A Very Badd Christmas (The Badd Brothers #19)

Epilogue

epilogue

HUNTER

"I have the reports you requested, Mr. Hawkins." The girl stood in the doorway of my office, quaking in her Louboutins. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

What was her name? Ella? Elin? Something like that. She was the new assistant to my secretary, Harriet Bowman. Harriet was the one human other than my father who wasn’t scared of me, intimidated by me, or attracted to me. Or all of the above at once; that, honestly, was most common. Tall, broad-shouldered, striking rather than attractive, Harriet was sixty years old, a grandmother, a Marine Corps veteran who retired with honors after a long career as an attaché to a three-star general and had spent most of her career in the Pentagon. She was known, both affectionately and with abject terror—depending on who you asked—as Harriet the Hatchet.

I loved her. I would murder anyone who crossed her, but I wouldn't need to because Harriet would eviscerate them before I could blink.

Harriet did not fuck around. She didn’t hire losers, sycophants, desk bunnies, or simpering doe-eyed lapdogs.

This girl seemed like all of the above rolled into one. Yes, she was conventionally attractive, with long slender legs, small, firm button tits propped up to look bigger by expensive lingerie, heels that pushed her taut little spin-class ass up to the stratosphere, and wavy bottle-blond hair she probably got blown out twice a week while scrolling on her giant iPhone with her inch-and-a-half long french manicured nails.

I've fucked pretty much every version of this girl that has ever existed in this city, and I’ve had my fill of them.

I'd have to have a word with Harriet.

First, however, I needed to get through this hopefully brief conversation with Elin, Ella, Eloise, whatever her fucking name was—hopefully without saying something cruel or ending up with her under the desk getting her aggressively scarlet lipstick on my dick.

I closed the lid on my laptop and leaned back in my chair. "Bring them."

She clicked across the acreage of my office, a stack of reports clutched to her chest. The closer she got, the more she quaked. Also, the closer she got, the more caked-on was her makeup. Underneath it, she was probably a very pretty girl. And I'm sure Harriet had her reasons for hiring her, but good lord.

She stopped at the back left corner of my desk and extended the stack of reports toward me. "Here you are, sir."

"Thank you…" I searched my prodigious memory for her actual name. I came up empty and took a shot in the dark. "Elin."

"Uhhh…it's…umm, my name is Elara, sir." Eh-LAH-ruh.

"Elara?" My eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Yes, sir."

"I see." I had the E-L down, at least. I tapped a clear spot on my desk. “Put them here, please."

She set them down and stepped away, visibly shaking, looking close to tears. I slid the blue-blocking frames off my face and tossed them onto my desk, eying her as I leaned way back in my chair, assessing her.

This girl was petrified. Scared shitless. Had I met her and bitten her head off already but forgot?

"What's wrong?" I asked, genuinely trying to sound concerned.

I mean, I was. I needed her to perform. I had an empire to run. I didn’t have time to massage the fragile ego of a petrified desk bunny.

She lifted her thin shoulders a quarter of an inch. “N-nothing, s-sir."

I rolled my eyes and huffed. "Don't bullshit me, sweetheart. I eat the world's best liars for breakfast. Truth, now. What—is—wrong?" I flicked a finger at her. "You're shaking in your shoes and look like you’re about to start bawling. Did I say something mean? If I did, I'm sorry."

She gasped, shaking her head, eyes flying wide. "Oh! No—no sir. No. It's…it's nothing."

I stared at her for a moment. Despite her obvious turmoil, she was holding steady. Maybe there was something in there I could work with.

I jutted my chin at the chair. "Sit."

She hesitantly clicked over the chair and slid her hands under her butt to smooth her knee-length black pencil skirt as she sat. "Sir?"

I opened my bottom right drawer, pulled out my bottle of 18-year Macallan, a single tumbler, and poured a finger. Set it in front of her. "Shoot it."

"I…what? I'm working, sir."

"So'm I. Drink."

"I don't think I could, sir. It wouldn't be right."

"I'm your boss. I own this whole building and employ everyone in it. I'm telling you to." I pulled out a second tumbler and poured a measure. "Would you feel better if I joined you?"

She shrugged. "If you insist, sir."

"I do."

She reached a shaky hand and took the glass in slender fingers, brought it to her lips, sipped carefully, and then shot it. She coughed delicately, covering her lips with the back of her glass-holding hand. "Wow."

I shot mine and put the bottle away, stacked the glasses, and set them aside. I watched her eyes swim a little.

"Now. Truth. You're scared of something. Or someone. Explain."

She looked at me for a long moment, chest rising and falling faster and faster. "I…I lied on my resume, sir. I'm not qualified for this job." Her eyes watered. "I just…I need it so bad. Please don't fire me. I can learn. I just—I can’t fail. Not again. My parents would never forgive me.”

