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“And your life,” she says, grabbing my shoulders. “Listen to me. You tell that asshole that unless he brings back Clyde and the rest of the band, you’re not singing. Or go to a better club.” She gives me that look, the same one she’s been giving me for over a year whenever I talk about Freddy’s. “I know you don’t want to entertain the thought, but you can still see Clyde and sing at another club, a better, safer one that isn’t run by a fucking goon.”
“I know.” I squeeze her hands, not wanting to try to explain again to her that it’s not just about a better club or more money; it’s about singing with these guys who have become my friends. And it’s about my long-term plan to own Freddy’s. I don’t have a clue how, when I barely make enough to pay my bills now, but someday, I’m going to buy Freddy’s and restore it to what it used to be.
“I’m sorry if that was harsh,” she apologizes. “I just worry about you there.”
“I know and you’re right, though. I’m just going to tell Freddy that unless he brings back the band, I’m not singing.” I toss my hands in the air with a huge smile, feeling a little silly I didn’t say that the second he told me he was firing them.
“Good. There’s that beautiful smile.” She playfully pinches my cheek. “Now, I have some other good news to tell you.”
“Oh yeah? Good, I need it.”
“Trust me, you really need this.” Her lips curl into a suspicious grin.
“What?”
“I gave him your number—wrote it on the sleeve when you were filling the cup.”
“What?” I say again, laughing in confusion as her comment doesn’t register. “You gave my number to som—” Then I realize who she’s referring to.
“Mr. TGIF.”
Chapter 2
Atlas
“Sir, as I mentioned in our last conversation regarding your father’s trust, the deadline is less than five months away.”
My eyes stay focused on the phone number staring back at me as I slowly twist the cup from side to side over and over again.
Her bright-blue eyes stare back at me, her black hair piled on her head as a few loose tendrils tickle her neck. My fingers itch to reach out and brush them away from her delicate throat. They twitch, resting on my thigh, an image of them wrapped around her throat as I slide my tongue between her plump lips.
“Did you need me to throw that out, sir?”
“Hmm?” I glance over at Oliver, my house manager, completely unaware how long he’s been standing there. “Sorry, no.” I shake my head.
“As I was saying, the trust, sir.”
“The trust.” I nod my head, chewing my bottom lip for a second as my pulse begins to return to normal.
“Have you thought any further about asking Miss Tate?”
“No,” I say firmly, not wanting to have this conversation with him again. “As I mentioned last time, Oliver, Miss Tate and I are no longer together. End of discussion.”
Oliver nods curtly. “Dinner will be ready at seven p.m. per the regular schedule. If you need anything else from me in the meantime, sir, I will be in the library.” He turns on his heel and walks toward the door of my home office.
“I’m working on it. I have a plan.” My words stop him and he turns to face me, smiling softly while giving another nod.
“I hope so, sir.”
Oliver has worked for my family for four generations, starting out as my father’s driver when he was barely eighteen years old to now running the entire house which means managing the chef and cooks and the garden crew, as well as driving me around at his insistence even though we have a driver, Mac, who works full-time for the house. He’s always been like a second father to me, but when he oversteps, I will remind him that I don’t need him meddling in my affairs. The same way I let my father know when he was still alive.
The door shuts with an almost silent click. I reach into my middle desk drawer and produce the trust that Oliver was referring to. Almost as soon as I begin to read over it for the hundredth time, I toss it back onto my desk in frustration.
“Bastard,” I mutter, standing to walk over to the bar cart in the far corner of the room. I pour a generous three fingers of scotch, taking half of it down in one gulp before refilling the glass.
My father, Byron Knight, one of the last truly self-made billionaires this world has known, loved nothing more than to make everyone else feel stupid. It was the only thing in life that truly made him happy, making others feel less than. He was fucked in the head. But what really pisses me off is that he knew exactly what he was doing when he had this trust written. When he died, he left me all of his physical assets, money, investments, you name it. The only thing he didn’t outright leave me was the only thing he knew I wanted or cared about—Knight Enterprises.
I have spent every fucking second of my adult life, most of my teenage life, and even some of my true adolescence dedicated to this company. I’ve made more money than I’ll ever spend. I own houses and cars I’ll never drive or sleep a single night in. But what I don’t own… a majority stake in the company that has my goddamn name on it. Being CEO of my father’s company isn’t enough. I deserve those majority shares and I’ve done more than enough to deserve the fucking power.
