Island daddy destination.., p.11
Island Daddy (Destination Daddies), page 11
I reach for the frame, feeling the backside with my fingers. As they graze the particle board material, I come upon a small slip of paper sticking from the side. Bingo, man. This must be his stash of passwords.
Sure as shit, a larger piece of paper falls from the back, as I unscrew a final hinge which keeps the frame intact. Written in black ink, I see his sly attempt at encrypting the words.
FUCKW@DELE@RN123
It’s apparent this is a fresh password within the last year, as they parted ways less than twelve months ago. The rustling sounds of what seem to be a person’s footsteps emanate from out in the hallway. Oh fuck, oh fuck. He’s coming. No sooner do I reassemble the picture frame, when I hear a deeper male voice acknowledge the secretary as he passes by Reid’s office. That was a close call. I’d better fucking hurry the hell up.
His written password works like a charm, making me wonder where my head was just two nights ago. If only I’d have thought about his sentiments regarding a certain young actor, maybe I could’ve bypassed the company’s digital gatekeeper. Within the application, there are many panels with distinct options. The top three catch my eye first and foremost.
RECENTLY MODIFIED DOCUMENTS – HR PORTAL – REMOTE ACCESS
I’m not sure which option to choose first. But if I must put on my investigative hat, surely there’s something drawing me closer to the REMOTE ACCESS tab. Clicking the button ushers me to a new screen with several folders, each categorized by country, and one labeled—Oahu Corporate Office.
The corporate option brings up another subsection of thumbnails. Each thumbnail appears to be moving videos, as if previewing some live feed access of sorts. Among the row of animated icons, is a video feed from what I can assume is located in the boardroom. The same place Reid is supposed to be right this very minute.
No time is wasted double clicking it, which immediately maximizes with a full-screen ratio and his speakers blare at the sound of somebody speaking. My hearing can make out Reid’s voice. However at this point, I’m deducing the camera placement is just above his seat.
“Moving onto matters regarding the ‘Turnkey Investments Group’ deal, it seems like we’ve all had enough time this weekend to arrive at a vote today. I’ve been a bit—preoccupied—you could say. But I did look over the proposal on Friday evening and it seems straightforward enough.”
Another younger guy within range of the camera pipes up shortly after Reid finishes. I figure if I’m going to find any other information worth reporting on, I’d guess it would be in the tab labeled RECENTLY MODIFIED DOCUMENTS. With his revelation that Turnkey Investments Group is the phony business name, it makes sense that there would be a file folder of the same name. I minimize the video feed, keeping any of its audio to continue propelling through his computer speakers.
In the tab of most recent documents, I scroll the cursor through a small list of files. Towards the very bottom, one folder displays with the label—Turnkey Portfolio 2021-2022. The male keeps blabbering about projected profits estimated to be in the ten-millions by this time next year. Meanwhile, I continue scanning this PDF file which explains a tree of tertiary investors, with blanks underneath their names. Does anyone in that room have a clue that this is clearly a Ponzi scheme? Would they care, or is it only about making shit-tons of money?
Just to ensure the coast is still clear, I maximize the feed yet again. The guy is about to wrap his spiel, leaving a woman the spitting image of Tilda Swinton to speak up as he sits down. She’s gathering everyone’s attention to prepare for their vote. Which tells me that I need to print these few pages of evidence quickly. I can’t just use my camera to snap a million photos like Jason Bourne or some shit. Not since I lost my phone yesterday, somewhere between The Palace restaurant and the party at Treat Cole’s estate.
The thought occurs to me that I don’t see a printer in Reid’s office. How does he print things? Do people still do that? Obviously, I work for a media outlet. Which let’s just say, wouldn’t operate without the invention of the printing press. That’s not to say most of our subscribers don’t already read via electronic means. But we still release each issue in paper form, and it’s as readily available as The New York Times is in Seattle.
A small group of printers display in a pop-up box when I locate the FILE > PRINT option at the top bar of this window. However, it seems the one Reid would utilize, has a nickname of— Kahlúa’s Desk. That must be the secretary’s name out front. Fuck, Kragen. Now what are you gonna do?
