Chapter 30

30

Beck

I'm so hyped up Friday morning, I can't even concentrate on Donkey Kong. I keep hearing Sarah's ragged breath and soft gasps, that need in her voice, and I don't even want second breakfast.

I want to go find her.

But I'm stuck in meetings with my team that I can't get out of by frying another motherboard, especially since my coffee this morning is from a local shop down the street that uses cinnamon sticks as stir sticks and it's delicious and I'd have to go get a different cup of coffee to dump on my computer if I don't want to cry while I'm doing it.

Plus, Bruce has decided that Operation: Fix Beck's Reputation has gone so well that we need to jump on getting Vaughn signed up for doing a business partnership around socks.

Yes, socks .

"It's an easy market," he insists. "Who else is doing designer socks? And we could pull the girl into it. Those shots of you looking at her while she's making that donkey face with the penis shoulder are exactly the sort of thing that would sell if you were sitting on a couch together, showing off your socks."

" Donkey face with the penis shoulder ?"

Charlie slides me her phone, and I look down to see Sarah laughing so hard her mouth's open and her eyes are squeezed shut, and somehow her braid's hanging over her shoulder but looks fuzzy enough that okay, yeah, if you have a dirty mind, it could possibly look like a penis, but Christ , you really have to twist it.

"She looks like she's having fun," I say.

"Whatever."

" Not whatever," I growl, and I don't give two shits that I'm currently contemplating asking Judson if we can hire some of those Euranians to go toss flaming poop bombs on Bruce's front step, because I'm not doing a business partnership over socks . "Her name is Sarah ?—"

"Serendipity, technically," Hestia says.

"Her name is Sarah," Charlie says. "And I'm violently opposed to the idea of trying to bring profit into this partnership with Vaughn. It's for kids, not for growing already overinflated bank accounts."

"Vehemently," Hestia corrects.

"No, violently ."

"Honey, you're just the assistant," Bruce says.

"She's a fucking genius, and you're getting on my nerves," I growl.

Huh.

I get why Judson's doing it.

It feels really fucking good to growl when you're pissed.

Everyone goes silent. It's four talking heads on my video screen, all gaping at me.

Except Charlie.

She's glaring at my computer screen like she's squishing Bruce's head with her mind.

"We're not asking Vaughn to go into socks with me," I tell Bruce. "Next."

There's another hour of mind-numbing business discussions about some small-time partnerships that I have with a rising celebrity chef, an Instagrammer, and a tea company—my team was pissed about that one, but dude, sometimes a guy on the road needs a solid cup of chamomile, and Snore-Tea fucking rocks—and by the time we hang up, I don't want food, or to go take a run, or to go hang out at my parents' house and see who's around from the neighborhood.

I want to see Sarah.

Her phone goes to voicemail.

I send a text, but that doesn't even show as read.

"No," Charlie says when I grab my keys.

"I'm going out to get a burger."

"You're going out to drive past Sarah's house and her office."

" And to get a burger." Two burgers. Or five. I don't actually know what her favorite toppings are, because I'm pretty fucking certain she ordered that burger last night for me, and while she ate it, that doesn't mean it was her favorite.

I need to figure out what her favorite burger is.

And what she likes on her pizza.

And if she eats whipped cream straight out of the can.

Fuck , I'm getting a boner again.

"She's visiting a client site today," Charlie informs me. "Doing her actual job . And I might not make it another week before Bruce drives me to quit, but you can be damn certain I'll be suing you for hostile work conditions if I quit."

I scrub a hand over my face. "I'll call him. Don't quit. I'll give you my firstborn and a peanut butter factory."

"You're not having children, and the beauty of peanut butter is that I'm not stuck with one kind for eternity. Tell. Bruce. To. Knock. It. Off."

She looks pointedly at my phone.

"Okay, okay. Right now. I'll call him right now ."

