BANGERZ 3: ON THE RUN (2017)

1. Willpower

Veronica

Physically, Jason McCann is a slip of a thing, with nothing to him but a swathe of bronze hair slicked back from his forehead and a face pretty enough to hold his generation's hopes and dreams closely against.

But maybe too pretty to keep those hopes and dreams from getting crushed. Especially by someone like me.

In a crisp white button down, skinny black tie, and tailored slacks, he fits in the stately, ornate conference room chosen for our board meeting today. Still, I could probably take him in combat. And I doubt that jawline is enough to get him to where his father was.

I size him up as he makes his way down the table of directors, shaking hands and clapping shoulders. I catch snippets of the conversations, polite condolences laced with jaunty bro jokes.

The stench of entitlement in the air wrinkles my nose. Here I am, in a room full of pretentious men, about to discuss their money. I can practically see the dollar signs lighting up their beady eyes, the sly edge to their grins as they see an opportunity to manipulate a young and impressionable heir.

God, I wish I wasn't here. I should've taken Frank seriously when he told me his life was in danger. He said he was going to die soon, and even if I had chosen to believe him at the time, I wouldn't have thought it would happen so soon. We spoke only two months ago - an unexpected conversation that escalated far worse than any custody parlay we ever had. He called me from a funeral, saying that someone he cared for had just died because of him and he was next. The pleading in his voice was clear, unabashed, but all he wanted was an ear to hear him out, not a shoulder to cry on.

So why didn't I believe him?

I know why. This was coming from a man that fell in love with me for a few years just because he and his wife were going through a rough patch. Not to mention he could close a business deal and whip out a Glock on a snitch in the same hour. So naturally when he said his life was under threat, I assumed he was just trying to get out of providing for the kids - even though he was always generous and on time with child support. He's the type to dismiss things as soon as they become a liability. Like he did to me.

Yet here I am, still mourning his loss and feeling uncertain in his absence. That must mean I still love him, somewhere. Or rather, he still loved me. At least enough to try and warn me.

I'm sure I'm the only person in the room who had these kinds of grievances with Frank McCann. I'm also the only woman - except for a dark-haired, provocatively beautiful one sitting across from me. I don't know her, but already I feel a connection by virtue - we are sheep amongst wolves. I wonder if she is another one of Frank's indiscretions, and earned her spot on the Board of Directors as a favor. She looks like his type anyway. Maybe we have more in common than I think.

I watch as Jason approaches her, and she stands, smoothing her skirt over her thighs.

The conversation is so short that I don't catch any of it, as I did with the others. From what I know about body language - which is a lot, thanks to my psychology degree and military training - I sense tension from Jason during the exchange. Brief handshake, sour expression. The woman watches him plainly as he comes over to me, and I think, Oh, boy, this condescending prick -

"Hi, I'm Jason," he says, as if I don't already know who he is. He offers his Rolex-adorned right hand. "Thank you for coming."