Would Carlotta really ditch Walt if he ever stopped making money? Walt seemed to be terrified to find out.
Ryker’s job these days was mostly as a figurehead. He sponsored a boxing gym in Cedar Park, along with a couple of up-and-coming young boxers, and he wore the clothes that his company manufactured out to various public events. He still consulted with the designers, but lately he’d been feeling out of touch. If Trenton Investments agreed to fund them, he’d like to hire a new designer to breathe some fresh life into their designs.
The company, both the factory and offices, was located on pack land. Expanding their operations would take a lot of capital. They had a six-thousand-foot facility, and wanted to double in size. They needed new sergers, new embroidery machines, new industrial sewing machines – dozens of them. They would need to hire outside the pack.
He drove to the west side of Cedar Park and pulled up in front of the Trenton Investments building, where he let a valet take his car. He wished he were still in the pickup truck. He wasn’t crazy about driving that tiny little toy car, but the investors expected him to project success.
He walked inside the building, feeling the familiar anger and irritability churning in his gut. This meeting would require him to sit there and act civilized around a bunch of controlling stuffed shirts who annoyed the hell out of him. Basically, it went against everything Alpha in him. Walt, an Omega, did a much better job of dealing with the investors, but they wanted to see Ryker, too, since the company was built around him.
He walked into the conference room and sat down next to his uncle. Harriet was sitting there on the other side of Walt.
There were baskets of her homemade muffins on the table, and everyone had helped themselves to one.
“Hello, Mr. Trenton.” He nodded to the president of Trenton Investments. Trenton was a lean, hawk-faced coyote shifter who favored bespoke suits and handmade Italian shoes.
“Ryker.” Mr. Trenton nodded back, with a frown.
“So what’s the problem?” Ryker growled, since Trenton was looking at him like had bitten into a rotten apple. Walt flashed him an annoyed look. He wanted Ryker to make idle chit-chat; that wasn’t Ryker’s thing.
“You drove your pickup truck this morning, and we specifically provided you a more appropriate vehicle, for a reason.”
“I’m more of a pickup truck kinda guy,” Ryker said.
Mr. Trenton folded his hands in front of him and raised a disapproving eyebrow. “We’re trying to project an image of success.”
“You always say that,” Ryker grumbled. “Why not try to show the real me?”
Mr. Trenton made a face as if he’d just smelled something bad. “Our image consultants say it’s too risky.”
“What else?” Ryker could feel the fur itching under his skin. He’d need a long, hard run after this meeting.
“Well, there’s your boxer, Eric. The one you sponsor. He got arrested last week.”
Ryker struggled not to eat Mr. Trenton’s face off. He doubted it would taste good anyway.
“Yeah, some guy insulted Eric’s momma, Eric punched his lights out, and the public is eating it up. I’d have done the same thing. Next?”
Walt made a strangled sound and kicked Ryker under the table.
He glanced over at Walt. “You feeling okay?”
Walt managed a pained smile. “Never better.”
“Now, about your public image. The woman you have recently started dating. You really should have run that by us first.”
Ryker stifled a snarl.
Walt flashed Ryker a look that was half pleading, half warning. “Don’t eat him,” he mouthed.
“You have a problem with Daisy?” Harriet barked at Mr. Trenton. “Then you’ve got a problem with me.”
“Does she need to be here at every meeting?” Mr. Trenton snapped at his assistant, Joseph.
“She’s a shareholder. And my mother. So yes,” Ryker responded coldly.
His mother was also a whiz at sewing and helped to design a lot of their most popular outfits.
Mr. Trenton barreled on. “We’re not entirely against this match. We’d have preferred someone skinnier—”
Ryker leaped to his feet, and his face went shaggy.
Walt grabbed him by the arm, pleadingly. “Alpha. Think of your pack,” he said in low, urgent tones.
Several of Mr. Trenton’s associates glanced at Ryker and took nervous steps back. Trenton cleared his throat and inched his chair back a little.
“She does have an excellent pedigree,” Trenton said quickly. “We researched it. Her family lineage is impeccable. However, her behavior in front of the press the other day—”