No Good Mitchell - Riley Hart Page 0,38
he seemed to realize this wasn’t just his burden to bear anymore.
Big Daddy made good on his word, granting me access to our QuickBooks and showing me where all the major financial statements were kept in his office. He went through the debts owed and the less than stellar profits we had coming in for the year.
As I should have expected, it was even worse than I’d anticipated, and I could see why he was so stressed out about it. It wasn’t something he should have had to carry on his own for as long as he had.
After our chat, I headed up to my room, stewing on the news. I pulled out my phone, looking up No Good Mitchell’s number and debating about hitting it. Although, if I’d learned anything that night, it was that it wasn’t good to stew on secrets.
So I called.
I was kind of hoping he’d be in bed and not answer, but then I heard that sexy-ass voice. “Missing me already?”
I snickered.
“What’s wrong?”
“How do you know something’s wrong?”
“I was pretty damn hilarious, and all I got was a chuckle?”
“Just had a…interesting chat with the head of the O’Ralley household.”
“Everything okay with Big Daddy?”
“Yeah…and no. I went through the books with him for the first time in my life, and it wasn’t pretty. To say we’re having a cash-flow challenge seems like an understatement.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Problem is, Big Daddy’s been running this place same as he has since his dad did before him, and if we want to survive, we’re gonna need to make some changes with how we do things. Catch up to the market.”
“That’s funny that you called me just now. I happen to know a guy who’s starting a distillery, and he’s pretty good at shit like this. He might be able to help you.”
“Oh, really?” I said, laughing. “He any good?”
“I mean, you’ve had a preview of his work, but you really can’t go running home to Daddy after dinner if you expect to know if he’s any good for real.”
I laughed again, enjoying the relief he offered from my far more serious conversation with Big Daddy.
“He expensive?”
“Real expensive. You have to give him a lot of BJs to get him to do anything.”
“I have to give the BJs? What if I just let him give me the BJs?”
“So greedy, Mr. O’Ralley. No, no, you get down on your knees and worship his cock if you want him to help you with anything.”
“What if he needs some help from me with this brand-new distillery?”
“Then you guys have to arrange BJs the other way for that. Negotiations. It’s the only way to do business.”
I rolled my head back as I laughed again, stroking my hand over my crotch, noticing I was already getting hard just thinking about his mouth around my dick again. “Sounds like a lot of dick is gonna get sucked.”
“Until I can trick you into giving me some hole.”
“Oh, trick me, now? Is that how you’re gonna get it?”
“Depends,” he said, his voice full of mischief. “Do you enjoy being tricked?”
“Only if I like the guy doing the tricking. But I expect an even exchange.”
“Well, that’s all going to depend on how good you are at negotiating, really.”
God, he made me feel so silly and playful. I fucking loved it, about as much as I loved how he was already getting me leaking.
“Anyway, I’d better rub one out and get going to bed,” he went on. “Got a busy day tomorrow, especially now that we’re meeting up to chat about the O’Ralley family secrets.”
“Do you need to get off the phone so you can rub one out?”
“In business, we call this leverage. It means I withhold this thing that you want so I’m more likely to get what I want from you next time I see you.”
“This sounds like playing dirty to me.”
“Oh, Mr. O’Ralley, don’t worry. You’ll get to see just how dirty doing business with me can be…”
We shared another laugh before saying good night. I got off thinking about that pretty mug and all the snark and attitude he’d offered over the phone. As stressful a night as it was after I got home, I had a good feeling that maybe, just maybe, Cohen could help us get this place on the right track again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cohen
Brody sat in the chair beside me. We were at the desk in what had been Harris Mitchell’s office, where we’d spent the last two hours looking over the O’Ralley