I held up a hand as I opened my laptop. I shot Harriet a text asking for the resume in question, received it in the thread as a text file, opened it, and scanned it.

"Let's see…" I read out loud a few of the line items. "Brigham Young University, top of your class. You're Mormon?"

"I was, sir. Not anymore."

"Alright. Summa Cum Laud. MBA in Business Management. Interned at Goldman Sachs, Ernst and Young…excellent recommendations across the board from people I know personally." I half-closed the lid and looked at her. "Where's the lie? I can verify all of this in a matter of minutes.”

She screwed up her face—an "I'm not gonna cry" expression that made me panicky and nauseous. "My father works at Goldman Sachs, and my maternal uncle is a partner at Ernst and Young. I got those internships through pure nepotism."

"I see." I snagged my phone and found the contact I wanted, dialed and put it on speaker with a shushing gesture at Elara.

It rang four times. "Hawk. What's up, bro?" Jonathan Givens, a rising star at Ernst and Young and a long-time friend, business rival, and squash partner.

"Need to verify a recommendation."

He snorted. "You're doing the dog work yourself…why?"

"Humor me, Givey."

"Fine. Name?"

"Joseph-comma-Elara—E-L-A-R-A."

"Joseph…Elara. Oh, shit. Her. Yeah, I remember her. Mile-long legs and big brown doe eyes."

I arched an eyebrow at her, and she flushed. "Focus, Givey. My time is more valuable than yours."

"Fuck you, Hawk." He hummed as he read. "Well, I never interacted with her myself. To be honest, she was on a higher floor than me at the time. Her uncle is the newest partner, so everyone expected her to be the usual nepo-hire, but all her reviews are stellar. Top marks across the board."

"That's what I needed to know. Thanks, bud."

"She's not your usual type," he said. “In the office or…elsewhere."

"Yep, got it," I said, "just double checking."

"You gonna be at the club later?"

“To kick your ass on the squash court? Yeah, I’ll see you there. Later, Givey."

"Later, Hawk."

I hung up the phone and tossed it onto my desk. "I'll shoot you straight, Ms. Joseph. I don't hire based on anything but results. Harriet knows that. She knows I don’t tolerate bullshit."

"Sir, I—"

"Not done.” Her teeth clicked closed and I kept going. "Furthermore, I freely admit there was a period when I first took over from my father where I went through PAs faster than a whore goes through condoms. And that, I admit, is because I hired them for their looks and their willingness to be more than just PAs." A pause. “Meaning, I banged them all. Repeatedly.”

Her eyes widened and she blushed. "Sir, I…"

“Hold on. Almost done." I sat back. "I no longer do things that way. I no longer have sex with my PAs or anyone else I employ. I hired Harriet because she terrifies me. She protects me from myself. She knows better than to hire someone who will distract me. Therefore, if Harriet pulled the trigger on you, then she had her reasons. If you think she wasn’t aware that your internships were the result of nepotism, then you're either delusional or not as smart as she must have assumed."

I sat forward, elbows on the desk, fingers braided together. "Ms. Joseph, I shall give you some free and unasked-for advice. If you're going to lie about your resume, then own the lie and never let anyone know you lied. Run with it. Shaking in your shoes, scared everyone can see that you're a big fat faker? You may as well just hit your knees and start sucking, honey, because that's the only way up the ladder for a faker."

She swallowed, tears in her eyes. "I understand, sir."

"Do you?" I slid my blue-blockers on. "Are you a faker?"

"N-no,” she whispered

"What was that? I didn't catch it."

Louder, then. Confidently. "No sir. I am not a faker. I can do the work. I have no interest or intention in climbing the ladder…" She flushed scarlet. "The other way."

“You picked a savage, brutal, barbaric, male-centric industry, Elara. Toughen up. Never let 'em see you sweat."

"Yes sir, thank you, sir." She started to rise.

"Hold on." I pushed the reports toward her. "Summarize."

She took the stack. "Sir?"

"Give me your thoughts on what's in there."

“Um. I just printed and collated."

"And read them—scanned them, at least. And formed opinions. I’d like to hear yours."

She frowned, blinking thoughtfully as her brain turned on. "Well…” She flipped through them—they were collections of write-ups, reports, industry articles, and stats on my newest project: restaurants. She scanned the top one. "This one is no good. Huge overhead, bloated menu, gimmicky atmospheric premise, high turnover."

She handed it to me, and I scanned it, set it aside. "Agreed. Next."

"This one has promise. Slow start, numbers-wise, but they've stayed focused on a small, core menu of well-reviewed favorites. But they're a single location, a mom-and-pop shop. With enough investment, it could grow legs, but as of now, I would pass."

I scanned it and tossed it on the reject pile. "Again, agreed. Next."

