Page 59 of Boss Abroad
“Gunn, come on, you know how it is…” His palms are up, his tone came down and I don’t give one fuck.
“If you or your paper write one more degrading word about anyone from my team, you’ll never step inside this stadium or get a quote from the players ever again.” I take a step closer, looking down on him. “I’ll make your life miserable, Baltimore. You have no idea how far my reach goes. Do you want to try me?”
I already know his answer, so I don’t bother sticking around to hear it.
Before I turn my back on him, I see other tabloid reporters taking a step back to spare themselves from the same humiliation. Not as dumb as they look, then.
I’m on my way to the conference room to check on how things are going when I bump into my brother. He’s laughing about something stupid with George. I didn’t hear it. It’s just safe to assume.
“Could you please tone down your cheerfulness, little brother? It’s becoming increasingly annoying. Take it down a notch, will you?”
Noah jumps at me and crushes me between his arms. I can’t describe such an attack as a hug. Civilized people do not embrace each other like this.
It was fun when we were kids and more often than not would turn into a rough brawl. But now? It’s appalling and odds are, he does it just because it wrinkles my clothes and pisses me off.
Fuck, he probably messed my hair, too. I check my reflection in the glass walls and fix what I can.
“For God’s sake, mate. Take that stick out of your ass and lighten up.” Even though I have a couple of inches and pounds on my brother, Noah says that while grabbing my shoulders and shaking me, like said stick will fall out if he jerks me hard enough. “This is a party, not death row. George, tell your boss to stop being a sourpuss.”
George likes his paycheck enough to know not to collude with Noah. However, he does let out a small cough to hide the laughter that threatens to escape him. Mia's already left, so now I'm giving George the death stare instead of her.
I straighten my jacket from Noah’s assault. “It’s celebration drinks and a charity game, little brother, not a wild party. Lower your expectations for tonight.” Noah gives me a side hug, which I half-heartedly shake off. Despite this, he tightens his grip on my shoulder and I let him. “And Mum is coming, so please have the courtesy of behaving and spare her eyes from bleeding.”
I eye him skeptically, and he gives me a smile that could be used to illustrate malice in a picture dictionary. And then the teasing begins. “You mean my mum? Emphasis on ‘my’.”
I breathe out a long, weary sigh. That's all he gets from me nowadays, just like I don’t get much of a reaction out of “little brother” anymore.
Katherine is not my birth mum. My real mum, Natia Hauata, died during my delivery. My father impregnated her during a trip to Samoa, and upon discovering the pregnancy, brought her to London. By then, Katherine was also pregnant with Noah.
Edgar, daddy dearest, made the distasteful decision to buy the house next door to Katherine for Natia. None of them were romantically involved with Edgar anymore—wise women that they were. It was just convenient for him to have the two pregnant women nearby for him to visit, and in the future, his heirs, too.
Katherine took me in and raised me as her own, but only until I was old enough for Edgar to ship me off to a boarding school.
He never allowed her to adopt me, reasoning he needed his first-born to be ruthless and prepared to take over after him. Edgar accused her of being too soft and already on her way to ruining Noah.
Quite the opposite, Katherine raised the best man I know and never bent to Edgar’s will. Denying her something she wanted so bad was just a spiteful attempt to gain some control over her. She had to go through him to get to me.
I fixed that once I was old and smart enough and had the adoption papers drawn up myself.
We cleared the sitting area, turned the reception into a posh bar, and are spoiling the good media with photoshoots and exclusives with the athletes and training staff ahead of April’s statement.
Drinks are flowing, and my eyes sweep the entire floor. I can’t help but look for April while I nurse my whiskey and Noah laughs at my poor attempt at being subtle about it.
My brother rambles on about… how the fuck would I know because I’m rendered stupid when I spot April across the floor. She’s a fucking vision. Her brown hair is curled and pulled to one side, cascading on top of one shoulder. She’s wearing dark red lipstick that makes her pouty lips look even bigger. Her dress mirrors the same shade, possibly signaling the danger I’m choosing to ignore, and it hugs all her curves.
It has a single zipper on her back, tracing a path from her neck to her knees. So fucking inviting. So tempting. The dress goes past her thighs and has long sleeves. It’s tight. Probably not as tight as my underwear right now.
I chug down my cognac and bark at my brother. “Bar. Now.”
“Let me guess. That’s the American doctor? The one in the red dress?” Fuck, am I really that obvious?
“Yes.” Facing the bar, I adjust myself inside my pants and close my suit jacket for better coverage. The barman refills my glass and I thank him.
My brother sees what I’m doing and bursts out laughing. “Fuck, man. What are you? Fifteen?”
“She turns me into a horny teenager. Fuck if I can help it.” Noah finishes laughing at my expense and states the obvious.
“She’s fucking hot, man. And a bit young too. Is she Lisa’s age? Please tell me she’s Lisa’s age.” Lisa is Edgar’s last souvenir, our baby sister from Colombia. My brain refuses to calculate her age.