"You'll get severance. I'm not a monster, and you've got a family of your own, I'd guess. But you will never manage another property of mine. And if you tell anyone you left for any reason other than cause, I'll make sure the whole industry knows the truth."
"Are we clear?" Pruitt opened his mouth, looked at the attorneys, looked at the chairman of the board who would not meet his eyes, and understood that there was no appeal, no manager above this man, no one to complain to. The man in the cracked boots was the top of the mountain. "Yes, sir," Pruitt whispered.
"Good." Travis turned back to Marcus, who looked like he might faint. "Son, how'd you like to be the new general manager of the Silver Ridge Coastal Club?" The kid's mouth fell open.
"I... sir, I'm... I'm 24. I've been a security guard for 14 months. I don't... I wouldn't even know." "You knew the most important thing," Travis said.
"You knew how to treat a stranger. The rest is paperwork. You'll have help. You'll learn, and you'll start at the salary Daniel just quoted, which I'm guessing is about four times what you're making now."
He almost smiled. "Your dad rode. He'd want you to take it. Don't insult him by saying no out of nerves."
Marcus Bell stood there in the middle of the courtyard, 24 years old with tears standing in his eyes, and for a second he couldn't speak at all. Then he managed in a cracked whisper, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I won't... I won't let you down."
"I know you won't," Travis said. "That's why I picked you." The courtyard, which had laughed and then clapped and then gone silent, now sat utterly still, watching a security guard get handed a life he never imagined. The millionaire who'd been the toast of the club 20 minutes ago stood pale and shaking against his own Rolls-Royce, watching everything he thought he knew about the world come apart.
Ethan Whitmore looked at the leather folder under the old biker's arm, the folder with his name on it, the folder that held the only thing standing between his family and the bottom. He understood, with a clarity that felt like drowning, that he had personally, with his own loud, stupid, arrogant mouth, talked himself out of the rescue he'd been praying for. "Mr. Reed," Ethan said, and his voice was barely a voice at all now. "The folder, please."
"Are you... Are you going to sign it?" Travis Reed looked down at the folder. Then he looked up at Ethan Whitmore. For a long, long moment, he said nothing at all.
"I'm going to do something I haven't done in 20 years," Travis said finally. "I'm going to tell you the truth of all of it, right here in front of everybody. Then I'm going to make my decision, and you're going to live with it." He handed the folder back to Daniel.
"Hold this. I'm not signing anything until I've said my piece." Ethan's heart, which had leapt at "I'm going to do something," fell again. He didn't sign. He gave it back.
The man gave it back. "You said you have 62 employees," Travis began. "Let me tell you about your 62 employees, Ethan, because I know more about your company than you think. My people don't bring me a deal until they've turned the whole thing inside out."
He took a step closer. "You haven't given your staff a raise in three years. You laid off 11 people last spring and kept your own salary at $400,000. You bought this—" He nodded at the Rolls. "—in March, right around the time payroll started bouncing."
"You want to talk to me about those 62 families? You've been bleeding them to keep up appearances for two years." A murmur went through the crowd. Ethan's face went from white to gray.