And so we went, report by report, discarding all but three until we got to the last report.

She took a while reading this one. "Um? This one is…different, sir. All the others are local to the five boroughs. This one is in Alaska. Uh, let's see. They have four locations. The original is in Ketchikan, Badd's Bar and Grille—along with Badd Kitty and Badd Night. Badd as in a name—B-A-D-D. Single owner, middling numbers for the first twenty years or so. They turned a consistent profit but never really improved on that margin until…twenty-some years ago."

I frowned, curious. "They've been in business for forty years?"

"Yes sir. They didn't expand until the sons took over from the father. Father died suddenly, it looks like, left the bar to his eight sons in his will."

“ Eight ? Jesus. Ever hear of birth control?"

Elara glanced at me, disapproval fleeting across her expression, quickly hidden. "They've become a huge tourist draw in the Ketchikan area. They coordinate with the cruises—it looks like one of the eight brothers does flightseeing excursions. Another brother—wait…" She frowned, looked closer. "Sorry, sir, a cousin, not a brother—he owns an outdoor exploration company with his father, the uncle of the eight brothers. They do day hikes and overnight camping hikes, as well as longer-term hunts into the interior upon request.”

"I might need a chart of the relations, good lord." I rolled my hand. "The business, Elara. Thoughts?"

She tipped her head side to side. "They've seen year-over-year increases in revenue over the last five years, which follows a trend of increased activity on social media. Looks like they hired someone to shake things up, and it worked. Their newest location is in Anchorage. It's doing well but not great. They're a family-run business. The owners tend bar and cook the food, do security, everything. The brothers and cousins are all…" She blushed. "Rather good-looking, sir, and they feature quite regularly on their social media. It's part of their draw. They do a lot of bridal shower business, I bet.” She set the report down and gazed into the space, thinking; I waited. "It's risky, sir. They're a family business. My guess is they're proud of that and thus are unlikely to sell. Or at least not in a traditional sense. But they know what they're doing. They run a tight ship, from what I can see—I don't have a detailed breakdown of their numbers here, just a surface-level look. My opinion on this one is it could really do well, but you'd have to get creative. They won't just sell outright and turn over the keys to the kingdom to some faceless mogul in Manhattan. But if you're willing to play ball a little… differently, you could do something very interesting."

"I see."

She was still thinking, so I let her think. "If you want a more traditional approach where you just offer them a bag of money and do what you want," she sorted through the keep pile and picked one, "this is your pick. But if you want a challenge and an opportunity to do something a little different, you go with this Alaska one."

I took the two reports and browsed through them, diving into the numbers. Decision time. I stood up and faced my floor-to-ceiling windows with their spectacular view of Manhattan, Central Park in the distance. Horns honked below. A flock of pigeons fluttered past.

Elara waited in silence.

I looked once more at the Alaska option folder in my hand, the cover sheet with a color photo of the exterior of the original Badd’s Bar and Grille. How long had it been since I’d had a real challenge? Since I did anything besides give orders and watch my minions do the dog work, as Givey calls it?

A long time. Too long.

Time to get my hands dirty.

"There's one word you used that sold me, Elara." I turned and looked at her, where she sat with her knees together and angled to one side, back straight as a ruler.

"What word was that, sir?"

"Challenge." I tossed the New York option on the discard pile and handed her the Alaska folder. "Get me a closer look at the numbers on this one, and then get me a flight to Anchorage. I'll need a car and driver—wait, cancel that—just a car. A truck or SUV, preferably, nothing flashy. A rental property outside town—rent it or buy it, I don't care. Use your best judgment, as long as it's quality—built to last. I like lodge style, hate modernism. What else?" I paced, thinking. "Robert McIlhenny is my proxy while I'm gone, but I'll be online and will be available by phone, text, or email if needed. I'd like to leave ASAP, so have Harriet massage my calendar. Anything that can be a Zoom, switch it to that. If it can be an email, even better." I looked at her, finally. "Got all that?"

"Yes sir. But—sir, I…I was supposed to be working on the reports for the Navetta account."

"Navetta account?" I closed one eye and stared with the other at the ceiling, recalling. "Oh, right. Mark Navetta, CEO of Prime Meridian Medical. We're investing in their infrared sanitization system.”

"Yes sir. You wanted to see the latest numbers."

I waved a hand. "That can wait, they've put up solid advancements in the last few months. I'm not worried. I was thinking of increasing our investment just to get them to market faster."

"I've started going through the reports, sir. They're very close to market from what I can tell, albeit that is not a field I know much about."

I nodded. "Very good. Then skip the reports for now and just keep an eye on them yourself."

She blinked at me. "Sir, I…I’m Mrs. Bowman's P-A. I have a whole pile of assignments. I'm not sure I can get all that done as well as what you're asking me to do. I'm willing to try, but…"

"HARRIET!" I yelled.

