It’s a problem.
A half-billion-dollar problem.
When I’d done some private investigating, the problem had grown exponentially worse. Not only was there no product, but there was no seed money left. All the dollars that had been poured into her company had vanished.
Which brings me to my current problem. I haven’t revealed my suspicions of financial malfeasance to the world, as I fix my shit in private. The rumors swirling around the city are that I’m a dick who shut her company down because she broke up with me. The senior members of the Galaxtix board have explained, in progressively stuffier speeches, that being labeled unrepentantly dickish makes me look unprofessional. These are people who follow the big rules in life, the biggest of which is: thou shalt not get caught. Therefore, I’m also accused of being immature, shortsighted and a liability. Ruling Silicon Valley doesn’t require the moral character of the Pope, but apparently I’m not allowed to look like one of hell’s lesser demons, either. They were getting ready to invite me to resign.
I’d pointed out that I broke no laws—federal or state—and that I gave them money. They should have been grateful. Nope. They’d insisted that I “clean up my image” and “show the world that I’m a good guy.” I’m not a good guy. I’m a businessman and a billionaire.
In fact, they’d suggested I eschew additional sex scandals, and instead give monogamy and personal reformation a serious second look. Also, they thought I should give apologizing a shot, starting with Leda and then moving on to the board, the shareholders and Joe Public. I’d refused repeatedly and had instead thrown that sex party last weekend. The one where I’d accidentally ended up married. They’d have had a collective aneurysm if they’d found out about that.
I’d been about to tell them where to shove their ultimatums when I’d realized that last weekend’s challenge was the perfect solution to the board’s collective aneurysm about my personal life.
I’m married.
To a bona fide good girl.
Settled down, completely reformed, upstanding citizen.
Totally true story if I can convince Hana to play along. Since she told me to let her know when we were divorced and stormed off, however, my desire to play temporary house with her will come as a surprise.
By ten o’clock, I’ve successfully started the process of purchasing Hana’s mortgage and verified she has no other financial liabilities. Some guys send roses when they fuck up—and some of us just smooth the road of life a little with a judicious application of cash. She’s not in this marriage for money, but it can’t hurt to show her what I bring to the table. By noon I’ve cleared out my inbox and taken care of what can’t wait. So I’m genuinely 100 percent free when Jax texts at 12:10 that he’s outside my building and I should get my ass down there now.
The or I’ll beat the shit out of you part is just understood. Clearly, Hana’s told him about our marriage. She’s probably also told him that I’m a first-class dick (true), but that’s just one more thing I won’t apologize for. I’ll give her a bee farm instead.
When I get outside, Jax is slouched against a low retaining wall full of perky summer annuals, glaring at the flow of people headed to lunch. Most of them are wearing suits or business casual and when they catch sight of him, they adjust their course on the crowded sidewalk so they don’t have to get too close. It’s like watching a trail of ants detour around an unpleasant obstacle.
Jax wears blue jeans, a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots, so he must have ridden his bike into the city today. He looks tough, his arms crossed over a muscled chest. We’ve been friends since he moved in next door all those years ago in Berkeley, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking about punching me. I deserve it, so the real question is: Will I let him? We’re evenly matched in size, but he’s always joked that I look like the angel Gabriel while he more closely resembles the dark side.
Those devil looks mean there’s little resemblance between him and Hana, on the outside at least. He’s a dark-haired, dark-eyed menace, his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a short ponytail. I was with him when he started the sleeves that decorate his arms, colorful swirls of ink that record each step he’s taken to get where he is today. Hana doesn’t know half of what he’s done to make sure she’s safe, and we’ve always just known we’d do whatever it takes to keep her that way. This is why he’s here, of course, because marrying her doesn’t seem as if it’s in her best interest.
He holds out a paper bag to me with a muttered curse and I take it.
“Is it poisoned?”
“Too quick,” he growls. “Eat. I have a start-up to go hammer into shape after I kick your ass.”
One of Jax’s particular talents is taking underperforming companies and cutting away the dross until they shine financially. It doesn’t make him the most popular guy in the room—people lose jobs when he takes over—but the ones who stay never regret it. Not financially, at any rate. I suspect he’s a bit of a bastard boss, but then again, hell will freeze over before I work for him.
I open the bag to find a hot dog with onions and sauerkraut. The combination all but guarantees kissing Hana will not be on my afternoon agenda. I hesitate, but I’m hungry. He nods when I start eating, and for a few minutes we both focus on eating with maximum efficiency.
“What are the chances you’re not married to my sister?” Jax crumples his now-empty bag and lobs it into a nearby trash can. It’s an impressive three-point shot and I hand him mine so he can do it again.
I appreciate that he starts with facts and not feelings.
“My lawyers double-checked everything.”
He hits the trash can again. “And?”
“And we’re married.”
“Hana deserves to be happy.” The look on Jax’s face warns that he doesn’t see any further association between me and Hana leading to that state.
“I won’t hurt her. We’re going to work out a deal.”
My phone goes nuts in the pocket of my suit jacket as Leda deluges me with a new flurry of texts. She hasn’t let up, her endless messaging making it clear she has plenty more to say about the end of our relationship. I, on the other hand, ran out of fucks to give weeks ago. My fuck-less state coinciding with her decision to share the alleged details of our relationship with a gossip website has caused me a world of unresolved problems. I’m finding it increasingly hard to resist the urge when Leda comes up to run around shouting liar, liar, pants on fire. Mostly this is because I cringe when I think about Hana reading these things and deciding they’re one more piece of evidence in the mountain of my dickishness.
While Jax considers what to say, I unlock my phone and inventory my messages. Nineteen angry texts from Leda demand, in increasingly hostile progression, that I repent of my sins, explain myself, text her back, don’t bother texting her back and drop dead. Shit. Delete. I also have new emails from multiple business and entertainment reporters requesting I comment on my starring role in Silicon Valley’s biggest start-up scandal. They don’t mention my marriage. Delete. My PR team has reached out with a plan to handle the fallout from said scandal. I scan it. Like their last two proposals, they strongly urge me to go down on bended knee and apologize. I fire off a one-word response—no—and delete their email as well.