I suppose my last resort is logging into my Gmail account from his web browser. Not that this is an ideal scenario, because it’s exposing me to whomever oversees the company’s I.T. department. If discovered, I’d be implicated right away as the person responsible for bringing their company to ruins. Reid suspects I’m some fancy author hiding behind a pseudonym, even though I only told him I’m a writer.
The discussion heard through these speakers sounds as if they’re delaying a vote until someone returns from the bathroom. Though I’ve been so entrenched in the details of self-incrimination by retrieving the Gmail site, that I didn’t catch who left the room. Surely time is of the essence. So now I must save the PDF file to a local drive on Reid’s computer, before attaching it to a self-addressed email.
Another few clicks and a short note later, I’m precisely afforded a single moment to hit the send button. I delete the file from Reid’s desktop immediately after closing out of his internet browser. No sooner do I maximize the live feed, when I’m startled by the clearing of a man’s throat. The sound sends my asshole inches up off this desktop chair, when I quickly glance towards the office door.
Reid stands peevishly with his arms crossed into each other. The tone emitting from his voice box takes a far deeper octave than anything he’s used all weekend. “What the fuck are you doing, Kragen?”
Panicked, I cower behind his desk with a hard gulp of air. “I can help you fix this,” I reply cautiously. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, do you?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
REID
All which is keeping me from the verge of boredom, is the fact that little Banana Boy is in my office waiting for this damn board meeting to finish. Poor guy. Kragen’s a bit hungover and I don’t blame him. If my eagle eye tallied correctly, he downed about six Adios Motherfucker cocktails in total. That is, before Hunter’s shit-stain of a kid convinced him to try blow for the first time. Judging by my chosen cousin’s reaction to the whole ordeal, and Treat’s remark about a rehab on the big island, I honestly can’t say I’m terribly surprised.
Though the notion of anyone lingering around my office who isn’t my Nani, has me a bit on edge. And she’s a dog. The most she’s capable of doing is shredding a stack of paper. Humans on the other hand, are a completely different consideration. I suppose however, the riskiest thing someone would possibly find in there is Nani’s goodie drawer. Or a cup of fucking paperclips.
One of my father’s handpicked gentlemen, Ashland Rucker, speaks up about the proposal we’re gathered here to vote on. “If we play our cards right, page twenty-one explains that the fourteen secondary investors amass a potential of seventeen-million by this time next year,” he pauses to clear his throat.
He continues droning on about this investor and that one. Projections for third quarter and fourth quarter, and how they already have five companies interested in joining the venture with Fairchild Resorts Group.
I tilt my head with a raised brow. “You know the technical mumbo jumbo goes right over my pretty little head, Ash,” I say. “All I need to know is if we’re gonna make a shitload of money or not.”
Ash nods excitedly, meanwhile his eyes evolve to a deep emerald hue. “Oh yes, Sir, we’re gonna be loaded,” he replies ravenously.
No sooner does Ash finish responding, when Francine raises her hand to cut in. “Let me be clear, here,” she whinnies at the same decibel of Mr. Ed. “As I glance around the room, there’s not a single person here who isn’t interested in lining their pockets a little more,” she adds. “Why not just put this to a vote already?”
A tinge of greed paints Francine’s tongue like that fat fuck who’s guilty of sedition at the capitol. Father couldn’t stand her from the moment she wedged her foot in the door, akin to some vacuum salesman from the seventies. But by the time everyone inducted her onto the panel of board members, his clout ran about two raised hands shy of being able to vote her off the island. Literally. The bitch needs to go back to the cave in Northern Montana from where she came.
I battle a crackle in the back of my throat, probably from all the greasy bacon I consumed this morning. Since Kragen didn’t finish his, I couldn’t in good conscience let a thing like that go to waste. While my board members continue their pre-vote banter, now is as good a time as any to check in on the little darling. Perhaps he’s just as thirsty, and could benefit from a Fresca straight from Kahlúa’s personal mini-fridge.
