Megaballs, Page 2

  Finally, fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed, albeit in half-crumpled clothes with ugly-ass panties on, and as ready as I’m going to get. I was hoping tonight would be my best shift yet at the restaurant since I started a couple of weeks ago, because I’m finally feeling confident about what I’m doing there, but this… this is not a good start, and I pray it’s not a sign of what the rest of the night has in store.

  Teague

  I USE THE mirrored doors in the elevator to check, recheck, and triple-check my reflection, ensuring the custom-tailored, navy Armani power suit I’m wearing is straight and smooth, my hair is perfectly in place, and, most importantly, there’s no food stuck in my teeth. After all, nothing says imposing and authoritative like a piece of wilted lettuce wedged between your incisors.

  The doors open on the seventeenth floor, and I stride out of the car and up to the receptionist’s desk positioned directly in front of the large sign that reads “Smart & Slaughter LLP, Attorneys at Law.” The irony of the name isn’t lost on me, and though I do hope they can help me outsmart and crush the business-giant bullies from Apex Agriculture, it isn’t why I hired them. No, they are on my payroll because they are consistently listed as the second-best corporate attorneys in legal-ranking publications, below only The Linebetter Firm. Who just so happens to represent the Apex assholes, of course.

  But today is going to mark the beginning of a new era, not only for my lawyers, who are finally going to trump the Linebetters at their own game, but also for me and Goodman Farms, my family’s company, as we defeat the Goliath of the agricultural business.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Smart & Slaughter. How can I help you today?” the attractive, thirty-something brunette behind the ornate, oversized wooden desk greets me with a professional smile. Though her turtleneck sweater does nothing for what appears to be a decent-sized rack, and I can’t see her waist and legs hidden behind the bulky piece of furniture, her face is prettier than average. Plus, she’s kind of got a Rachel from Friends vibe going, which, after my day so far, makes her a prime candidate to celebrate with me later this evening after my upcoming legal victory. I could definitely be her Ross for the night. Though I’ll never be anybody’s lobster.

  I lock eyes with her and offer my most devastating grin, the one that shows off the dimples on both sides of my face, before answering, “Teague Goodman, here to see Mr. Smart. He’s expecting me.”

  She briefly glances down at her computer screen then gazes back up at me, her lips pressed in a tight line, my usually-irresistible charm apparently having no effect on her. “I show your appointment was at one-thirty, Mr. Goodman. It’s now a quarter past four.”

  Leaning forward, my posture remaining cool and confident, I once again hold her stare, thinking maybe she needs a better view at my undeniably good looks. “Yes, my flight was delayed this morning,” I explain matter-of-factly, wondering if Benjamin knows his receptionist is questioning clients as important as myself. “I emailed Helen, Mr. Smart’s secretary, to let her know I’d be coming straight from the airport as soon as I landed. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d let him know I’m here now.”

  I don’t bother telling her it’s a miracle I made it at all, considering my new personal assistant booked me on flight number 191, which every person in their right mind should know is an absolute no-no. After five separate flights with that same number were involved in deadly crashes, many airlines have discontinued the use of it, but lo and behold, Mitzi the Moron — and yes, her name really is Mitzi — managed to find one that still does. Surely she understands why I lost my shit on the phone with her after I checked in at the airport, asking if she was trying to kill me. Staring down at Rachel-the-Receptionist with an attitude, I realize finding good help these days isn’t just an issue in Cedar Rapids. It truly is becoming a nationwide epidemic.

  After several seconds of awkward silence, the woman finally picks up the phone and announces my arrival to who I assume is Helen. Hanging up the receiver, she gives me a curt nod as her mouth curls up in a fake smile.

  “Please take a seat over there, Mr. Goodman,” she says unenthusiastically, while pointing to an open room off to the side with several chairs and a leather sofa, as if I’m bothering her to do her job. “Someone will be out for you shortly.”