It's easier to chew his ass out about respecting everyone on the team—including Sarah—when I realize this guy could actually have reason to talk to her, or my mom, or my sister one day. He reminds me he's done a shit-ton of work to help me launch and keep not just the RYDE line going strong, but also my loungewear and body care lines, and I remind him that that's exactly what I pay him to do, and if he fucks up this foundation with Vaughn by trying to weasel more business out of him when I've specifically told him not to, I also have a crackpot legal team and I know he's been cheating on his wife.

I don't actually know that until he blusters that I'm full of shit and trips over his tongue daring me to prove it.

Call it a gut feeling.

When I hang up, I feel like shit, because I hate chewing people out.

I find Charlie in a small office across the hall. "Why didn't you tell me a year ago he was this much of an ass?"

"He wasn't until his last mistress dumped him. Now he's seeing some twenty-three-year-old who thinks he's richer than you, and the stress of going broke pretending is getting to him."

I gape at her.

"But I've had Hank monitoring your bank accounts and any attempts to make unauthorized transactions, plus your legal team has combed through his employment agreement, so you're fine."

And now my eyes are going to fall out of my head.

"Beck. When we're on the road, you're going twenty hours a day. You don't play the diva, you don't tell the photographers to wrap it up, you don't complain about living on watercress and four black beans a day, you make us stop so you can play soccer with random kids in public parks, and you give me raises every single month. My last boss slapped my ass regularly, would pitch a fit if his coffee wasn't exactly 183 degrees, and ultimately quit paying my salary because he ran out of money after one of his mistresses discovered he was cheating on her and hacked his bank accounts. It's in my best interest to make sure you can still pay me."

I've been in this business a long time. Her story doesn't surprise me, and that pisses me off. I hold out a fist. "You're a total badass, and I hope you punched him in the nuts when you quit."

She bumps me. "I got to quit. That was good enough. Plus, I don't actually like to punch men when they're down, and his second mistress put him in the hospital with a bleeding kidney. Don't piss off a woman wearing stilettos. Also, you have a phone call with Vaughn at eleven—don't piss him off either, because he's letting his people keep working with our people to keep this going—and Tripp's upstairs waiting for you. Apparently you're his best chance for adult conversation. Poor man. Telecon with your Ryder Family Foundation manager in thirty. Don't be late."

He's not Sarah, but I'm still smiling when I head up to my apartment. James is flying an airplane around my living room and Emma's gnawing on a stuffed giraffe. "Hey, watch it, kid. Those things are endangered." I boop her nose and dive out of the way of James's airplane. "Aahh! Out of control airplane's gonna get me!"

He chases me around the living room and kitchen, giggling and shrieking, until we collapse on the floor in front of the couches and he flops onto my belly to vroom the airplane into my nose.

"And up you go," Tripp says, pulling him off me and turning him to stare at some cartoon on the TV. "Uncle Beck needs his pretty nose to stay pretty if he's going to stay employed."

"Are you kidding? Being injured while saving bunnies and children from runaway evil airplanes will only add to my mystique and improve my reputation."

He shakes his head and runs a hand through his brown hair. "It's like having a third kid," he mutters.

I grin. "Just like being on the road, except now your actual kids are smaller."

"And growing."

"Do I need to wrap Emma in a plastic tarp, or is her butt better?"

"There's nothing left in her until we feed her again. Your floors are safe for now."

She glances at us, tosses her giraffe to the side, and then goes down on all fours to dart over to James's abandoned plastic airplane, which also goes straight in her mouth.

"Huh. I should've thought of that," I say. "That looks like it's delicious."

Tripp shakes his head. "You selling out?"

He's lounging on my couch, and he's pulling off relaxed—helps that he's in a RYDE cotton shirt, because dude, those things are so soft they'd melt on hot toast—but I've known him since I could talk, and there's something gnawing at him.

Also, why does he keep asking me that?

"You going stir-crazy?" I ask with a head tilt at the kids.

He props his elbows on his knees and steeples his hands. "Yes. No. I—yes."

"No guilt, dude. Remember when our moms used to dump us all on the men and disappear for whole weekends away?"

His smile goes sad. "Yeah. Mine always felt guilty."

"What? Why?"

"Because she had to dump us on somebody else's dad."

"Nobody cared."

