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“Hmm. Yeah.” His voice dips low. “Amazing.”
Rawson’s eldest son should be enthusiastic about his dad’s achievements. And his words indicate that…but Shane sounds distracted.
I’m hardly shocked, given his history.
Shane Charles Rawson just turned thirty-one. He made decent grades in high school, but nothing to get excited about. He scored a 1095 on his SAT, barely above average. Yet somehow he was accepted into Southern Methodist University, one of the most prestigious private colleges in Texas? There’s a simple five-letter explanation for that: M-O-N-E-Y. Daddy bought Shane’s way onto campus.
In his first semester, he was accused of sexually harassing a faculty member and getting a girl in his dorm pregnant. The following spring, his frat kicked him to the curb for dismal grades. Not long after, a state trooper pulled him over for underage drinking and driving. The cop didn’t show up for the trial to provide testimony—I don’t have to guess who paid him off—so Shane walked free. Then, just before finals, he dropped out because he was failing every class, including Introduction to Campus Life, which should have been an easy A. The guy didn’t even last a year in college.
After that, he tried various occupations, everything from selling real estate to—of all laughable endeavors—being a race-car driver. He bombed. For the past two years, he’s been working for his dad with a puffed-up title that carries zero responsibility. Grumbles around the office are that Shane sucks at his job, partly because he’s not bright. But mostly because he doesn’t give a shit. Because he’s in the middle of a contentious divorce? Or because that’s just who he is?
“Will your father be overseeing this company restructure?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” he drawls long and deep, his breathing suddenly harsh.
Is the guy feeling okay?
“Good. That’s good.”
“I mean, no. Dad put me in charge of this while he—” Suddenly, Shane sucks air through his teeth in a hiss, then moans. “Oh…”
What is Shane Rawson doing? Shitting? Gaming? Masturbating?
“Do we need to have this conversation when you’re less busy?”
“Nah, I got this, McBride. It’s fine. It’s so”—he blows out a heavy breath—“good. Fuck.”
No need to guess anymore. He’s masturbating.
Son of a bitch.
I close my eyes and try not to imagine this guy whacking off during our call. In fact, I’ll try to ignore his rough pants and moans altogether. “You were saying your father won’t be available for our streamlining efforts because…”
I’d a hundred times rather be dealing with Bruce Rawson. He’s a wily bastard, and he would be difficult to bluff. But I’d rather have the challenge—and not have to listen to his son heaving and puffing into the phone like he’s working up to a monster orgasm while we discuss things like org charts and balance sheets.
“He’s busy. I got this.” His gasping picks up pace. “That’s right.”
“In order to get started, I’ll need your financial statements for the last five years.” Somewhere in those figures, I’ll find a reason to convince Shane that pursuing Wynam will be bad for the company’s bottom line. The rest of it… If I’m going to figure out how stiff Evan’s competition really is, I’ll need their most recent years’ numbers, especially anything to do with product launches, advertising budget, month-over-month revenue and expenses, along with all the data about employee compensation, so I can assess their profits and losses—and their prospects for the future.
“Got the previous four years. But…oh. Hmm. We haven’t finished last year’s. Been too—oh, fuck—busy.”
I slap my palm over my face. Listening to him jack off isn’t how I wanted to spend my Monday. “Do you have a delivery date for that?”
After all, first quarter is more than half over, and I don’t know how they’re making decisions about the future of the company without assessing their financial health for the previous twelve-month period.
“No. Fuck. Oh, goddamn.” He’s panting like a bellows now.
If I didn’t have to talk to the asshole in order to clear Evan a path to our next big client, I would have already hung up.
“Too busy?” I can’t resist prodding him.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s fucking it. Oh…yeah!”
At his long, growled groan of satisfaction, I shake my head. He’s rude. This is fucking unprofessional. I like getting off, too. I admit it. But not in the office. I have zero respect for a guy who’s unable to focus on critical business more than his dick.
“So if you can’t do this, who should I be talking to?” Hell yes, I’m confronting him. I have my usual responsibilities around Stratus, plus this gig for Jeremy. I seriously don’t have time for Shane’s self-pleasure.
“Will that be all, Mr. Rawson?” A female suddenly purrs in the background, and I can all but hear her licking her lips.
