"You don't belong with people like us. So get on your little toy and ride back to whatever trailer park you came from." Vanessa clapped, actually clapped, and still Travis Reed said nothing. He just looked at the young man with those pale gray eyes, and there was no anger in them.
That was what unsettled the few people paying close attention. There was no anger and no fear and no hurt. There was something almost like pity. "You think I'm going to cry?" Travis finally said, voice low.
"Son, you're not the first rich kid to mouth off at me. You won't be the last. Go enjoy your party." He turned to walk toward the bike like the conversation was over. That was a mistake because Ethan Whitmore could not let a man turn his back on him.
Not in front of people. Not in front of her. "Hey." Ethan grabbed the biker's shoulder.
The courtyard went dead silent. Travis stopped. He didn't turn around right away. He looked down at the manicured hand gripping his vest, and a few people who knew about men, really knew, felt the temperature drop.
There are men you can put a hand on, and there are men you cannot, and the smart ones know the difference at a glance. Ethan Whitmore had never in his life learned to tell the difference because his money had always done the telling for him. "Take your hand off me," Travis said quietly. Ethan let go, but only because his pride needed it to look like his idea.
He stepped back and threw both arms wide for the crowd. "You see this? You see this guy? This is what's wrong with this country."
"Some loser who never made anything of himself, never built anything, never earned anything, thinks he can roll into a place like this and breathe the same air as people who actually did something with their lives." "Babe, you're so right," Vanessa cooed. "I built a company," Ethan announced to no one and everyone. "Forty-one million in revenue last year. Forty-one."
"And this guy's net worth is probably whatever's in the gas tank." He laughed at his own joke. The crowd laughed with him. Travis turned around then, slowly, and he looked at Ethan Whitmore for a long, long moment.
"Forty-one million in revenue," Travis repeated. "That's right." "And how much in debt?" The smile froze on Ethan's face, just for half a second, just a flicker.
But Travis caught it the way old men who've spent 50 years reading other men always catch it. In that flicker, the biker learned something about Ethan Whitmore that Ethan himself was working very hard to never think about. "None of your business," Ethan snapped too fast. "No," Travis agreed. "It's not."
But he'd seen it, and he filed it away. By now, the noise had drawn a crowd, and the crowd had drawn the manager. His name was Gerald Pruitt, and he came hustling across the courtyard in a too-tight blazer, sweating, the kind of man who'd spent his whole career deciding which guests mattered and which ones didn't and getting it right just often enough to keep his job. He took one look at the situation, the elegant millionaire, the beautiful young wife, the small army of expensive friends, and the dirty old biker who smelled like a service station.
He made his decision in about a second and a half. "Sir," Pruitt said, planting himself in front of Travis, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises." "Is that right?" Travis said. "This is a members-only establishment."
"If you're not a member or the guest of a member, you're trespassing, and I'd hate to have to involve the authorities." Pruitt's voice was greasy with the particular politeness men use when they're being cruel and want to seem reasonable. "So, if you'll just collect your vehicle and be on your way." "Call them," Ethan cut in.