing the work. No doubt didn’t think he had to.

“Then help me mitigate it.” His tone was too demanding to be considered cajoling, but was the closest it could ever come to the spirit of the word. “I just need to get a few folks in here by the time the blasted scorecard comes out. That way, when those vultures call for a comment, I can tell them how the company is aware of the problem and is working hard to correct it.”

She could understand his frustration, but calling reporters vultures for doing their jobs? Unnecessarily harsh.

“I’m sorry, but—”

He leaned forward, his clasped hands on his desk. “Antonio Jackson is coming in for a meeting tomorrow. What the hell am I going to do?”

Ah!Antonio Jackson. Just your typical equality and social justice warrior. He knelt, he marched, and most of all, he put his money where his mouth was. He was also the best forward in the NBA, with three championship titles to his name, two MVP rings, and the guy had yet to celebrate his thirtieth birthday.

Oh, and with his legion of fans, he wielded his influence with the might of Thor’s hammer.

“You can’t expect me to believe that you’re only finding out about this now?” Kennedy asked, her eyebrow arched skeptically. There was no way he hadn’t known about the meetingwellin advance.

In silence, she watched as he straightened to his full height, which couldn’t be more than two inches taller than her own five feet eight inches, and emerged from behind his desk. Agitated, he tugged on his tie and trod the length of the spacious office.

“It doesn’t matter when I knew. What matters is that he just announced he’s donating thirty percent of all proceeds from the sales of histhe ball’s in your courtshirts and wristbands to charity—charities that support diversity in education and sports. Diversity is a big deal to him now.”

“Yes, well, he has been kneeling for over a year,” she pointed out.

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