My door opened, and the woman herself appeared—tall and thin with silver hair, she wore a sleek black power suit with a white button-down, sensible flats, and had her hair in a severe bun. "You bellowed, sir?"

"I'm stealing Ms. Joseph from you."

Harriet regarded me without expression for a moment. “For what purpose? And for how long?"

I shrugged. "For as long as I need her and for the purpose of doing business shit."

Harriet's lips quirked. "Hunter, may I remind you—"

“You may not, Harriet. It's not like that. She and I have discussed that. Ms. Joseph has a keen mind for business, and I think she's wasted compiling reports."

"You and she have discussed…"

"My former predilection for banging my assistants."

Elara spluttered in surprised laughter; Harriet allowed a small smile. "You did?”

"We did." I held up the Alaska folder. "I have a project. I'm leaving for Alaska as soon as you can clear my schedule to do so. Elara can fill you in on the details." I looked from Elara to Harriet. "Next time, don't overhire. She’s way overqualified for an assistant. Grab someone from the temp pool if you need a grunt to print and staple bullshit. If you need a permanent assistant, hire someone. But I’ve officially stolen Ms. Joseph from you.”

Harriet nodded. "Noted, sir."

"Excellent. Now, you two coordinate on the assignments I gave you, Ms. Joseph."

"Can I get a back-of-the-napkin pitch on this new project that's taking our owner and CEO to Alaska?" Harriet asked. "So I can properly field the inevitable questions."

"Oh. Right." I thought about it. "We're expanding into the restaurant business—you know this, we've invested in three places so far. This new one is…a personal project. I'm bored, Harriet. All I do lately is read shit, sign shit, run numbers on shit, and give orders about shit. I want to do shit. This company can run itself without me for a while. Call it a working vacation. I'm going to be courting a giant family of Alaskans who very likely won't want to sell and who, by the looks of them, might very well throw me into the water by way of rejecting my proposal."

"Sounds hazardous, sir." Harriet produced her phone. "Should I add security to your plans?"

"Nah. I'm good. I'm going incognito, Harriet."

She sniffed—her version of a laugh. "Sir. Incognito? You've been on the cover of TIME magazine.”

"I'll wear a hat and sunglasses. It works for Ryan Reynolds."

"No, sir, it does not." She sighed, shook her head. "But as you wish. Elara, come. We have logistics to work out, it seems."

Elara rose and glided to the door but stopped. "Mr. Hawkins, sir?"

I looked up from the Alaskan option. "Yes, Ms. Joseph?"

"What…what just happened?"

I grinned at her; she looked a little faint when I did so. Good to know I haven't lost my touch. "You just got promoted."

She gulped. "Oh. I…I see. Thank you, sir."

"I am where I am because I have an eye for people. I don't give a shit about experience or credentials or which school you went to. I care about results. I care about your passion for what you do. I once promoted a man from the mailroom to the boardroom because I talked to him and saw the potential in him. That's what I do best, Ms. Joseph—see potential in things and maximize it."

"I will do everything I can to live up to the potential you see in me, sir."

"I have no doubt you will." I sat down at my desk and returned to the mind-numbing work of spreadsheets and expense reports.

My hindbrain, the part that wasn't needed for the work at hand, was ruminating on Alaska. I've been to a lot of places—Paris, Rome, London, Antarctica, Berlin, Auckland, Shanghai, Moscow, Oslo… but never Alaska.

I wondered what the women in Alaska were like. I imagined a herd of tall, curvy blondes in red flannel and skintight jeans chasing me across a tundra…or whatever was in Alaska.

Maybe I'd see a moose—that would be cool. I've heard they're much bigger than you think.

Eventually, I finished my work. I worked out, played squash with Givey, and went home, stopping at my favorite Chinese place for carryout. As I ate my General Tso's, I researched Alaska. Swiped through several years' worth of IG posts from the official Badd's Bar account; whoever was running the account was a goddamn genius. Their content was fucking stellar. Most of the posts were from the original Badd's Bar and Grille or a place called Badd Kitty. The posts featured live music, tasty-looking, simple, high-quality food, booze, pretty women and hot men—as a culturally verified hot man myself, I can recognize my own kind—all with cutesy captions with relevant emojis and hashtags.

I'm no social media expert, but I know a quality marketing account when I see one. And this one? Top notch.

I went to sleep rolling through ideas for expansion that wouldn't mean ruining the home-cooking, family-party vibe that seemed to be the bread-and-butter of the Badd's Bar brand. I had a million ideas; the only question was whether the family would bite or if they'd throw me to grizzlies and go back to splitting firewood and wrestling wolves or whatever backwoods bullshit Alaskan hot guy badasses like these Badd brothers got up to.

Only one way to find out.