Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“And those numbers work?”

“It’s in the syllabus.” She passed him a three-ring binder with the SunSouth Select logo embossed on the leather cover. He studied the logo but returned the binder to the table unopened.

“How much would we have to charge for the memberships?”

“As I said, the syllabus contains several financial projections. If we charge this much, our margin of profit would be larger than if we charged that much.”

“I know what a financial projection is, Laura.”

Taken aback by his tone, she murmured, “Of course you do. I just wanted you to understand that this is all preliminary.”

“Really? It seems so well thought out.”

“I’ve worked on it long and hard, Foster. I’ve tried to think through every aspect and contingency.”

“Who else has been in on it?”

She laughed. “That makes it sound like a conspiracy.”

“It sort of looks like a conspiracy. A few weeks ago when I asked you if the mice were playing while the cat was away, I meant it as a joke.”

“Are you angry?”

Forward, back, forward, back, forward, back, then over to the bar, where he poured himself a shot of scotch. He didn’t offer to pour her one. “What does the TSA say about these special passes issued to members?”

“It isn’t a new idea. Passes for frequent fliers is a topic already on the table. Some are already in use at selected airports.”

“Where would the planes come from?”

“With so many airlines reducing flights for economic reasons, we could buy the grounded planes for pennies on the dollar.”

“It would still cost millions. Millions more to convert them to that,” he said, gesturing toward the model.

“SunSouth has an extensive line of credit. We borrow the money-”

“And if this concept fails, we’re stuck with a huge debt and no way to pay it back.”

“We would incorporate those newly purchased planes into our normal operation. Our planes always fly full, usually they’re oversold, and we were planning to expand the fleet next year anyway.”

He finished his scotch in one swallow, then went back to the bar, took a cocktail napkin, and wiped the rim of his empty glass, circling it three times, before placing it in the rack beneath the sink. He replaced the stopper in the crystal decanter and put it back exactly where it had been. He used one of the bottles of hand sanitizer.

Finally he said, “It’s all very speculative, Laura.”

“And preliminary. I said as much. It needs a lot of fine tuning. I’m relying on you for that.”

He didn’t address that. “The likelihood of it succeeding is slim.”

“So was the likelihood of SunSouth’s making it when you took over. Everyone told you there wasn’t room for another commercial airline based in Dallas. Economists said you were crazy. Business analysts laughed in your face. You didn’t listen. You steamrolled over the skeptics. You didn’t let anything keep you from realizing your dream.”

“I wasn’t a cripple then.”

If he’d slapped her, she couldn’t have been more shocked. Indeed, he had struck her where he knew it would hurt the most. She stared at him, then, recovering from her initial astonishment, turned and headed for the door.

“Laura. Laura, wait! I’m sorry.” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. He came up behind her and reached for her hand. “God, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

He pulled her down onto his lap, took her head between his hands, forcing it around so she would have to look at him. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her cheek, then her lips. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Hearing genuine regret in his voice, she relaxed her posture. “Why would you say something like that, Foster?”

“It was uncalled for. Completely.”

She looked over his shoulder at the display, which represented so many hours of labor for her and many others. “I thought this would excite and invigorate you.”

He stroked her hair. “I ruined your surprise with my negativity. I apologize for that. Especially since you’ve already had one letdown this week.”

He was talking about her period. True, that was a letdown, but she wouldn’t be distracted from this subject by talking about that. “Do you hate the idea of SunSouth Select?”

“It’s a lot to absorb in fifteen minutes.” His gentle smile was an attempt to soften the blow, as were his carefully chosen words. “You’ve had months to fuel your enthusiasm. I was blindsided. Give me some time to mull it over.”

“But your initial reaction is thumbs down.”

“Not at all. It’s cautiously favorable to an idea that needs further study.”

Which translated to thumbs down.

He guided her head to his shoulder. “In the meantime, congratulations on a job well done. It’s one of the best presentations I’ve ever heard.”

He was rejecting the idea but giving her an A for effort. She hated being patronized but was too downcast to take issue with it tonight. She’d poured all her energy into the presentation. Now that it was over, and hadn’t yielded the result she’d wished for, she felt hollow and depleted.

“Now,” he said, as though a minor matter had been dealt with and dismissed, “tell me what else happened today.”

BOLLY RICH CLIMBED THE BLEACHERS AND SAT DOWN BESIDE Griff. For a full sixty seconds they sat there in identical poses-forearms braced on their thighs, hands clasped between their knees-staring at the players on the field.

Bolly was the first to break the silence. “What the hell are you doing, Griff?”

“I’m watching practice.”

“This is the third day in a row you’ve been here.”

“You’re counting?”

“Yeah, I’m counting. What’s the deal?”

“Well, in my learned opinion, Jason is as good as any other player on this team. They don’t have a strong running back. Their safety’s for shit. Jason’s scrambling, but he’s-”

“Cut the crap, Griff,” Bolly said, even angrier than before. “What are you doing watching a middle school’s football practice?”

Griff turned his head then and looked at him. “Killing time, Bolly. ’Cause I’ve got nothing else to do. Last time I checked, this was public property, giving me as much right to be here as you. You don’t like it, you don’t have to speak to me. I didn’t invite you up here. So why don’t you go back down there and rejoin the decent folk before I rub off on you and you get ousted from the Booster Club?”

Down on the field, the coaches had the boys huddled, letting them drink from their water bottles while talking them through plays. The boys looked too small for their wide shoulder pads. From this distance they looked like bobble-head dolls, all out of proportion. Griff had started playing football at about Jason’s age. He supposed he had looked small then, too.

Bolly stayed where he was. He said, “My kid idolizes you.”

“I make a sorry hero.”

“I told him as much.”

They watched as the coaches divided the offensive players from the defensive and herded the two groups to opposite ends of the field to run practice drills. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Then Bolly cleared his throat. “That night in Buffalo?”

Griff didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard him, although he knew immediately the particular night he was referring to.

“Never been so cold in my life.”

“Ten below at game time,” Griff said. “Or so they told me later. They didn’t have the heart to tell us in the locker room before the game. Sixty minutes of football played in blowing snow, and at the final whistle, all we had to show for it was a freaking field goal. The kicker, wrapped in Mylar and sipping hot drinks on the bench the whole game, trots his skinny ass out there and makes the only three points of the game. My fingers are bleeding from some Bills lineman digging his cleats in. They’re so cold I can’t even bend them. That runty kicker gets all the glory.”