Santa's Pet (11 page)

“We snuck them in,” Cece said. “We figure we’d get a warning first before they kick us out.”

“Actually, let me take them back,” Ben offered. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“They’re no trouble at all. Are you trouble, Big Blizzard? Oh, no you’re not.” Brittney’s grandmother fluffed the big bird’s crest.

“Trouble, trouble,” Big Blizzard mocked and shook his head. “Arck, arck, arck.”

Ben was relieved he didn’t have to take the bird, but the dog was another matter. He belonged in a place where he could run around. As fat as the basset hound was, and as many treats as he ate, he’d need lots of outdoor time to stay in shape.

“I’ll take Treat on a jog after breakfast,” Ben said. He poured himself a serving of granola. “Is there any way to get Grandpa to see that he needs help? I’m only here until the end of the year.”

“We’ll stop by and visit when he’s up to it,” Bob said.

“Great. Thanks, and he’s still on a ventilator so he can’t talk back. Might be a good time to sell him on the retirement center.”

Ben munched on the granola while fending off Big Blizzard who flapped and hissed his displeasure.
You bite me and it’s over.

“We’ll do that,” Cece said, picking up the bird and putting him on her shoulder. “Now, tell me about you and Brittney.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Ben’s collar was hot and his pulse jittered. It was time to leave before he got the first-degree granny interrogation.

She narrowed her eyes, but her mouth was curved with a smile. “I always wondered which one of you Powers boys she’d prefer.”

Ben’s heart lurched and he dropped his spoon. “One of us? What do you mean?”

“Why, you didn’t know?” Granny Reed’s grin elongated and the cockatoo on her shoulder nodded, his crest rising and falling. “She and Nash are online buddies. They started as pen pals after that summer you boys were staying here.”

Brittney and his good-for-nothing brother were pen pals?

“Has he ever visited her?” Ben’s breath seized, and suddenly, the entire weight of fatigue took ahold of him from his shoulders to his toes.

“Now, Cece, don’t you be spreading rumors or meddling,” Pappy Reed said, chuckling. He slipped a piece of bacon to Treat. “Let the young ones figure things out on their own.”

“Just giving this one here a hint.” Cece cackled, but after a few chuckles, her expression went stern again. “Nash has always been respectful of Brittney. I can’t say the same about you. Asking her to sit on your boxers was over the top. You put her in a bad position, and your team is making hay with it across the internet.”

“I’ll fix it. I promise I will.” Ben hung his head and snapped his fingers at Treat. “Come on, boy. You’re going home with me.”

“Leave him here,” Bob said. “I’ll take him for a walk and keep him. I rather like the old boy.”

“Besides, you have a lot of fixing to do with your lawyer.” Cece poured him a glass of juice. “Eat your breakfast first. You’ll need it.”

“I should leave,” Ben said. This news about Nash prickled his skin with goosebumps. His brother was a smooth talking country-western singer. Why was he keeping in touch with Brittney and not telling anyone? He had to be using her—taking advantage of her. Nash lived that ‘rolling stone gathers no moss’ adage.

He was also a habitual womanizer—a guy who played hold ’em poker with a slew of roadies, groupies, and barmaids—and he wasn’t talking about the card game. Nope. Nash was trouble through and through, and Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he had a slew of diaper-bags strung across the country.

Brittney’s grandmother lowered her face with a smug smile while her grandfather cleared his throat.

“What?” Irritation prickled every one of his raw nerves.

“Nash offered to do a benefit concert to help Brittney pay off her legal fees and raise awareness against slut-shaming.” Bob grinned, big and wide. “He’s flying in tomorrow and having it at the Christmas tree farm the weekend before Christmas.”

~ Brittney ~

Why is it no one tells me anything?

I’m flabbergasted, but pull my composure together. I may be a twenty-one-year-old CEO, but I’m no powder puff.

“You’re on ScrapCloud property,” I tell the iron-skirt. “We’re not a division of Shopahol for you to be walking in and out unescorted. Who let you in?”

