Page 13 of The Biker and the Gamer
“I’m fascinated,” I say. “There's a difference.”
“Whatever.” He waves me off. “If you wanna fork that kind of money out of your pocket for some nobody chick you know nothing about, then that's on you. But whatever goes down between you two, just make sure it doesn’t affect the business.”
I don't answer. Where I'm laid back, Cedric gets his high from power and authority. Somewhere in his mind, he's convinced he's the boss and I'm the sheep. In reality, he owns only twenty-five percent of the company.
Cedric knows how to sell, reel in the moolah, pitch and close, but he knows very little about all the other moving parts. In order to sell, there first needs to be aproduct.
I’ve learned to let him have the last say in arguments and disagreements, with no other reason than I simply can't be bothered. Because if he doesn’t—and refuses to—understand, there’s no point in arguing. However, letting him have the last word never means he's won, though he still doesn’t realize this. I always go ahead and do whatever the hell I want regardless, then have fun watching him steam about it later on.
So instead of answering, I pluck up my phone and tap out a quick text.
Me:We have a deal. The contract is being drafted. We will have it couriered to you in two days.
She replies five minutes later with a thumbs-up emoji.
I'm smiling at my phone like a goon when the front door opens and my brother stalks into the loft like he lives here.
Eric, a Master of Engineering, moved to Denver years ago for a job offer. I didn’t understand why, because he could’ve found better in Silicon Valley. It took me a while to realize his strategy. He accepts small startup offers, trades his services for partnerships (sweat capital), then when the startups take off—which happens more often than not— he makes a killing, cashes out, then moves on to the next one.
He’s three years older than me. Balanced, but unpredictable.
“Who gave you a key?” I ask him.
“The door was unlocked.”
He's still in his work clothes, hands in pockets as he looks around.
Cedric and I share a three-bedroom warehouse-turned-loft on Walnut Street. We’re paying through our noses for the ‘rustic’ style of concrete, exposed pipes and metal beams. Not worth the price, but it was a rat race trying to find available rentals in RiNo. The owners took advantage of our desperation.
RiNo is art, so residing anywhere else was a deal-breaker for me. I fell in love with the city six years ago and it’s been my home away from home ever since. Home of some of the artsiest, most unique places I’ve ever been to.
With a marvelous display of bold creativity at every turn, the neighborhood is like a breathing canvas that exhales art, beauty, and vibrancy, with an edgy, industrial vibe. Colorful, hip, and pulsing with life, it speaks to my artistic soul. This is the place where artists come tobreathe. There’s so much potential. So much canvas space to create a world of my own.
Unbeknownst to the rest of the team, we’re in Denver not because it’s the best setting for the game, but becauseIwanted an extended vacation here. And the longer I’m here, the more I fall in love with it, and the more inspired I feel.
“Mom and Dad said you’ve been ignoring their calls,” Eric says, moving to sit in the armchair across from me.
“Not true,” I refute, still staring at Kendra's thumbs-up emoji. “They’re always calling when I’m in the middle of something.”
“How about when you'reno longerin the middle of something?” he counters. “Can’t pick up the phone and call them back?”
Our parents are off living their best lives, traveling the world. There are three of us. Eric, my little brother Isaac, and myself. We grew up in a typical, middle-class home, with biracial parents who weren't rich by any means, but who worked their asses off to give their sons good schooling.
Their efforts weren’t in vain, as they now have two highly successful sons, with the third in college. Two kids successful enough to financially support their long-held dream to travel the world, and yet still they act as if it'sthe endof said world when one of those sons miss a few of their calls.
Through a worn sigh, I ask, “What do you want, Eric?”
“One, to deliver Mom and Dad’s message that you shouldcall them,” he answers. “And two, to talk about Isaac.”
“What is it about your little bad seed brother this time?”
Eric stabs me with his glare. “He's your brother, too.”
“If you wanna take Mom and Dad’s word for it, sure.”
He makes an exasperated hand gesture. “Anyway, he's talking about dropping out to pursue a music career.”
My nickname for Isaac is Slytherin Sibling. I don't know what happened there, but he's the exact opposite of Eric and me. A complete screw-up in school. Where Eric and I went to Ivy Leagues, he was barely accepted by a community college. He always finds himself running with the wrong crowd and we've bailed him out of jail twice already as a result.
