Page 5 of Tiebreaker

“I said,sit. That was not a request.” The elderly man stares at the three of us until, reluctantly, we take our seats. I'm not happy about it, but there's gotta be a good reason he dragged us here, knowing how much we all hate each other. How much we all want to literally kill each other.

At least, I hope there is one.

I take a drink of my coffee to hide how pissed off I am. I don't want them to know how much they get to me. How much I’m compromised by them — the way being in the same room as them is just begging to have me flip the goddamn conference table on its side. Thankfully, as I roll the warm cup in my palm and think about the fact my wallet is a Benny lighter, I remember the spicy coffee shop girl who… assaulted me this morning when I was nowhere near awake enough for a good comeback. It’s enough to bring a slight curl to my lips, for as briefly as that lasts.

“So, the time has come.” The old tycoon’s silver hair glints in the harsh glow of the artificial light as he nods, sitting down himself at the table. He moves slowly, carefully, his antique joints clearly giving him trouble.

“Are you gonna get to it?” Vince grumbles. “I don't got all day.”

“I'm sorry, do you have a corner-store to rob? Some poor immigrant family’s business to set aflame?” Everett spits, and the two of them tense up. I exhale. It looks like Vince is about to launch himself across the table and strangle Everett right where he sits.You know, I wouldn’t put it past him, actually.

Instead, the Colonel — at least, that's what we’ve always called him — bangs his fist down on the glass in a show of force I’m shocked didn’t shatter bone. That's when he notices a smear of skin oils across the pristine surface, right at the head of the table. He glares at Everett.

“I told you to stop fucking women in here,” he snaps.

Everett shrugs again. It's his signature move, and he’s good at it.

With a shake of his head, the Colonel looks toward the screen, hits a few buttons on the remote, and up pops an organizational chart. There are four empty boxes at the top. Four empty titles, where normally his name would occupy one.

“This is what this company will look like in three months’ time,” he says. “Me, gone. Golfing, hopefully. Not the other thing,” he adds quickly, before anyone can make a cheeky comment. “I would actually like to enjoy some of my retirement while I'm still alive enough to do so.”

My eyes flick between the screen and the Colonel himself. That explanation doesn’t add up to four empty boxes at the head of the company’s hierarchy.

“So, who's gonna be running this joint?” I ask. That's when I start to notice Everett scowling, staring at the chart on the screen, his face a mixture of shock and fury as it changes from pink to red to a color I’d definitely describe as purple.

“Sure isn’t Ev, apparently,” says Vince with a sneer.

The Colonel coughs. He hits a button and three of the boxes are instantly filled, each with one of our names. The fourth remains blank. That sets something on edge in the very back of my mind, like an object being pushed akilter. There was only ever supposed to be three of us. Three names on the door, three heirs to the throne, three potential new owners and operators of one of the biggest investment companies to ever come out of Los Angeles. Of America, with the right leadership.

He must be staying on in some capacity. That's the only answer I can think of that makes any sense whatsoever. Unless one of his little cronies is taking his place… maybe we’ll all get to duke it out…

Vince scoffs under his breath, interrupting mental images of me suplexing the same pencil-pushers who made my life hell a decade ago.

“What the fuck is this,” he asks. “You think I'm gonna put on a tie, come into work, have a corner office?” He looks at the three of us in turn. “Like some kinda sad desk jockey?”

“Yeah, it’d be a real shame if you had to shower more then once every six months, is that how you keep escaping prison?” Everett curls his upper lip. “Oiling up gets you right through those pesky bars?”

There's a vein on the Colonel’s forehead and it's pumping along with the flush of redness in his cheeks. I know he's about to blow off. We can’t help who we are, though. We definitely can't help hating each other. It's only natural and only normal. From the way we were raised, to who we are, towhatwe are.

The three of us are as opposite as any three guys you meet could be. I'm the only good one, if you ask me — I work my ass off for what I have. Unlike Everett, who was given everything from day one, and Vincent, who’s a fucking petty thief justtakingwhat he needs when he needs it. I work my fingers to the bone every goddamn day, and what do these assclowns do? Peddle drugs and knock over street food carts — and for one of ‘em, that ain’t a metaphor.

I lean forward.

“I don’t want it,” I say. “I have my own career, my own life. The literal last thing I need is to spend any more timedoingtime in this place. I’ve got my own money.”

“Oh, and don't we just know it,” Vince says. “Riding around in your fucking stretch SUV. The fuck d’you think you are, Justin Bieber?”

I glare at him. If he knew what I knew, he’d be shutting the fuck up before I reach over and end him with one hand.

“So, how much time will you be taking off from the golf course to come visit us, if you're staying on to consult?” Everett asks pointedly, nodding up at the empty box on the far-right side of the chart. He’s come to all the same conclusions as me, and, like me, he’s also now choosing to ignore Vince. Probably for the best. It’ll only end in a brawl if we don’t.

“When this agreement was originally reached by your parents,” the Colonel says, “each of you was to get 33.33%. However, I recognize that none of you would be willing to work with one another… after things played out the way they did.” He clears his throat. “And,” he adds quickly, “since the company was left to me to give to you, if you had earned it — if you deserved it — I decided that you needed some oversight to get the ball rolling.”

I sit back in my chair and take another sip of coffee. Huh.

“Doesn't matter to me. I’m never gonna set foot in this place again. Once I'm out here, I’m done. I’m gone. I’m fine to sell off my portion or whatever, cash out. Hell, give it to charity, I don’t give a fuck.” I savor being able to say those words, and the way the other two avoid looking at me.

That’s right. I earned what I got, legally, above board, the whole shit. My stretch SUV? Paid for with my last album. Sure it’s extra, but I’ve got enough stashed away. I get plays, I get spins, and I sell merch while I’m sleeping. I’m good. I’msettled.And I don’t owe a dime to anybody.

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