There’s a reason I’m being pulled from the vote, I just don’t know why at this precise moment. Surely it must be my Daddy instincts firing away within me, screaming at the top of their lungs to check on Kragen. I offer a wave as the new Fairchild summer intern brushes shoulders with me in the hallway. Kahlúa’s post is right out front of our top-floor suite. She appears busy answering a couple of ringing lines as I shimmy behind her office chair, bending over to investigate my beverage choices. To be fair, they’re technically mine since the company pays for them.
“Aloha, Mr. Reid,” Kahlúa greets me, in between parking the phone calls. “How’s Nani doing?”
A smile warms my face. I just love it when people care as much about my dog as I do. “She’s been doing swell, mahalo,” I reply, swiping a can of ginger ale from the top shelf of her fridge.
Every hair on my arm raises straight up once I reach the halfway point leading to my office. I’m not sure why, but something tells me that perhaps this may be a reason the universe or something yanked me straight from voting on the Turnkey Investments proposal. Oh my God, is Kragen okay? Usually my Daddy instincts are never wrong.
About four feet from the door, I can hear clacking keys of a computer keyboard. And since everybody else’s door is shut, it’s most likely coming from my desk. Which is weird, because I don’t recall giving the boy access to my computer. Not with the wealth of proprietary information stored on our servers.
As my feet land closer, accompanying the occasional keyboard taps are voices. Wait a hot fucking minute, that’s Francine’s horse pitched guffawing for sure. If I don’t recall letting Kragen play on my computer, then I most assuredly didn’t provide him with my password to the Fairchild mainframe.
I waste no time at all remembering my breakup with Wade. Parting ways with him caused me to change that particular password. I’d only given it to him, because should anything have happened to me, he’d need access to important documents. Kragen likely found it on a piece of paper hiding behind the picture of me and Nani. But how in the hell did he know my main computer login? A raucous grunt escapes my throat at once, as I step forward to reveal myself in the middle of the doorway.
Kragen Darling’s not so sweet face raises to catch my incensed stare. A partial look of fright mixed with shame can be read from one cheek to the other. The boy claims he can help me from making the biggest mistake of my life. Yet I have zero idea what it’s supposed to mean. The only mistake I feel has been made, is the fact that I put trust in another young boy. Especially when I should have left him under my chauffer’s supervision. FUCK!!
* * *
It’s already well past six at night. Try as I may, grabbing my growling stomach isn’t going to achieve the result I need. Yet I’m left to wonder how a person could eat when they’re so infuriated, that even their own shadow pisses them off. I turn out the bathroom lights of my hotel penthouse, shuffling into the bedroom with what would be a scowl on my disappointed mug. I don’t know who I’m most mad at. Kragen or me. You told yourself you’d never date a younger guy again. Not after Wade.
I toss my entire body on the bed’s plush surface. The phone in my hand lurches sideways, landing just underneath one of my pillows. Precisely the same one which my Banana Boy had his head on this morning. Banana Boy. More like a fucking rambutan with its thick, dangerous spikes protruding around a layer of skin. As I shut my eyes, all I can recall is a fight which ensued out in the sitting area once I finished voting on our business proposal.
Kragen shimmied through the main hotel suite door with a sour look on his face. I could tell that I’d upset him by my level of fury. But there isn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’d voice my detailed frustrations in a public place such as the office. I tossed my keys onto a buffet table after slamming the door shut. Though in hindsight, I can imagine ‘throwing with great force’ is a far more accurate description.
My rage evolved to a fine boil after the short, awkward commute from my corporate offices to the Kūhiō Beach location. It was finally time to break the radio silence between Kragen and myself, and force the truth straight out of him.
I shouted so loudly, I’m certain guests in the lower floor could’ve heard me. “What the fuck were you doing snooping?” I asked, all the while hurling my wallet across the room.
“I’m so incredibly sorry, Reid,” he replied, surely terrorized at himself for violating my trust. “There’s another reason I’m here,” he added, planting both palms above his birthmark.