  Displeased by both her lack of interest in flirting and the fact I’m not being ushered back immediately, I grumble under my breath as I stroll over to the area she indicated, refusing to sit down. I don’t expect to be waiting too long, especially since I flew all the way from Iowa for this face-to-face meeting and I pay these guys by the hour. Time is money, and I’ve already spent enough on this ridiculous lawsuit from Apex. Once everything is settled, they’ll be lucky if I don’t come after them to recoup my attorney fees for all this hassle.

  Over the next ten minutes or so, I stare blankly at the different photos, awards, and plaques on the wall, not really paying close attention to any of it as I anxiously await the good news I’ve flown here to receive. When Helen told me yesterday afternoon that Smart wanted to go through the terms of the Apex settlement in person, I wasted no time in having Mitzi book my flight to the city by the bay, ready to have this fiasco over and done with. Even if it means skipping my standing Friday night dinner at Biaggi’s and the late-night Dom/sub training session with Jessica, one of the waitresses from the restaurant.

  It’s really too bad Rachel-the-Receptionist isn’t interested in filling in, though it is her loss, considering I just mastered the classic double column tie with my ropes. Even if the untying part still trips me up sometimes… I remain confused about her utter lack of interest in my flirtation, and pull my phone out to refer to Dimitri the Docent’s Definite Dissertation’s, my guide to becoming the Dominant I was always meant to be, about what to do when they don’t even react to the initial eye-contact.

  1. The look – Look the part – Your attire should consist of the latest trend of clothes. Always, and I must stress always, wear a large fancy watch. You may be poor, but dress the part. Women don’t want a broke-ass man.

  2. The Stare – Maintain Eye Contact – Search out your prey from across the room, and once you find her, do not break your gaze until she looks away.

  3. The Three C’s – confidence, composure, and control - radiate confidence no matter how sweaty you are. As long as she feels you are composed and in control of the situation at all times, she will follow your lead.

  I only get a chance to make it through rule number three before I hear a deep voice call out my name from the adjacent hallway. “Teague, glad to see you finally made it.”

  My chin snaps to where Benjamin Smart’s bowling-pin-shaped figure waddles toward where I stand, and with a smile, I hurriedly move to cut the distance between us in half, extending my arm out in front of me when we meet.

  “Sorry about the delay, Benjamin,” I apologize, as we shake hands. “I spent the better part of two hours stuck in a plane parked at a gate, sitting next to a woman who sneezed no less than five hundred times and in front of a kid who kicked the back of my seat at least double that. Believe me when I tell you, I’d’ve much rather been here taking care of things with you than there.”

  His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows pinch together in a deep V as he cocks his head to the side and mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “I doubt that,” when he turns around and motions for me to follow him.

  We travel down the hall to a conference room, where he’s already got several stacks of paper set out around the large table, and as soon as we step inside, he hits a button that makes the blinds close on all the windows so passersby can’t see in. I’m not really sure why that’s necessary, but I don’t say anything and move toward where the papers are.

  Instinctively, I count the number of chairs in the room — thirteen — and an ominous shiver crawls up my spine. Starting my day on a flight with a number destined for doom was one thing, and I tried my best to overlook the fact their office is on the seventeenth floo
r — a number often associated in Europe with ‘my life is over’ — but now, with thirteen chairs in the room, I connect the dots that one bad omen after another can only mean…

  Spinning around to face Benjamin, I blurt out, “How bad is it?”

  He pauses momentarily, taken aback with my outburst, but quickly recovers. “Sit down, Teague. I’ll go over everything with you in detail.”

  I slam my hands down on the back of the leather chair in front of me, and growl, “No! Tell me now. I want the bottom line. What’s this going to do to Goodman Farms?”

  With a loud sigh, he shuffles his feet over to the head of the table and picks up a manila file folder, sliding it toward me. “They’ve agreed to settle for a hundred and forty million and you permanently taking the app down. Otherwise, they’re ready to take the suit to court, and I’ve gotta tell you, Teague, historical rulings are on their side.”

  “A hundred and forty million and taking down the app?!” I shout, as rage boils in my blood, heating me from the inside out.

