Chapter 12 - The Desperate Pitch In The Parking Lot
Preston’s face twitched, his pallid skin blotching with defensive color. He looked over my shoulder toward the empty booth, then back at me, raising both hands in a theatrical gesture of surrender that did nothing to mask the panic burning behind his eyes.
""Keep your voice down, man! Do you want to cause a scene in front of all these people?"" Preston hissed, glancing nervously at the passing families. ""I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need five minutes. Just five minutes of your time, Harrison. Please.""
I didn't answer. I reached into my coat pocket, wrapped my hand around my phone, and used my thumb to tap the speed-dial shortcut for our security detail and Marcus Vance’s office. I didn't draw the phone; I kept it ready, keeping my voice dropped to an octave that cut straight through the exhibition hall's chatter.
""Loading dock exit. Right now,"" I said.
Preston blinked, realizing he had no leverage, and scurried ahead of me through the heavy push-bar doors into the chilly, concrete corridor that led to the venue’s freight bays. The door clicked shut behind us, cutting off the cheerful sounds of the science fair and plunging us into the echoing silence of raw concrete and industrial exhaust fans.
Preston spun around immediately, running both hands through his greasy, thinning hair. ""You have to listen to me. Dad had a massive stroke six weeks ago.""
The words hung in the damp air between us. I felt the reflexive flinch of human empathy rise in my chest, but the engineered discipline I had built over five years immediately contained it. I stood completely motionless, watching Preston’s frantic body language.
""He’s paralyzed on his left side, Harrison,"" Preston pressed on, his voice rising in pitch. ""He can’t walk. He can barely talk. Mom has been taking care of him twenty-four hours a day in that miserable shoebox condo, and the medical bills are over eighty thousand dollars. Medicare isn't covering the specialized rehabilitation facility he needs, and the bank put a secondary lien against the condo last Tuesday!""
""And where are you in this blueprint, Preston?"" I asked quietly.
He swallowed hard, shifting his weight from one scuffed shoe to the other. ""I had to shut down the logistics firm. The supply chain dried up, okay? The market was rigged against small operations. I’m currently between consulting projects, but I have three massive venture prospects lined up in Chicago. I just need capital to bridge the gap.""
""You don't need capital. You need another bailout,"" I said, the clarity of the truth cutting cleanly through his fiction.
""Dad is dying, Harrison!"" Preston screamed, his eyes bulging as he stepped closer. ""You own a multi-million-dollar structural engineering firm! You have commercial contracts across three states! You’re driving luxury vehicles and sending your kids to private academies while our father sits in a wheelchair drooling on his slippers! You could write a check for fifty grand right now and not even notice it in your monthly operating budget! Or better yet, put me on your corporate payroll as a director of procurement. Give me a salary, write it off as business development, and save our family!""
I looked at my younger brother—the golden boy who had watched my children abandoned on a sidewalk while he sipped champagne in a custom thousand-dollar suit—and felt an overwhelming sense of finality.
""Five years ago, you watched my seven-year-old son protect his sister in the midday heat while you posed in front of a gilded mirror,"" I said, my voice dropping to an icy whisper. ""You took everything Richard and Brenda had, bled them dry, and now that the foundation is collapsing, you want to crawl into my house and dismantle mine.""
""He’s your father!"" Preston shrieked.
""He was a contractor who abandoned the build,"" I replied, pulling my phone from my pocket and holding the active call screen to my ear. ""Marcus? Send the convention center security team to the west loading dock. We have a trespasser violating a permanent protection order.""
Preston’s jaw dropped. The color completely vacated his face. ""You bastard... you wouldn't.""
May you like
""Four seconds,"" I said, stepping aside as the heavy metal security doors at the end of the hall swung open.
Preston didn't wait. He turned on his heel and bolted down the service alley like a frightened stray dog.