“Annndd???” I retorted, in as much intrigue as peeved.
A silence filled the void between Kragen plastered up against the door to my penthouse and myself, standing halfway across the sitting room. In that moment, I didn’t know how many more words would come from my own mouth.
I’ve always wondered when the day would come that I found a paparazzo snooping in my office. Not some hot fuckpal from Grindr. And what did he mean by there being another reason he’s here? ‘Here’ as in ‘the islands’ or ‘here’ existentially? All I knew is the boy needed to start spitting out some words before I lost my utter shit in its entirety.
“Reid,” he blurted, extending his arm. “I’m an investigative journalist for The Patriot’s Examiner and—”
I interject him full stop with a nasty scowl. “You’re fucking paparazzi?” I ask, shaking my head in full disgust.
“No no, that’s not exactly—” he tried responding, but I didn’t afford him the chance before laying back into him with an assault of colorful vocabulary.
“This entire weekend was some ploy?” I asked, catching his reddened stare. “You’re being paid to snoop into my life, Kragen,” I added, resting one hand on a hip. “That basically makes you paparazzo scum,” I drew a short breath. “Christ, did our connection mean any-fucking-thing to you?”
Kragen couldn’t respond. In fact, he didn’t return one iota of eye contact. All the boy could do was stare off to the side, as if he were ashamed of what he did. I caught him on his bullshit, and he knew it pissed me off to no end. He turned around a second later, opened the door while shooting a sorry expression over his shoulder, then immediately walked out.
Since we left the office straight for my Kūhiō Beach penthouse, I wasn’t provided the opportunity to take him shopping. I’d planned on buying him a new phone, certain to be a major upgrade from his confiscated iPhone which still has a home button. But by that point, the little asshole didn’t deserve to be spoiled. He isn’t my boy now. And I’m quite sure that any feelings he displayed was an act. So I figure there’s no sense in wasting another dime on him.
“Gaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I bellowed throughout the whole penthouse, thrashing my arm out on the walk around a corner.
Incredibly heavy—and expensive—vases toppled over the edge of a stand on my infuriating trail to the kitchen area. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d found another boy good at acting. Putting on a fake show of emotion for the sake of getting what he wants. But I also knew if I didn’t down at least one beer, the penthouse ran a higher risk of being trashed beyond belief. Certainly more than a few shattered handmade vases, from my Cairo trip three years ago. The shit thing is, I craved a line of cocaine the entire time it took me to chug twelve ounces of Big Wave Golden Ale.
The reminder that my brain is still wired to want blow seems to jolt me back to reality, pronouncing the deep loneliness I feel in my heart. Not only the seclusion I’ve felt for a year, but the fact that my Nani isn’t here to keep me chipper. Since Kragen is deathly afraid of canines, I left her back home with Luka and Kaimana. And because I’ve only known him for less than three days, he never had a chance to fully explain his fear. Or is that something else he lied about?
“Grrrrr,” I thunder, scratching behind my ear. “What a little twerp—I wanted to love him too,” I finish speaking to myself.
Because I’m likely not going to eat tonight, I figure a nap is in order. I want to fall asleep and forget this weekend ever happened. I’d really love it if I woke up on Friday morning all over again. Prior to my Grindr hunt. And long before the lies and betrayal. No sooner do I turn onto my right side, when my phone chirps with an incoming notification. I reach over for the device, noticing a banner from Grindr telling me that I have a new message.
A sigh falls from my lips as I roll my eyes. “So another lying piece of shit can take advantage of me?” I say aloud. “No thanks.”
I lay my head back onto the pillow when another beep emits from the device. Grindr again. Get a clue, fuckers. I’m not interested.
Moments pass as my curiosity gets the better of me. It’s wildly evident that I won’t get a wink of fucking sleep until I see who else wants to dig into my life. Probably that weird dickhead a couple of months back, who told me he wanted to do some seriously disgusting things even I wouldn’t be interested in. No way did I even send the pervert a face picture.