  “Look, I know it sounds steep, but—”

  “Steep?” I roar, picking up the folder and chucking it across the room at the opposite wall. “This isn’t fucking steep; it’s straight up extortion. It will put Goodman Farms out of business and completely demolish everything I’ve worked so hard to build over the last seven years. Those damn assholes have created a monopoly in this industry, and anytime one of the little guys actually starts to make some headway, they cut us off at the knees.”

  Benjamin lowers himself into a chair, shaking his head. “I agree with you a hundred percent, Teague, but unfortunately, it’s the law. Apex owns the patent on the seed, and until that changes, a judge is going to side with them ninety-nine percent of the time. You’ve taught people how to regenerate seeds instead of having to buy more from Apex.”

  “But Goodman Farms isn’t cleaning or planting propagated seeds,” I argue, as I pace the conference room floor, still refusing to sit down. “We’ve played their stupid game from the very beginning, even though the last three years seed prices continue to go up while corn prices drop at unheard of rates. There’s not a farmer in the Midwest that’s turned a profit since the shift. The Growing Good app is the only thing that’s kept me, and the company, afloat. And now, I have to give them that too? Tell me this is some kind of sick joke my grandpa has put you up to.”

  My vision blurs with anger and disgust, but the truth of reality is as clear as day on my attorney’s face. This isn’t a joke. This is my end.

  “I thought you said we had a good chance to win this,” I fume, marching over to where he sits, my wrath and resentment transferring from Apex to Benjamin. “It’s why I hired you! Why I’m paying you an ungodly amount of money! You said you could beat them!”

  Without making eye contact, he shakes his head and scrubs his hands over his face. “I thought we could. I really did. But their argument that the app not only encourages farmers to clean seeds, but basically teaches them how… they’re not backing down. They’ll take this thing all the way to the Supreme Court, and they’ve got the infinite pockets to do it. If you want to fight, I’ll fight for you, but as your lawyer, I’m advising you to take the settlement. Your chances of winning are slim-to-none.”

  Defeat washes over me as my chin drops to my chest and my fingers rake through my hair. My eyes burn with tears I’ll never cry and my stomach ties itself in a thousand knots. When I created the Growing Good app my senior year of college, it was the first of its kind, deemed by CropLife magazine to “revolutionize the farming world one download at a time.” A single place farmers could go to manage all of their agricultural needs, tracking everything from soil conditions to weather forecasts to yield calculations and even inventory and equipment administration.

  Growing up on my grandpa’s farm, I used what I learned in my business and computer information system studies at Iowa State University to develop a tool primarily to make his life easier and less stressful, but it ended up doing all that and so much more. With over two million downloads in the first year I uploaded Growing Good onto the AppStore, the money I made from it alone allowed me to invest in Goodman Farms and grow the two thousand acres of corn fields my grandpa had to nearly twenty thousand, making us one of the top corn producers in the U.S.

  But now… if I agree to this settlement, we’ll be lucky to keep the house and land we started with, much less anything else. And with Grandpa not getting any younger and his health not getting any better, I’m afraid of what this will do to him.

  “Teague,” Benjamin interrupts my self-pity party, “we have a week to get back with them on your decision. Take some time to think about it and talk to your grandpa. If you decide to accept, the app will need to be taken down immediately, but there’s a way to salvage some of the farms. That’s a lengthy discussion that will involve our bankruptcy team, and it won’t need to happen for a while. Right now, I know your emotions are running high, so it’s probably best you wait to calm down before making any concrete decisions.”

  I want to tell him he and his bankruptcy team can shove their concrete decisions where the Iowa sun don’t shine, but I bite my tongue and nod instead.

  “Are you headed back to Iowa tonight?” he asks, as he pushes the chair back and stands, putting some distance between us. “I can get Helen to give you a ride to the airport so you don’t have to catch a cab.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time and shake my head. “No, the last flight out to Cedar Rapids left half an hour ago. Plus, I had my assistant book a room for the night anyway. I thought I’d be spending the evening celebrating our victory… but perhaps I should take a long walk over the Golden Gate Bridge and never come back.”