“The Chairwoman of the Board of Shopahol herself, Jen Jones Jewell.” The brunette who wore her hair in the shape of a military helmet lifted her pointy chin. “You went AWOL. Your workers disappeared without answering phone calls and text messages.”

“What can I do to help you?” I switch tactics, since I’m not going to get into a pissing match about Jen. I’m sure she had good reasons to give this grenade-brain access.

“Has the Monkey-See module been deactivated?”

“That’s exactly what I came in to check.” I sweep into the lobby and march to my private office.

“It’s Sunday morning, why isn’t anyone here? You are aware that this partnership with Shopahol is the only thing ScrapCloud has over its competition.”

“I’m not sharing our business strategy with you. If you’ll excuse me, I have to check the build logs.” I don’t want to slam the door in her face. Scratch that. I really do want to slam it, but I have enough trouble with the law right now. “Could you wait for me in the conference room?”

I shut the door as she departs with a huff.

Someone has ransacked my office. Papers have been moved around, and a file drawer is partially open. My purse and cell phone, which I’d dropped on the floor, last night are sitting on top of my desk.

I check my phone for messages, thankful that I have a thumbprint lockscreen.

Yikes! Jen and Dave have been calling me. Rather than replay all the messages, I swipe to the remote desktop app and login to the build system.

Now, I’m hoping it’s still broken. What was it Sammie had said? That she would try to fix it even though it was not priority?

Please, please, please let the build be broken.

I swipe through screen after screen, sliding the bar to the end.
Build completed without errors. Starting upload.

Dammit!

I cradle my head in my hands. I’ve screwed up. There’s no way Sammie could have put in the code to require customized share permissions for each purchase. That would require costly database fetches, a few table joins, and would slow the system down to a crawl.

Besides, we don’t do these things without a thorough design review.

I punch in her phone number. I don’t care if it’s Sunday morning and she’s at church or out for a run. I have helmet-head shark-lady outside breathing down my neck.

“Hello? Britt?” Sammie’s voice is slurred.

“What happened last night? Did the build complete and upload? Is Monkey-See live at the client site?”

“Wait, wait, too many questions.”

“Who’s that?” a male voice growls in the background. Either I just cock blocked him, or he hasn’t had his coffee.

“My cousin Brittney, could you, uh, you know …” Sammie’s voice is muffled.

Oh, wonderful. They’re probably in the middle of something. But this is an emergency, so I’m not hanging up.

“Listen, Sam, this is important. Marlena Morley’s demanding answers. You should keep me updated.”

“I sent you an email. Didn’t you read it?”

“No. Give me the details.”

“Ummm …” she moans and more muffled voices come from the background.

Is he going down on her while she’s on the phone with me?

“Sammie? You still there?” I hate picturing her lying naked with a man’s head bobbing between her legs. “Tell me. Is the build live or not?”

“Ahhh … it’s live, oh, sorry. I’m kind of pre … ohhh … cue pied …”

“Shit, Sammie. Get off the bed and fix it.”

“You mean take it down?” Her voice sharpens suddenly. “But I got the per purchase check in there.”

“How’d you get it to scale? Wouldn’t you require combing through the database tables for each follower and looking to see whether a purchase was allowed to be shared?”

“Uhm … ohh … stop it!” Sammie muttered. “Much easier than you think.”

“Really?”

“I do the check at point of purchase. If the customer didn’t allow it to be shared, I never entered it into the sharing queue. Simple, really.” Her bright girl voice is back. “Now, can I go?”

“Sure, go back to your activity.” I hang up and slap my forehead. I should have thought of that easy fix.

Then why is Marlena Morley breathing down my neck?

I go through my emails first. There are status updates from Sammie and the build engineer, Lester, letting me know the fix was completed and how everything checked out. Holly sent the automated test report. All systems were “go.”

The timestamp was four in the morning, so they had stayed on.

Who’s the guy in her bed? Lester? None of my business.

There are a few emails from other people I know, but they’ll have to wait. I still don’t know why Marlena Morley’s outside waiting, so I play back my voice mails.

Message 1: Britt, it’s Jen. Where are you? Have we plugged the security breach on Monkey-See?

