Demanding All Of You

DamionI finished making my editorial notes on the article from one of my new journalists before adding a complimentary note and emailing it back. She was a talented writer and I was looking forward to seeing what she could do.There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” I called, knowing it would be my assistant.She pushed it open. “Mr. Whittle, Tony is here.”I nodded and waved a hand, indicating he should come in. “Thanks.”Tony walked in. The guy was in his thirties and probably about one of the worst employees I had ever had the misfortune to work with. Tony flopped down in the chair across from my desk. I took in his wrinkled shirt and unshaven face. The guy was about a hundred pounds overweight and didn’t even try to clean up.“What’s up?” he snapped. “What did I do now?”I offered my best smile. “Tony, it isn’t about what you did, but what you didn’t do. We’ve had several conversations about your work. I have a feeling it all fell on deaf ears. Your work didn’t improve. In

AlexI stared over the green hood of the newer John Deere tractor. I glared at the man with the cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. It was a prop. He wore it like it was part of a uniform. I wanted to pull the damn thing down over his ears and then choke him with it.“I’m going to say this one more time,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “You cannot just drive the tractor around the field. You need to make circles or do rows if that’s what floats your boat. This meandering about isn’t going to cut it.”“Alexandria—”“Stop. I’ve told you about twenty-eight times to call me Alex.”“But you’re a girl,” he insisted.I grabbed my ample breasts and fluffed them. “Yes, yes I am. I suppose that’s why I’ve got tits. My name is Alex.”He sighed, pushing the hat up. “Alex, I made straight lines.”I rolled my eyes. “No, you didn’t.”The guy was nice enough, but in the words of my granddaddy, I didn’t think his elevator went all the way to the top floor. Oliver had hired the man to act as hi

DamionI walked into the school, smiled at the receptionist, and joined the other parents there to pick up kids. I waited until Oliver’s teacher had a free moment and approached her. I liked to check in with her at least once a week if time allowed.“Hello,” I greeted.“Ah, Mr. Whittle,” she said with a smile.“Damion, please,” I insisted. “How’s he doing?” It was the same question I asked every time I saw her.The start to my five-year-old’s school career had been rocky. I was assured kindergarten was hard on a lot of kids. It was a big change, and some struggled a bit more than others. My son wasn’t struggling with the learning but with being in a new environment with kids he didn’t know.“He is a bright young man and a pleasure to have in class,” she answered.“But?” I asked, knowing there was something she wasn’t saying.She smiled. “He’s had a difficult week. The class has been doing group projects, and Oliver is so far advanced, he either does all the work or doesn’t do any of i

AlexI stared out the window of the hospital room. It was a dreary spring day, which was common, but I suspected the rain was God weeping. Not really. The weather suited the mood. I was trying to keep my emotions in check. I refused to show weakness. I hated showing weakness.“You’re still here?” Oliver’s weak voice came from behind me.I slowly turned and looked at the man lying in bed. He looked tired. I didn’t think he looked like a man on death’s door, but the doctors and nurses assured me that was the case. I was in awe of his strength. I had no idea he was sick. Yesterday when I had shown up to the house, he was still in bed. He politely asked me to drive him the twenty miles to the hospital.Initially, I thought maybe he had the flu. He had just been on an airplane. Airplanes were nasty, germ-laden boxes. When he’d quickly been admitted with almost no questions asked, I realized something was wrong. It was all prearranged. It was like he was checking in at a hotel.“I’m here, O

DamionI sat at my desk, reviewing a new piece from one of my seasoned journalists when my assistant buzzed the intercom. “Mr. Whittle?”“Yes?”“There’s someone here to see you. He says he’s a lawyer.”I didn’t think I was being sued, but one never knew in the current climate. We weren’t in the business of celebrity news, which protected us from some suits but not all. I adjusted my tie, wanting to present a professional appearance.“I’ll be right out.”I got to my feet and opened the office door. The lawyer was nothing like the other lawyers I dealt with. The guy was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and a bolo tie. He looked to be in his late sixties. I didn’t have to ask where he was from.“I’m Damion Whittle,” I said, extending my hand.“Good to meet you, Damion. I’m Harvey Larson. I’m your grandfather’s attorney.”I nodded, gesturing for him to go inside. “Hold my calls,” I said, not looking forward to the conversation I knew to be coming.Harvey had taken a seat already