Chapter Thirteen
At the Spababies corporate offices in Garden City, Ryan slammed the phone down.
Yentl and Griffin had increased their price. The morons. Since they had been under contract, he could not buy them out like he had the other cameramen. So, Ryan had told them to tamper with the seat only enough to scare—and they had almost killed his son!
Now, it was a YouTube hit.
Ryan replayed the video and stopped when Karlie touched Brian. Shivers ran up his spine seeing her hand on Brian’s arm. Curling his hands into a fist, Ryan did not want to believe what was happening before his eyes, but it was.
His son and his daughter. Together. It was unseemly. No way could he let that happen. He had to come clean.
Fast.
Ryan leaned back in his chair and visualized Patricia’s reaction when he broke the news. She would be surprised at his deception. No, surprised is too lenient a word. She would be furious. He shuddered. Ryan had no doubt Patricia was borderline certifiable. She knew her way around a scalpel. How else could someone cut into a skull and enjoy it? Ryan made a mental note to avoid spilling his guts in the kitchen.
Prim Baker entered the room. “Mr. Oakes, there’s a Kyle Manchester here to see you from Manchester and Barnes.”
“What’s going on?” Ryan straightened.
“He wouldn’t say but was persistent he needed to see you.”
Ryan adjusted his tie and ran his hands through his hair. “Send him in.” He kept his eyes peeled on the glass doors. Within seconds, a stocky gentleman came into view. His gait and mannerisms made him seem as if he owned the place.
Kyle Manchester held out his hand. “Mr. Oakes, thanks for your time. I was in the neighborhood getting a haircut and decided to personally deliver my news.”
Ryan returned the perfunctory greeting but remained seated. He wanted to show he was not intimidated by the other man’s presence. He affected a relaxed pose. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re being sued by Jackson Higgins,” Manchester said, showing a set of white teeth. “He says that you stole his ideas when you went into business with Michael Ward of MJW Conglomerate. He is asking for 60 percent of the proceeds you’ve made from the Spababies franchise.”
Sixty percent was an obscene amount of money. Ryan slinked further into his chair. An instant headache formed around his temples. Why is this happening now?
“Mr. Manchester, I assure you, your client has no grounds. I hired Jackson two years ago to complete a task, and I paid him double his fee. I can show you the contracts to prove it.”
Ryan moved to press his intercom.
“That won’t be necessary,” Manchester said. “We’ll discuss everything at mediation on August twelfth.” He placed the legal documents on Ryan’s desk. “I’ll see myself out.”
Ryan observed the other man’s confident swagger and resisted the urge to slam his fists on his desk. He grabbed the envelope and tore it open. He scanned the documents and bit back an expletive. Forgive me, Lord.
He stormed into the hall, sailed past the receptionist, and barged into Prim’s office. “Please set up a meeting with Nigel Lattimore of Lattimore and Ward. Urgent.”
“Will do,” Prim said, pulling up her contacts list.
Ryan needed to deal with the man on top. Ryan admired Nigel’s expertise and work ethic, and he claimed Nigel as the closest person he had for a friend. Once Ryan had met Patricia, he had dropped his pals and latched onto her.
Ryan yanked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket intending to call Patricia. His call went to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message and exhaled. Then he sent her a text message: Meet me for lunch? Lunch was code for a hot and heavy lovemaking session at their home ten minutes away. Ryan had not chosen this location by accident.
His intercom signaled. He pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Nigel will be here to meet with you at twelve thirty. I’ve ordered lunches from The Garden City Bistro.”
“Nigel will be pleased.” For the first time since Kyle Manchester flounced into his office, Ryan smiled. “Make sure you order something for yourself.”
“I did,” Prim said.
Ryan’s thoughts returned to Patricia. He needed his wife’s arms about him and the heat of her body beneath his. He eyed the papers on his desk, and he eyed the clock. It was two minutes past ten a.m. He might be able to get some alone time with Patricia and still make it back to meet Nigel. It had been awhile.
The quicker he handled the case, the quicker he could get back to the Brian and Karlie issue. These situations took preeminence over making love to his wife. He groaned, knowing what he had to do.
Ryan sent Patricia another text: Have to cancel. Another time.
After pressing the Send button, Ryan shook his head. When had his priorities changed? His wife always came first to the point of obsession. His secret was changing him for the worse.
Though he was in shape, Ryan felt every single inch of his forty-five years. Fatigue seeped through his being. Having skipped services since his talk with Pastor Ward, Ryan decided it was time he quit avoiding God.
He sank to his knees. “Lord, I need your direction. Help me make the right decisions. Forgive me for my many mistakes and help me make things right.”
You know what to do, the Holy Spirit whispered in his ear.
No, anything but that, Ryan bargained. I’ll pay more tithes and help with the ministries. Help me provide a distraction for Brian and Karlie.
Ryan stood and brushed off his pants, satisfied with his deal. His cell phone rang. Pastor Ward’s face popped up. God worked fast. Ryan swiped the answer button and cheerily greeted him.
“Brother Oakes, I haven’t seen you for a few weeks. I’d like to meet up with you sometime tomorrow.”
“Sure, I’ll have my secretary check my schedule and contact you. I’d like to share some of my ideas with you as well.”
