Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Now, Ayema is the hottest athleisure apparel brand on the market. To be fair, we hit the zeitgeist. When we started, no one could have guessed that women would give up jeans for leggings, and trade in traditional bras for sports bras. But we rode the wave, and now Ayema is a billion-dollar business. We have branches around the world, and professional athletes fight to become “partner collaborators.” The ride has been a whirlwind, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Not to mention the pay is decent, I muse as I pour another drink from the bottle of scotch.
After all, our company now puts everything within reach. Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy a lot. For example, at the moment we’re heading to our high school reunion. We only decided this morning to attend, but it was no trouble to book a private jet to Wyoming. Again, anything and everything is within reach if you have the means. Suddenly, a voice sounds overhead.
“This is the captain,” the pilot speaks. “We’ll be at our destination in approximately fifteen minutes.”
I press a button that connects the cabin to the cockpit. “Thanks, Mike.”
Then I sit back and look over at my brother, who’s looking out the window with a thoughtful gaze.
“Is it strange that I’m actually kind of excited that we’re going to our ten-year high school reunion?” he asks.
The comment elicits a chuckle from me. “Not at all. In fact, I’m kind of looking forward to it myself.” I take a swig of my scotch. “You know, I wonder what happened to Cindy Walker. Do you remember her?”
Rick shrugs. “Cindy Walker. Damn she was hot junior year. That bleached blonde hair, those boobs,” he muses, reliving the glory days of high school lust.
“Any bets on how many kids she’s got now?” I raise an eyebrow mockingly but my brother merely rolls his eyes.
“Three,” Rick throws out. Suddenly, he recoils with mock fear. “Were we supposed to settle down and have kids or something? Is that a requirement to attend this thing? If so, then we’re screwed.”
“No,” I answer emphatically. “Our lives are great as is. We don’t need that shit.”
I mean what I say to my brother because Rick and I have worked hard to get where we are in the world. Our company has taken years of dedication, trial and error, and even a few major setbacks to be where it is today. We travel, explore, and live life how we choose to, norms and rules be damned.
But at the same time, there’s a seed of doubt in my mind. Now that we’re officially “the Man,” it seems a bit hollow. While other guys are enjoying family time and doting on their children, we’re sitting in conference rooms or hanging out with people who just want something from us. It gets empty and tiresome, which is why Rick and I sometimes stay home. At least, it helps us dodge the especially clingy ones.
But this is no time to mope because soon, we’ll be making an entrance as Rick and Ryder Walsh, billionaires extraordinaire. Is that cheesy? I smile ruefully as the plane begins to descend. Then, the bird taxis to the gate in the private section of the local regional airport. As we head to the main terminal, Rick and I each pause mid-stride at a set of floor to ceiling windows to take in the overwhelmingly beautiful Wyoming landscape and majestic purple mountains beyond.
“All jokes aside, it is good to be home,” I note with a touch of sentimentality.
Beside me, Rick nods in agreement. “We should visit more often. New York is great, but the East Coast has nothing on this view.”
Grinning now, we stroll to the pick-up area, where a black town car awaits. Rick and I co-own a family ranch just outside of the Sheridan city limits, but tonight is the reunion, and we’re already running a bit late.
As we drive through downtown, I chuckle, taking in the familiar scenes that make up our childhood in this remote corner of the country. There’s the bakery that’s been around since before I was born. There’s the grocery store sign that hasn’t updated since the seventies, at least, with its cheesy flashing lights and blocky letters. Plaques and tributes are scattered around town, commemorating battles from the French and Indian War, or notable Wyoming citizens. Last but not least, there’s the Rodeo Ranch honky tonk where kids still go to live it up.
Rick nudges me sharply in the ribs, laughing at a memory.
“Remember when we convinced Gordie to climb to the top of the general store and he got stuck up there? And we had to call his dad to bring a ladder?” my brother joshes. “Man, I miss being a teenage boy sometimes.”
“You still are one, buddy,” I rag good-humoredly.