Page 3 of Vallaverse: Twist
I won't do that, though. It isn't pride or necessity that fuels my self-preservation. It’s fear. Not for myself, but for him. What if he decides that he's had enough of the chaos of his life and I'm gone when he comes looking for me? What if he needs me? What if he's waiting for me to come save him again? What if he's trying to get away from the people and things that have such a strong hold on him? What if he's not trying at all?
I can't abandon him if there's even a slight chance that he might try. A chance that one day I'll be enough for him.
Chapter Two
Brooks
In the three weeks since I left the rut house, I have buried myself deeper in my various projects than I ever have before. The financial investments and decisions I've made over the years more than cover the lifestyle that I have become accustomed to, and my little projects barely skim the surface.
It isn't much. I like to financially back things that I'll likely never see the benefits of. I enjoy sponsoring community ventures like libraries, parks, and playgrounds. Will I ever take a leisurely stroll through the parks I've helped pay for or push a child on a swing? Probably not, but I love the idea of providing those things for the people who will enjoy them enough to ensure I'll continue doing it.
I also sponsor people. Because of Laz. I couldn't save him—or rather, he didn’t want to be saved—so I throw money at programs that help people like him who are willing to work for a better life. I have put Omegas through school. I have paid for whole wardrobes for Alphas with massive potential but shallowpockets because you can't climb corporate ladders wearing stained jeans and faded shirts with missing buttons. I have filled more food banks than I can keep track of. And I'll continue doing it because it makes a difference. None of the things I ever tried to do for him made a difference. He was determined to destroy himself no matter what I did, but I've made a difference to the people in this city who need it, and that helps me sleep at night.
Most of the time, anyway.
I can manage my projects almost entirely from my office at home. Everything is digital nowadays, so there really isn't much to it, but being in the office makes me feel accomplished. I need that feeling to keep me from pulling my hair out or making phone calls that I shouldn't make.
Today's agenda is interesting. I don't follow the fighting circuits, legal or illegal, so I'm not sure how involved investors are expected to be. But I like this kid. He's nineteen and has two black eyes full of stars. His manager contacted me a couple of weeks ago, saying the potential is there for the kid to be a literal heavy hitter, but the money for training, proper nutrition, and a decent place to stay wasn't. The return on investment sounds far-fetched, but it always does. I've backed worse projects than a kid trying to make something big of himself, so I'm making the call today.
Grady, the manager, answers on the fourth ring, out of breath and barking into the phone. “Grady, here.”
“Good morning, Mr. Grady. This is Brooks Lockwood. How's the kid today?”
There's a pause before Grady lets out a whoop. “So, you're going to take him on?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Why not? I don't have anything better going on.”
That's the truth. Most of my current projects are places, not people. Places are great—anybody can walk down Light Streetand see the improvements my money and attention are making to the park. People and their situations usually take time, and a lot of it, before improvements are visible. With people, it starts deep inside and works its way out. If they want it, that is. If they don't? Well, that's a whole different monster.
“Thank you, Mr. Lockwood! You won't regret it,” he assures, then calls the kid's name. “Shane! You've been picked up!”
Another whoop of excitement sounds and I smile again.
“Listen, Mr. Grady—”
“Just Grady,” he interrupts. “No need for the mister.”
“Grady, then,” I correct. “What is expected of me, other than financial backing?”
“That's right,” he says. “You're not local. I've got everything covered on my end. Usually we'd meet for dinner every week or so, just to touch base and so you know your money is going where it needs to. You'd come see the kid in the practice ring every now and then, nothing major. We can do phone calls if it's going to be hard for you to get up here, and I can send pictures and videos of his progress and his new place, but you'll want to be here for his first big fight. There will be smaller fights as he works his way through the circuit, and you can come see any of them if you want to, but it'll be good for the kid if he knows his sponsor is watching him during the first big one.”
I didn't plan on making weekly visits to the Northwest, so I'm glad that's not expected of me. I can go up for an occasional dinner, but I don't think I need to watch him practice or train. “I'm happy with calls and whatever pictures you feel are relevant. I'll come up to meet the two of you in person within the month. Of course, I'll be there for the first fight. I'll be there to show support as much as my schedule will allow.”
“That sounds good,” Grady says. “Really good. You won't be disappointed.”
“I don't think I will. Have a good day, Grady.”
Still smiling, I end the call as a gentle rush of excitement flows through me. I don't generally get excited about new projects anymore, but this is a change for me. I've never been involved in something like this, and the potential for success is high. I'm suddenly looking forward to meeting this young fighter and the trainer who fought so hard for this sponsorship.
The clock in the den chimes twice. Mrs. Richards will be in soon. She's a wonderful housekeeper, but she has a schedule and a list, and I don't want to impinge upon either of them.
I don't make much of a mess, but I'm a disaster in the kitchen. I don't particularly enjoy dusting furniture, either. Mrs. Richards used to work for the cleaning company I hired to take care of all of those sorts of things. She came in one afternoon when I was in the middle of making lunch. She took one look at the counters and stove and took over the kitchen, and she's been taking pity on me ever since.
She comes through the door right on time, singing and carrying a container I've come to associate with cookies or some other baked sweets.
“Good afternoon,” she chirps. “I brought you something.”
I take the container and open it to find a beautiful pile of snickerdoodles. I eat one immediately. “These are my favorite,” I tell her, smiling widely.
