button for the top floor. The penthouse. My apartment. Any other day, arriving home would give me a great sense of appreciation because I love everything about my place, from the modern design, and the top of the line kitchen I never cook in, to the huge balcony that gives me the most magnificent view of the city.
But most of all, I love that this apartment gives me the affirmation that I did it. I made something of myself when everyone thought I couldn't. If I lose this bet, I don't just lose my company; I lose my life as I know it, because there's no way I could afford the exorbitant HOA fees to stay here.
When I get inside, I head straight for the couch and lay down. I close my eyes, still feeling seedy. The hangover has begun to wear off, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach continues to build as the severity of the situation becomes clearer. I force myself to sit up before I fall back asleep, because I need to read through the contract again and try to figure out a way out of this. It’s pretty straightforward—as you’d expect for something hashed out in the middle of a bar while both parties were drunk—but my mind isn’t as sharp as it would usually be.
I don’t have much of a choice. I need to win this.
If this went to court, I know I'd probably win, but the bad publicity alone would cost me millions in clients. I pride myself on offering sound business advice. Who is going to trust my judgment after a stunt like this? Nobody would ever take me seriously in business again, not to mention the satisfaction my father would have of knowing he was right.
And if I fought and, God forbid, lost, who would hire me? I’d end up stacking shelves in Walmart or doing the night shift at some creepy gas station on the outskirts of town. I’d be a laughingstock.
I grab my phone and the card Jax gave me and dial Simon’s number, if only for him to confirm what I already know. It rings twice before a raspy voice croons in my ear.
“Simon Esquire.”
“Hello, sir.” I wince when my voice comes out just as rough as his. “My name is Ben Tyler. I'm a friend of Jax Worthington. He gave me your card, because I've gotten myself into a bit of a legal bind and was hoping for your advice.”
Simon, very eloquently, grunts, “What's the issue, Mr. Tyler?”
“I got drunk and made a bet with my friend, putting my company on the line as collateral,” I tell him.
“Did you both sign it?” Simon asks. “With witnesses?”
“Yes, to both.”
He sighs while I shift impatiently, then I hear a little metallic flick and a deep inhale, like he is lighting a cigarette. I imagine him blowing out a smoke cloud with his exhale. He coughs, wetly, into the receiver, and I grimace in distaste, resisting the urge to pull my phone away as if he could cough on me through the phone.
“Does this friend of yours have the money to fight you in court if you refuse to honor the terms of the contract?” he asks after a while.
“Yes,” I admit.
Jake’s got money, and plenty of it, thanks to the trust fund his grandparents left him. He does as little as he can get away with at his job as an insurance broker, and parties harder than anyone I know. Simon sighs, and I brace myself for bad news.
“Then I'm sorry, Mr. Tyler, but it might be in your best interest to honor the terms of the contract. I cannot imagine something you signed while intoxicated is going to be very… complicated.” He sighs. “If it went to court, it would be a long and costly process. Sure, you’d probably win, but do you want the reputation of someone who signs over his company while drunk?”
“Not particularly.” I’m beginning to regret making this call. It’s not like he’s telling me anything I didn’t already know.
Simon grunts again. “Well, then what you do next is up to you, Mr. Tyler.”
“I’ll do my best to win then, I guess.”
“Then I hope the terms aren't too ridiculous,” Simon cackles lightly, and takes another drag of his cigarette, the noise hissing right into my ear as he exhales. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Tyler.”
I hang up, fighting the urge to throw my phone across the room with all my might. I have