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“You do that. I’ll make sure to set my DVR to record your dramatic exit when Channel 11 airs the story.” I give him a two-finger salute and walk around to get back in my car.
“You’ll ruin the family’s reputation,” he calls.
I make my dispassion plain in my expression.
“You’ve done a fine job of that yourself. Let me know what you’d like to do regarding leaving the house. I really have no problem being the bad guy. Everyone already thinks I’m a villain, why not get something in return for the headaches that come with that.”
I drive down the winding road and watch the estate whiz by. When I was a boy growing up here, I never imagined I would come to think of it as a burden. A reminder of those ugly days after my father’s death and the years I spent being a punching bag for self-important assholes and an ATM to any pretty girl who would give me the time of day.
I approach the private entrance to Rivers Wilde and the tension I’m carrying starts to dissipate.
The gate lifts and I drive into the enclave, established by the Wildes before I was even born. This community, developed on land that was in my family for nearly one hundred years, is one of the most sought after addresses in Houston.
The huge golf course stretches for three miles on one side of Wildewood Parkway. The grand country club rises from behind its gates like a palace. I pause at the forked road and go right to the cluster of sky-scraping residential towers called the Ivy. The glass and brick structures loom over the copse of trees planted around them. As I approach the four-lane circle drive, the guard who sits in the middle of it waves in greeting and the wrought iron gate starts its slow ascent.
“Evening, boss,” Sammy, our valet, greets as he pulls my door open. “Your dinner’s been delivered and is ready to bring up as soon as you call.”
“Thank you.” I grasp his outstretched hand, and he smiles when he feels the money in my hand.
“Will you be needing your car again, or should I park her for the night?”
I glance at sky. It’s clear and blue, but the orange tint of the clouds signals that it’s dusk.
“No, leave her out. I’m going out before dinner,” I tell him and head inside to change. On my way up, I call Remington Wilde. I haven’t spoken to him since that day sixteen years ago. But from what I’ve heard, even from people who don’t like him, he’s a straight shooter. An honest man and a legendary attorney already. He’s grown Wilde Law into one of the largest in the country and has made his name as Assistant Attorney General in the Civil Rights Division at the Department of Justice by the time he turned thirty. He’s back home after his grandfather’s death left him the head of the family. He’s built the Civil Rights Division of Wilde Law incredibly fast. And his firm is representing the class that’s suing us.
“Mr. Wilde’s office,” a crisp, British accented female voice answers after the first ring.
“Is Mr. Wilde there?”
“He’s not available, may I take a message?” she asks immediately. Fucking gatekeepers.
“It’s Hayes Rivers,” I say.
There’s a beat of silence, and she says, “Mr. Rivers, please hold for Mr. Wilde,” and then there’s a beep and Remington comes on the line.
“Who the fuck is this?” he says, just like he did that morning we met. I burst into unexpected laughter, and he joins me.
“What’s up, kid?” he asks.
“I’m going to give you that, because these days, I’m good with being younger than you, especially since we’re playing at the same level now,” I say.
“You can’t even see my level.” He laughs. “You just got back into town, and you’re already talking shit,” he says.
“Just telling you how it is,” I say.
“You have no clue how it is. You need to come kiss the rings of the men who’ve been running Houston while you were eating pasta on a beach in Italy,” he quips. I laugh. I’d forgotten that he was a cocky asshole. I haven’t seen him again since that day we met in the clearing. But looks like not much has changed.
“I got your letter,” I say and don’t take his bait.
“No hard feelings, man,” he says unapologetically. “But you’ve got to know that what Kingdom is doing is very wrong.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. I’m not calling to give you shit. I’m about to do you a huge favor,” I tell him.
He whistles low and long. “Well, shit. Maybe I should sue you more often.” He laughs.
“You in the office early tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