“Ideas?”
“For ministry,” Ryan said. “I want to donate . . .” He saw Nigel holding up some containers. “Ah, Pastor, I have to go, but we’ll be in touch.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Ryan led Nigel into the conference room. The men scarfed down their lunch and caught up on their day. Once they had finished their wraps and salads, Ryan told him about the lawsuit.
Nigel perused the documents before looking up. “There are pretty serious allegations here. Jackson claims Spababies is his brainchild.”
Ryan shook his head. “No, it’s mine. I hired him to help me flesh out the concept before I presented it to Michael Ward.”
Nigel nodded several times and stroked his chin. “It sounds like a case of he said, she said, or in this case, he said, he said. Did you log his hours spent on the project? Did you hire a secretary or did he type the presentation? Who was involved in the official meeting and presentation?”
Ryan’s eyes widened. It wasn’t easy to do, but Nigel’s barrage of questions had rendered him speechless.
“That look on your face says you’re clueless,” Nigel said. “Ryan, you’ve owned several businesses, you know the drill.”
“I . . . I might have . . . What I mean is, Prim might have chronicled his visits and his billing statements.” Ryan knew he was a stuttering fool, but the past two years were hazy in his mind.
“For your sake, I hope she has copious records because Jackson’s main argument is he invested more time and effort because you were involved with your other interests.” Nigel looked up at the ceiling.
Why? It was not as if the stucco surface had the answers. “I’m drawing a blank.”
“Not surprising. I suggest you get a notepad and jot down all you can remember. Open the project files and specify areas in which you were directly responsible. Itemize everything. I mean, everything.”
A chill crept up Ryan’s spine. “I’m on it. I have cameras installed, and I will create a detailed sketch for you. Believe me, if Jackson crapped at twelve twenty-one p.m., I’ll know it.”
Nigel used his feet to swivel the chair from the desk. “I know a man. Frank Armadillo. I’ve used him, and Michael has as well. He’s . . . I don’t even have the right word to describe how good he is.”
Ryan arched an eyebrow. “Discreet?”
Nigel gave him a knowing glance. “Very.”
Grabbing a stack of Post-its from the center of the table, Ryan flicked one down to Nigel. “Put his name and number here.”
Nigel swiped through his phone to find the digits.
Ryan squirmed. His spirit felt ill at ease. Nigel’s connotation about this Frank person was not sitting well with him. If Ryan needed evidence, it sounded as if Frank would magically be able to provide it. He did not feel comfortable with all that, but he was less comfortable giving Jackson millions of dollars.
Nigel must have seen Ryan’s pensiveness. “Frank is legit—if you need him to be. Keith used him on Michael’s case.”
Ryan’s tension eased. If Pastor Ward employed Frank’s services, the man could not be all that bad. Ignoring his inner vibes, Ryan folded the sticky note and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
Why am I even on here?
Patricia scrolled down her social media profile page. She had been on her page for about an hour. She typically lurked, reading updates and statuses but didn’t stay on for any length of time. It was 2:30 a.m., and she was still in her office. She had not bothered going home. What was the point?
Patricia blew out a breath and picked up her cell phone.
Ryan had texted her for the tenth time. She rolled her eyes, not wanting to see his face. Not after he had gotten her hopes up with one text and dashed it with another.
Patricia missed her husband.
And it was high time he missed her.
She spun her chair back to the films lining her display board. She had been studying the X-rays for several days. On her table, Patricia had created a simulated life-form of the twins. With tired eyes, she observed the still frames.
A verse from Genesis teased her mind. What was it again? With quick steps, Patricia went to her computer and clicked on her Bible app. Then she clicked the search button and typed in the words. After typing “living soul” in the search bar, her verse popped up.
She gave a sound of exultation. Genesis 2:7 said, “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.”
Walking back over to the dolls, she pondered on the Word. Though man can create humanlike structures, they could not breathe life into them. She smiled. Now, if God would breathe some life into her marriage . . .
Patricia pushed the thought aside. She needed to think on positive things to prepare for what many deemed an impossible surgery. Though she had studied the charts in depth, Patricia opened the folders and snuck a look at the snapshot of Anna and Alyssa. The twins drew her to them, especially Anna.
Patricia knew why.
She used a small key from her keychain and went to her desk to unlock the middle drawer. With a slight tremble to her hands, she withdrew the sole content of the drawer—a 3-D photograph of a baby. Hers.
A tear escaped. Where had that come from? Patricia had stashed it away. She dropped the picture back inside and slammed the drawer shut. She whipped around and closed her eyes, wishing she could forget the little face and tiny hand on her daughter’s face.
Patricia wandered into the small back room and pulled out the couch bed. She didn’t bother to make the bed or change her clothes. Instead, she plopped on top of the hard mattress to catch a couple hours of sleep.
But her mind was on the picture.
Her baby had been four months in utero when she died. Patricia had named her Anna . . .
She raked her hands through her hair. Tomorrow, she and Timothy would begin their first simulated surgery. They would practice together before bringing the other doctors and nurses in. Then there would be several practice runs before she attempted the impossible.
Her Anna hadn’t made it past the womb, but this Anna had. Anna Velasquez was her second chance. Patricia clenched her fists. Lord, help me. Help me save this one.