He opens his mouth, then shakes his head again. "Heard a reliable rumor the Fireballs are for sale."

"Aw, snickerdoodles," I mutter. Not that I'm surprised. "Mackenzie's gonna die."

"Sarah's friend?"

"Yeah, she's—" I stop myself, because thinking of Mackenzie's superstitions makes me think about last night, and thinking about last night makes me think of Sarah, and thinking of Sarah is making me think of Sarah whispering about food porn, and thinking of Sarah and food porn makes me think of Sarah naked, with me, alone, and I'm reaching for my phone to text her again before I realize Tripp's sitting there staring at me like I've lost my mind.

"Got it bad, Beck," he mutters. "Just…be careful."

From a man who married a Hollywood darling.

Not that Sarah's a Hollywood darling, but her parents are.

And now he knows what it's like to lose the woman he loves. So his warnings are coming with layers.

James glances at his sister and an unholy shriek fills the entire penthouse floor. "STOP EATEE MY AYAPWANE!"

Emma bursts into tears and throws the toy to the ground.

And Tripp sighs and rubs his forehead.

"I have ice cream," I tell him.

"Feed them sugar, and they're yours for the next six hours."

Wouldn't be so bad.

I'm out of other playmates and it would be a great excuse to get out of some meetings, at least until Sarah's home.

"You think the Fireballs can find new owners?" I ask Tripp while I hold out a magazine for Emma to chew on.

He gives me the don't play the dumbass, dumbass look.

And now I get it.

He wants me to sell out.

Holy fuck.

He's not looking for someone to hang with.

He's looking for a business partner.

"Bro," I mutter. "Seriously?"

He shakes his head, but I don't think he's telling me no . "You remember how many days we'd spend there before the band? Even before we could drive ourselves?" He tilts his head at his kids. "You know how many games I want to take them to? You ever think of taking your own kids someday?"

I swallow hard. I don't know what a baseball team costs, but despite the millions we made in the band, and the tens of millions Cash, Levi, and I individually bring in every year—my empire is worth over a billion dollars, but that's not hard cash, it's assets and equity—I doubt any of us have enough money to outright buy a team.

Even the losingest team in baseball.

Which means my buddy's asking me if I can liquidate something.

Go into business with him. Probably all the guys. Reunite for a new cause.

And buy our hometown baseball team.

I gulp again, but in the midst of gulping, I can't help a smile. "That would be so snickerdoodling awesome ," I mutter. My brain's spinning in a way I don't often make it spin, but shit . Owning our own baseball team?

Bringing the Fireballs back to glory?

He doesn't smile back. "Snickerdoodling complicated and hard and risky."

"You got numbers?"

He nods once while James darts over to shove the plane in my face. "Unka Beck! See it fwy?"

"Fly, little airplane," I tell it. "Gaaahhh! Fly away from the meteorites!" I crinkle a page out of the magazine and toss it in the air, and James darts off, giggling.

Then I shoot a look at Tripp. "Email me."

He snorts. "You mean email Charlie?"

I shake my head and toss James another meteorite to dodge. "Email me ."

"It's a snickerdoodle-ton," he says, so dead serious I have to wonder if he's talking about even more than we're all worth together.

"Yeah, and we're five guys from a middle-class neighborhood in Virginia who ruled the snickerdoodling world for five or six years. Levi in?"

"I'm starting with the easy targets."

That gets a laugh out of me, but it's true.

I'm the easy target.

Davis might technically be the youngest of all of us, but I'm the kid. "This is nuts. Even I know that."

But I'm not thinking about nuts .

I'm thinking about excuses to be home even more.

And the look on Sarah's face if I told her I saved her best friend's baseball team.

If I told her we'd be in the limelight less. Because who, outside of Copper Valley, really cares about the Fireballs?

And now I'm smiling again, adrenaline kicking in just like it did the night we all climbed onto a tour bus for the first leg of our very first tour.

"You have a crazy bone," I say to Tripp, who was always the one watching our backs on tour, because yeah, he's the dad of the group.

He thrusts his hands through his hair. "Sometimes, a guy needs a change."

He just might be right.