Message 2: Jen again. The actress’s lawyer contacted us. Have we deleted all of her purchase history from our servers?

Message 3: Where are you? It’s not a matter of fixing the permissions. There’s a security hole where data’s being leaked. Call me at home. I don’t care what time. [message from Jen]

Message 4: I’ve pulled the code. It’s five in the morning. The new VP of Marketing is on her way to find you. [message from Jen]

Message 5: I called your parents and they say you’re at the hospital waiting on Grandpa Powers. I’ll talk to you later. Hope he’s okay. [message from Jen]

Message 6: Hi, Brittney, this is Owen. What’s going on? Have you seen social media? You’re plastered all over Ben Powers. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him? Call me right away.

Message 7: Honey, what’s going on? Is everything okay? Dad and I are worried about you. How’s Grandpa Powers? [message from Mom]

Message 8: I’m coming to the hospital to get you if you don’t call. Mom and Dad are upset. Why aren’t you answering? [message from Lacy]

Message 9: Hey, it’s Ben. Look, I thought we had an understanding. Why are you letting my brother make me look like a douche?

What the heck? I blink at the phone. The voice mail prompts repeat, “to delete press seven, to save it in the archive …”
blah, blah
. I hit the replay.

What is Ben talking about? Which brother? Nash or one of the older ones?

Shaking my head, I save it and go to the next message.

Message 10: Owen again. Ben’s lawyers have called a press conference charging you with sexual harassment. As your lawyer, I’m ordering you to have no further contact with him. Do not answer any questions or talk about this case.

I hit redial and return Ben’s call. He picks up on the first ring and I launch into him.

“What the hell? I thought you called off your lawyer. What’s wrong with you? Accusing me of sexual harassment. Did you kiss me to make me look guilty? Telling everyone I initiated it?”

There’s silence on the line.

“Ben? You still there?” My heart is busting out of my ribcage.

“Yeah, I’m here. Let’s get one thing straight. I kissed you because I wanted to. We did have an understanding, but calling in my brother to have a benefit concert where you’re the poster child as the victim of slut-shaming is a slap in my face.”

“What concert? Are you talking about Nash?”

“Yes, Nash Powers, the self-styled second coming of Brad Paisley. Seems like you two are pen pals.” Ben’s voice is laced with acid.

Wow. What got up his boxers?

“Where’d you hear this? I have a few emails from him, but I haven’t opened them thanks to everything going on.”

“Good. Don’t tell him about Grandpa.”

“You haven’t told your family?” I wipe my hand over my forehead. “Why?”

“He’ll barge into that hospital acting like he owns the place and give Grandpa a bigger heart attack.”

“Oh, okay, sure. I won’t say anything, but what’s this about a benefit concert?”

“Your grandparents told me he’s setting one up at the tree farm. All proceeds go to your legal fund and he’s going on a campaign against slut-shaming.”

“Awww … That’s nice of him to do this for me.” I wake my tablet and scroll to my email. “Do you have a problem with me being friends with Nash?”

“How come I didn’t know about it?”

“Why would you know? You never gave me a passing thought all these years.” Now my voice is dripping with vinegar. “Nash has a good heart.”

“He’s a womanizer. Look, I know him, and if you were my sister, I wouldn’t want him within fifty miles of you.”

“Then I’m glad I’m not your sister. Is there a point to this conversation? Because I have a very angry gray-suited woman outside demanding answers about the Monkey-See project.”

“She the one who fingered us to the cops?”

“The same. She’s the new VP of marketing at Shopahol. Looks like Brandon quit on Friday. So you see? I’ve a very busy day putting out fires.”

“Sure. May I see you this evening? Dinner?”

How dare he ask me out when his lawyer is countersuing me for sexual harassment? I don’t know what I was thinking earlier about playing him and showing off to Lacy. The sad fact is, he has everything to gain with kissing me and nothing to lose. He’s a football hero. The guys want to be him. The women want to bed him. The verdict in the court of public opinion has already exonerated him. I’m the guilty one, and if he loses his draft position, everyone would say I was the slut who brought down the league’s leading linebacker.

