Tank
She’s not here.
I’m in my lawyer's office for the third time this month, squashed into a hard wooden chair that's too small for my six foot five inch frame. It still feels weird to say that, my lawyer, like I'm some kind of big shot now or something. But it's true. I have a lawyer and an accountant.
I also have a huge stack of money sitting in a trust with my name on it.
Shifting as much as I can in the narrow seat, I avert my gaze from the brunette currently sitting behind the secretary’s desk.
She’s beautiful but she’s not her.
She looks like she’ll faint if our eyes meet one more time, although to be fair I have been glaring at her for the past ten minutes. There’s not much else in the room to look at.
There's an older woman with a cane and a small white dog in her purse that yaps every time someone enters or leaves the room. A middle-aged man in the corner mumbles under his breath while working on a crossword puzzle. A guy in a suit sits a few feet away typing into a laptop.
Waiting rooms are not my favorite places. No matter how hard they try to be comfortable, they never get it quite right. Inevitably they are either too cold or too warm. The piped in music is too loud or it's eerily silent. Everyone is staring at everyone else and pretending not to. Since I'm usually the biggest one in the room, you guessed it. Most of the attention is directed at me.
There’s only one reason I’ve been voluntarily coming here for the past few weeks to sit in uncomfortable chairs all while paying for the privilege.
To see her. The one person that makes all the noise in my head subside.
And now she’s not even here.
The outer office door bursts open and a gust of cold air sweeps through the room, stirring the little dog into a yapping frenzy.
“I’m sorry. Sorry.” A young woman rushes past, a flurry of blond hair and apologies, and places her bag on the floor behind the secretary’s desk.
I sit up straight, watching. The brunette smiles at her with genuine affection. They whisper back and forth before the other woman gets up and walks down the hallway leading to the offices.
The blonde glances over at me before tucking a few of the stray hairs around her face behind her ears. It takes her a few minutes to get settled. She moves a few things around on the desk and then pulls a bottle of water from her oversized bag. She’s doing an admirable job of appearing busy and engrossed in whatever’s on her computer screen but a few minutes later, she looks at me again.
Usually this kind of thing annoys the hell out of me, but for some reason, with her, I don't mind. Maybe it’s the madcap cloud of blond hair or the big, wounded gray eyes. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about this girl. Something that keeps me coming back week after week. I think it’s because she never smiles.
“Don’t worry I’m still here.”
She lets out a surprisingly crude snort. “Like I could miss you. And I wasn’t looking for you.”
“Okay, okay.” I lean back and make a show of spreading my arms over the backs of the chairs next to me.
I’m a big dude and I have a wingspan like a giant. Her eyes follow the movement but when she sees me watching, she turns up her nose a little and goes back to her typing.
I chuckle a little. She doesn’t like me much and for some reason, it amuses me. I stare at her openly because I know when she notices she’ll do that little huffing sound again. She's a pretty little thing. Elegant. The kind of girl who clutches her pearls when I get too close.
The nameplate on her desk reads Emma Lynn Shaw. Even her name is prissy as hell.
Despite that, there’s something about her that I find compelling.
The phone on her desk rings and she answers, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. She nods and then places the phone carefully back on the hook.
"Tanner Marshall?" she calls out, looking around at the other people in the waiting room.
The little dog gives an irritated yip. No one else even looks up. Finally her gaze lands on me.
Chuckling, I walk over and stand right in front of her desk. I've been here every Monday for the last five weeks. Surely she knows who I am by now. She also knows I hate to be called by my legal name. I've told her to call me Tank every time. I’ve also asked her to dinner every time.
Then again, she looks like the kind of girl who wouldn't remember a guy like me.
"Is he ready for me?"
"Yes. Just go straight through."
Instead of walking down the hallway, I lean against the wall next to her desk.
“So, I have to eat dinner again tonight. Just like last week. And the week before that. It’s a pesky recurring event, this dinner thing. I’m assuming you’re familiar with it?”
“I am aware of it, yes. Sometimes I go wild and have dessert, too. But you know what I like the best?” She leans closer like she’s imparting a secret. “Eating it alone.”
I wink at her. “One of these days you’re going to realize how much you’re missing out on.”
“One of these days. Not today.”
“Ouch. You’re brutal for such a tiny thing.” But I’ve achieved my objective. She’s almost smiling.
“Mr. Stevens is waiting for you.” She gestures toward the hallway again. Her eyes are gleaming as she turns back to her computer. She types a few words and then looks up at me from the corner of her eye.
"Thank you, Emma." I use her name deliberately just to see her blush again.
Patrick’s office is the first door on the hallway. When I push it open, he looks up.
"Come on in, Tank. Have a seat."
I wave away his offer. "You can just tell me. Did he agree?"
Patrick looks slightly uncomfortable.
"He didn't, did he? Then there's no point in wasting any more time."
My father’s original letter was aggressive, only giving me thirty days to make a decision. I’ve been trying to negotiate for more time.
"I didn't meet with your father. He sent his right hand man. Mr. Jonathan Boyd."
This news doesn't surprise me. "He couldn't even be bothered to deal with it himself? I'm sure he outsources everything. He probably has someone to wipe his ass when he needs it, too."
Patrick rifles through the stack of papers on his desk. "All these meetings haven't been entirely unproductive. I've gathered quite a bit of information we didn't have before."
He looks up at me. I cross my arms but I don't leave. He's got my attention and he knows it.
"What do you mean?"
"Your father's estate is larger than I was originally led to believe. The amount he's given you so far is merely a drop in the bucket."
"He gave me and Finn both half a million dollars each. He's rich. I got it."
Patrick clears his throat. "All he’s asked for are weekly meetings, an hour each time. Every week you show up, he’ll put money in your trust fund. From what I understand, your father is very ill. He doesn’t have a lot of time left. You have very little to lose and everything to gain."
"Look, I'm not completely heartless all right, but I haven't seen the bastard in almost twenty years. He left us high and dry and he's been off gallivanting around Europe ever since. This money would have been nice when we were growing up and Mom was working her ass off trying to keep us fed."
"I understand that, Mr. Marshall. However, your father wasn't playing around that whole time. He was making his fortune in coal and steel and investing in green energy solutions. His lawyer indicated that if you should agree to meet with him, then the money you'll inherit will be …substantial."
"I don't want anything from him. He wasn't there for us in life and I don't want shit from him now that he's on his deathbed and feeling guilty."
“Well, as an incentive, he’s authorized another distribution into your account of five hundred thousand. That money comes with no strings attached. If you agree to his terms, you’ll receive even more. Congratulations, Mr. Marshall. You just became a millionaire."
"What the hell?" I put out a hand and use the wall to steady myself. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel. Grateful? Instead I just feel vaguely dirty.
Patrick hands me a folder. The first page has been flipped up to reveal a new letter from my father's law firm.
“Mr. Boyd has asked if I can help notifying the others. Your brother Finnigan was the only one who responded. You wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?”
Others?
I have no idea what he's talking about and it obviously shows on my face because Patrick points to the list at the bottom of the page.
"Your father has plans to split his empire equally amongst his sons.”
"I only have one brother. Finn."
Patrick looks stunned for a moment. Then he yanks out the chair in front of his desk.
"Perhaps you'd best take that seat now, Mr. Marshall."
