His eyes utter the question before it slips from his mouth. “Did you find the players of the cartel?”
“It isn’t Jacobs or anyone from the Mauve line.” I lift my brows, sucking in a yawn. “Ironically, however, one of the Moreau Brothers is funding the cartel.”
The Moreau Brothers were the family Jacobs robbed of their heritage several years ago when slowly purchasing the company, Mauve, from underneath them. The brandy company had been in the Moreau family for centuries. When they needed cash to prevent the company from going belly up, Jacobs stepped in. Within a few short years, he acquired the business outright.
“Jacques?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Jean.”
“Why?”
“Why not? He’s still salty as fuck about losing his family’s legacy. Jacobs will be enemy number one until he either dies, Jean croaks, or Jacobs loses the company to them.”
“But Mauve’s vineyard or distillery hasn’t been hit by JFD,” he questions.
“Because Jacobs is the master of thuggery. His security there is tight as fuck. You can’t get within four miles of the Mauve compound without having laser ammo marking your head.”
Thomas shakes his head, relief shooting from each pore of his frame. He’s hopeful for Jacobs’ turnaround in life as his past is nefarious as hell.
I study the lines in his face. Either my guy is still exhausted from his celebration last night or he’s stressed.
“You going to tell me what this meeting is about, or are you going to continue to shoot off causerie topics to delay it?”
“I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
His eyes appear on me. “My cardiologist called two days ago. She wants to go back in.” He pats his chest.
“Another surgery?”
“Replacement.”
“Still issues with the…” I snap my fingers, begging the terms back to memory. “the aortic valve?”
Thomas’ been suffering from valvular heart disease for years.
“That would be the adversary.”
“What can I do?”
He takes a deep breath, eyes still on the vista. “Mark Kevinjohn called in a favor—”
“Sports Illustrated?”
Thomas nods again. “You’ve heard of the shakeup over there. He asked for a freelance piece. A 10K word feature.”
Damn…
“What, specifically?” Lots of my personal friends are being or have been laid off. Mark and his team are changing the entire outfit of publishing over there.
“He asked for something groundbreaking…something to create a cloud to cover the melee happening over there.”
“Of your choosing,” I surmise. Thomas nods in confirmation. A pirouette of topics swiftly populates my mind. Then I scratch my brow. “What can I do to help?”
Thomas’ eyes are on me again. “Assume my assignment.”
“There’s a slight problem with that, Thomas.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Sports Illustrated is exclusively sports.”
“Last I checked, yes.”
“I don’t cover sports.”
“Which is why this would be a favor, son.”
I scratch my brow to process this. “In my entire ten-year career, I’ve never covered sports.”
“And I know why.”
My forehead narrows. “Do you?”
“It’s because of the injury.” His regard brushes against my legs.
My eyes flutter. Yes— “No. Not wholly. And what is the piece about anyway?”
“The latest boxing sensation.”
“Deontay ‘Bronze Bomber’ Wilder?”
His head shakes. “The latest female sensation: Tori McNabb.”
My damn knees go weak, heart slingshots only dropping to the floor, lungs fumble, and suddenly, I’m severely dependent on the glass door to remain vertical.
“Spencer,” he tries.
I can’t comprehend much more than that with my head spinning like a fucking dreidel.
“Thomas,” I try heaving in a deep breath without revealing my turmoil. “I’m sure Mark will understand when you tell him you can’t make good on the favor.”
“I’m not telling him that.”
“Why?”
“Because the story will be done, and well. She’s the biggest phenom in sports since Michael Phelps. Never in the history of boxing has the federation seen so much panjandrum from a female boxer. You know this. Before McNabb, a female boxer hasn’t had several nationally promoted commercials and the broad landscape portfolio of endorsements she’s had. Ali, in her height, didn’t have half the corporate engagement as this young lady.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t.”
The room grows quiet and after seconds of his annoying ass stare down, Thomas faces the mountains again.
“It’s been years.”
“And not enough.”
His head whips to face me. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Not enough to make me want to cover sports. Why can’t you have one of your students take it over? I’m sure they’d all be biting at the bit for this opportunity!”
“Because it belongs to my prize pupil.” He swivels to face me.
My veins flood with shame. I hate to disappoint this man. No one ever says no to Tyler Thomas when presented an opportunity to run a story for him—much less a 10K word feature for S.I. No one!
Not even stubborn ass me…
But this is a hard limit for me. No way am I committing to meeting with Tori Mc-fucking-Nabb over weeks to get a 10K word feature piece, much less holding a twenty-second conversation with her.
No fucking way!
I shake my head again, eyes below. “I can’t do it, Thomas—”
“Lucinda’s going to leave me!” he belts abruptly.
My face tightens with perplexity and my eyes absently range over to the door she ushered me into just minutes ago. “What?”
“Yes.” His throat cracked. “She wants me to stow the typewriter for good.” Retire? “And I don’t mean take a two-year hiatus. That was my last failed attempt at placating her. She wants me out by the time I go under the knife. Completely.”
I sigh. “You and Lucinda have been through rougher times. I’m sure she understands the minutiae of fading to black in this industry. She’ll allow for more time.”
“Lucinda’s left my ass before. It would take an imprudent mollycoddle to not recognize the opportunity to keep a woman when she’s one foot out the damn door.”
The muscles in my face drop, weakened by the overtone. Thomas is pulling out all guns for this one, making it clear why my presence today was requested.
“Now, listen,” he begins, short of breath from managing his temper. “you’re going to have to give it your all. I’ve already created an itinerary with her agency. We’ve synced calendars, and I’m willing to tell them it needs to happen again to accommodate your schedule. She’s preparing for a big fight. Monica “Four Clover” O’Connor. Lots of attention has already been given to this one, because of the money on the table. One point five million for O’Connor and 70 million for McNabb. They’re estimating $975 million in pay-per-view revenue from nearly 16 million paying HBO customers.” I blink successively at those figures. “This isn’t just some fluff piece. What this young lady is doing is significant to the culture. Fuck yes, I want her success plastered in a white publication. Shit, you better believe even 40 Acres is covering it, too, but the reach isn’t as broad.”