“You there, Brittney? Dinner?”

“I can’t. Your hounds of hell are still after me. Now that you point it out, I have legal bills to the wazoo. I can’t ask my parents to pay.”

“I’ll pay.”

“You’re a poor student.”

“Not so poor. I’ll get an advance from Dominique against future marketing income.”

“Your agent? Is that how she’s paying for your lawyer? What happens if you don’t get drafted? What happens then?”

I don’t hear a response other than heavy breathing. Guess he’s now worried.

“Well, Ben? What then?”

“I have to get a job and pay her back.” His voice is subdued. “Let me call her and fire her sister. I don’t need a lawyer to mess things up for me. I’ll go in front of the judge and face the music.”

“Sure, do whatever you want. I have to go.”

“Okay, hope everything works out for you. Have a nice life.” He says goodbye and hangs up.

That. Sounded. So. Final.

~ Ben ~

After showering and shaving, Ben dressed in business casual, a pressed shirt and a pair of slacks, and pulled on a pair of cowboy boots. He had a meeting with Dominique at an upscale restaurant in Pacifica overlooking the ocean. The booths were situated in a wide arc so that a table for two guests could sit almost side by side and both face the ocean.

Rough winter waves, rugged sandstone cliffs and the smooth sandy beach below made it a romantic spot, especially in the evening for the sunset. A place for wooing a lady love. Definitely not the sports agent who held his career in her manicured hands.

Dominique took the seat at a booth in the back corner. Plexiglas extended from the back of the booth to the ceiling, shielding other occupants from overhearing their conversation.

She waved to him to sit at her right side as the maître d’ handed her a brunch menu. Another server poured champagne into two tall flutes. Ben averted his eyes at the label on the bottle. She was paying, but she wouldn’t like what he had to tell her.

Dominique took a sip of champagne and ordered the raw oyster appetizer. After meaningless small talk, she ordered eggs benedict, a croissant and salad, and Ben ordered the lumberjack special: biscuits and gravy, pancake, home fried potatoes, chicken apple sausage and scrambled eggs along with a large mug of black coffee.

After allowing a starving Ben, who’d forgotten to eat dinner the night before, to scarf up half his plate, Dominique tapped her elegant hot pink nail extensions on the table and said, “I have so much to say to you, but since you called this meeting, I’ll let you fire the first shot.”

Smart woman. Of course. She wanted to be prepared. He was, after all, a potential income stream for her.

Ben wiped his mouth with a napkin and stretched back in the booth, turning his gaze to the misty ocean where the fog was burning off the sand.

“I want Delaine to take on Brittney’s defense.”

Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. Her normally impeccable mouth dropped wide open and she slapped the champagne flute onto the table. However, she was much too classy to raise her voice.

Regaining her composure, she straightened the cuffs of her blouse and said, “I’ll chalk this up to inexperience or temporary insanity. Need I remind you, you have an indecent exposure charge?”

“That’s why I want Miss Reed and I to work together on our defense. As I understand it, if there is no intention to arouse or offend, the state has no case.”

“My sister isn’t here to give legal advice, but I’m here as your agent to tell you this is insane. It’ll lower you to her level in the gutter.”

“That’s where I want to be. If she’s in the gutter, I’m in with her. Otherwise, we both better come up with a better defense. The facts. Brittney and I were helping each other and the witness overreacted. Why don’t we concentrate on discrediting the witness?”

“Because there are videos to back up her claims.”

“Taken out of context. I’m sure any sane judge can understand a wardrobe malfunction. It happens to the best entertainers. It’s the intent that matters.”

Dominique regarded him as if he were a lunatic. The darkness in her eyes hardened to a stony stare and her face was stiff. “I’ve invested too many hours in you to allow you to throw away your career. I deliberately ignored your message last night about turning yourself into the police. I also refused to comment on the photos and videos of you and Miss Reed grappling and ripping each other’s tongues out. Let me warn you. If this tactic doesn’t work, you can find yourself another agent. The only reason public opinion is on your side is because they think Miss Reed is at fault.”