Amy got to sample what I have to offer. So after we go over the model, I plan to talk to her about our future. Which, number one, involves dumping Rick, if she hasn’t decided to do that already. If it weren’t for the fact that I kept missing the windows of opportunity when Amy was free, I would’ve already shown her how the man in her life ought to treat her.
I glance at the comments on Rick’s Pulse update, then shake my head at all the you’ll get it done, bros and we’re behind yous. If they only knew what a loser this guy is…!
I put my empty mug in the sink and drive to Huxley’s mansion. My brother bought it a couple of years back, but didn’t move in until last week because he wanted extensive remodeling done on the first two floors and the garden. He’s particular about what he wants, and he doesn’t like to settle. That’s what makes him good at his job as an ad exec.
When I get to the mansion, I have to admit the upgrades look good. The garden’s been ripped apart and redone with plants that won’t guzzle up water. Huxley also put in a stone garden, the type he fell in love with during a trip to Japan five years ago. The swimming pool is wide and large, although I don’t see the point of having one on the ground when there’s one on the rooftop. His helicopter sits on the helipad—another addition.
I walk inside and note the walls have been covered with elegant and tastefully expensive textured wallpaper. The ceilings in different rooms have their own murals, and the living room features stained-glass windows. All in all, the place drips with a sensual opulence that demands to be noticed and admired while somehow avoiding a descent into vulgarity. But then, that’s Huxley’s forte. It’s what makes his clients love him. Grant and I often hire his firm for the ventures GrantEm funds when they’re ready to go public.
Some might call it nepotism. I call it hiring the best. If there’s somebody who can do better than Huxley, I’m all for signing a contract with them.
My six brothers are already in the dining room. We got our dark hair and square jaws from our father—Ted Lasker. But that’s where our facial similarities end. Which makes sense, since we have seven different mothers. On top of that, we’re only four months apart in age, me being the oldest and Nicholas the youngest. Huxley is the second oldest, having been born three weeks after me.
A lot of people wonder how the hell something like this could happen, but it’s quite simple:
Vasectomy fail.
During those months, Dad was sowing his wild oats with every young, willing woman he could find. And being a movie producer, he’s always been able to find a lot. It’s actually kind of surprising that he only impregnated seven of them. Statistical probability says there should’ve been more.
The rumor is that he tried to sue the doctor who performed the vasectomy, even though the man offered a redo for free. I don’t blame Dad. I wouldn’t go back to a doc who screwed up the first time, even for a freebie.
Dad and I are similar in that regard—we prefer efficiency and competence over cost.
Since the second vasectomy, Dad hasn’t fathered another child. He has instructed his assistants to select and send appropriate birthday and Christmas gifts to our moms, but he doesn’t spend much time with any of them, since he’s a busy man.
Trashy tabloid writers occasionally try to trip him up by asking which woman gave him which son. But faced with an impending offspring emergency, Dad came up with a plan: he named us after the women who bore us. My mother’s name is Emma. Huxley’s mother’s last name is Huxley. Grant and Griffin are named for the same reason. Noah and Nicholas got their names because of their moms, Nora and Nicole. Sebastian is the only exception—his mother is a disowned heiress to the Sebastian Jewelry fortune.
Typical Ted Lasker efficiency. And naming us in that fashion saves him the potential embarrassment of not pairing us with the right mothers because he couldn’t bother to actually remember anything about his sons. It’s never occurred to him how self-centered and thoughtless that is. Other people’s feelings are about as important to him as a penny is to a billionaire, even if those people happen to be his own children.
Huxley’s dining room is huge, with a table big enough to host a large dinner party. Catered brunch food is spread out—crispy bacon, sausages, eggs benedict, French toast, pancakes and more. Huxley is talented in many things, but he can’t cook. Actually, none of us really cooks. I’m about the best because I can fry eggs without setting the pan on fire. It’s something Mom forced on me, and which I learned only with reluctance.
Housekeepers exist for a reason. I pay mine to do things for me that I don’t want to do myself. It’s a much more efficient use of time. And it keeps her gainfully employed with a good salary and benefits.
“Look who’s here!” Huxley says, lifting his champagne glass. His blue eyes are sharp enough to cut, and he has a tongue mean enough to flay you mercilessly. Although he isn’t the oldest, he takes being the second oldest seriously. Which means he’s a bossy asshole.
Sebastian and Nicholas say he just likes to be in charge. I’m okay with that, since Huxley doesn’t tell me what to do. He just likes to bitch about how I cheated by popping out of my mother’s womb prematurely. But it isn’t my fault I was hankering to build an empire of my own. He should blame himself for taking too long, considering he was two weeks late.
“Thought you were working,” Grant says, pouring himself some champagne. “On that water filter project.”
Noah raises his eyebrows. “You in the water filter business now?” His hair is sticking up like he hasn’t combed it in ages. He’s probably on some self-imposed deadline and—typically—decided to procrastinate. I don’t know why he bothers to set deadlines when he never meets any of them. He’s going to be working on his Magnum Opus for the rest of his life. He should give up on novel writing and stick to what he does best—wildlife photography.
“Nah. Just giving money and advice.” I take an empty seat between Grant and Sebastian. Sebastian hands me a fresh flute. “I’m going into the office later to wrap up a few things.”
“No bloodbath to come?” Nicholas jokes.
I help myself to some food. “What bloodbath?” The only bath I want in the office is a nice, warm one with Amy naked in the tub. But I keep that to myself, since Amy might bolt and try to work for another partner. Working for Sam Andersen would be a de facto demotion, but working for Grant would be considered a lateral move. Not only that, Grant would take her on to soothe her ruffled feathers. She’s too damn good at her job. It’s that competitive spirit of hers—unyielding and unstoppable.
So no innuendos until she and I have a discussion first. About us.
“There are rumors of associates at GrantEm quietly dying from lack of sleep,” Nicholas says. He owns many different businesses, one being a headhunting and recruiting agency.
“Untrue,” Grant says. “Most of them complain loudly as they expire.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I never give more than they can handle.”
Nicholas shakes his head. “If they were clones of you, sure. But they aren’t.”
He says that all the time. Apparently, I’m too smart and too quick. I resent that because I work damn hard. “I’m in too good of a mood to argue, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”