Account Balance: $1,425.00
I narrow my eyes, not sure I’m reading it right. Yep. Definitely reading it right. What the fuck? There should be thousands more in this account. Clicking on the Deposits tab, I see the last direct deposit was a little over three months ago. The quarterly deposit should have been made one week ago.
“Motherfucker,” I growl. It’s going to cost me a fortune, but I have no choice. I pull out my cell and dial my attorney, Richard Mateo.
It rings once and he picks up. “Paul,” he states my name plainly.
“Richard,” I drone. “Been expecting my call?” I’ve never been one for respectful greetings, especially over the phone, and I’m not starting now.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” he admits.
“I just logged on to my bank account and found the quarterly deposit hasn’t been made.”
“Well, Paul, I’ve called you several times, but it always goes straight to voice mail. And your voice mail is full. I’ve also sent you emails.” I clench my phone tighter. I never check my email, and I loathe voice mails.
“Where is my money?” I snap, my temper flaring. A tiny young woman glances at me, my tone having drawn her attention, but she quickly looks away when I give her a look that says, ‘mind your own fucking business.’
“The agreement calls for an annual meeting once a year. Ms. Bateman is withholding funds until the meeting is held.”
“What?” I laugh because it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. “Why in the hell is that in the contract?”
“Because I wasn’t aware it would be an issue. You gave me power of attorney and I made the decisions I thought would benefit you best.”
“How is an annual meeting going to benefit me?”
“Because you should want to know how your business is doing,” he answers making me feel like an idiot. I should be checking on the business. It is half mine. But checking on the business would mean seeing her. “She wants you to come home, Paul. She wants a meeting.”
“We’ve never even had an annual meeting,” I argue, clenching my fist.
“It’s in your contract.”
“It’s been over twelve years since that contract was signed, Richard, and we’ve not had one annual meeting,” I point out again. “Can she legally withhold my money?”
“Well . . . maybe not legally. But you can’t fight her on it without coming home and taking her to court. Just have the meeting. She’ll pay you. Then you can go back to gallivanting around the world.”
I don’t even bother to respond. Hitting End on the call, I power it down and jam it back in my pocket. This sounds just like Clara. Always playing her hand and seeking the power in our agreement. The bulldozer. If she can’t get what she wants, she’ll run you over. I can’t imagine why in the hell she wants me to come home now after all these years. I thought for sure the first year I was gone she’d reach out to me, ask me to return, but I got nothing. Her life rolled on as if I never even existed in it.
Logging on to Hotwire to find the cheapest airfare I can, I curse the situation.
Home.
I have to go home.
Her.
I have to face her.
The two things I’ve been running from. If she thinks our reunion will be pleasant and professional, she’s got another thing coming. I’m going to make sure she never asks for another fucking annual meeting ever again.
“Turn it off, Neena,” I warn as I sift through a stack of papers on my desk.
“It’s not on,” she lies. Lifting my gaze, I find the lens of her camcorder five inches from my face.
“So you’re just holding it in my face for no reason?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Go film Marcus,” I groan.
“He’s prepping.”
“Damn,” I mumble. “What’s today?”
Neena grins so wide I don’t even have to look at her to see it; I can feel it. “The fifteenth.”
Shoving the papers back in a folder and tossing it aside, I take Neena’s face in my hands and press my lips to her forehead. Exhaling a sigh of relief through my nose because she has no fever, I murmur, “You look tired, baby.”
“I am tired,” she admits.