  Benjamin strides toward the door and opens it before shooting me a contrite grimace. “Remember, no concrete decisions. It’s Friday afternoon. Go have a drink or six, find a lonely woman at the hotel bar, and try to forget about all this stuff for a while. We’ll talk next week after you and your grandfather have had a chance to discuss it.”

  “‘All this stuff’ is my entire life,” I grumble, stepping out into the hallway, “but yeah, I’ll give you a call on Monday.”

  Benjamin accompanies me for the short trek to the elevator, probably afraid I’m going to lose my shit, ransacking his office on my way out. Which, I admit, does cross my mind. This Humpty Dumpty fucker gets paid no matter what happens to Goodman Farms, so his concern about my family’s company is shallow and superficial… just like Rachel’s smile as we walk by. Screw her; I never liked Ross much anyway.

  As the elevator doors close, I pretend both Benjamin and the snotty receptionist’s faces are smashed in the middle, then slump forward and rest my forehead against the cool stainless steel, wondering what in the hell I’m going to do. Stepping outside into the mild, overcast late afternoon, I begin to walk in the direction of my hotel, hoping the fresh air blowing in off the bay will help clear my head.

  My stomach begins rumbling before too long, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since that sorry excuse for a chef salad I had at the airport in Iowa. It’s just about the time I’d be making my way for happy hour and chicken marsala at Biaggi’s with Jessica if I were back home. My strides slow as I glance around at the stores and restaurants nearby, and for the first time today, it seems like luck may be on my side as I spot an Italian eatery called Impasta across the street.

  I may be filing for bankruptcy next week. I may be looking for a new career shortly after that. And I may not be able to tie up and spank a hot redhead tonight while stuffing her holes with my cock. But damn it, at least I’ll get some chicken marsala for dinner.

  All hope is not lost. Yet.

  Finley

  I’M LATE. AGAIN.

  Slipping quietly through the back employee entrance of Impasta, I hope time has somehow magically stood still for the fifteen minutes it took me to sprint from our house to work. But as I glance at the time on my cellphone with still not-so-clear vision,
I curse under my breath.

  5:12. No such luck.

  Careful not to let the heavy door slam shut behind me, I tiptoe through the kitchen and recite a silent prayer that whichever manager is on duty is too busy to notice I haven’t made it out to the bar area yet.

  “You’re late. Again,” a disgruntled voice thunders from behind me.

  Of course not.

  And of all people, it has to be Johnny’s shift.

  Just when I thought my afternoon couldn’t get any worse…

  I freeze midstride at his loud bark, and groan internally as I twist around to face him, pasting on my best sultry look. Lord knows — as well as every other female employee who works here — that Johnny’s a disgusting pig who loves to have his ego stroked.

  I’m sure it’s not the only thing he enjoys having stroked, but the thought of what shriveled-up nastiness he hides behind those God-awful, front-pleated, mustard-colored slacks he wears all the damn time makes me want to projectile vomit. Suddenly, my blurry sight isn’t such a bad thing when I realize I can’t focus in on his weasely face.

  Batting my eyelashes, I subtly squeeze my boobs together with my upper arms and tilt my chest slightly forward, offering up what I know is a fleshy eyeful peeking out of my white V-neck blouse. Most guys can’t resist a stolen glimpse at the girls — a genetic gift from Granny Freda — especially not greasy slimeballs like Johnny Mingarelli. And over the past few years, I’ve learned to use my full Ds to my advantage whenever necessary. Seeing how I’ve already been tagged twice in these first few weeks of employment for being late, and I can’t afford to lose this job, I deem this moment most necessary.

  “I’m sorry, Johnny. It won’t happen again,” I lie, knowing damn-well it will. Especially on the days when I have to wait for Farrah to get home from work, since leaving Fiona alone isn’t an option, seeing as how she manages to nearly burn the place down even when I am there. “My sister was late coming home from work, and I couldn’t just leave my six-year-old niece in the apartment by herself. I rushed here as soon as she walked through the door. Please don’t write me up again.”