Mostly. He was Phillip Beaumont, after all.
Phillip sat in bed for a while, rubbing his temples and trying to sift through the random memories from the last few days. He knew he’d had an event in Las Vegas on...Thursday. That’d been a hell of a night.
He was pretty sure he’d had a club party in L.A. on Friday, hadn’t he? No, that wasn’t right. Beaumont Brewery had a big party tent at a music festival and Phillip had been there for the Friday festivities. Lots of music people. Lots of beer.
And Saturday...he’d been back in Denver for a private party for some guy’s twenty-first birthday. But, no matter how hard he tried to remember the party, his brain wouldn’t supply any details.
So, did that mean today was Sunday or Monday? Hell, he didn’t know. That was the downside of his job. Phillip was vice president of Marketing in charge of special events for Beaumont Brewery, which loosely translated into making sure everyone had a good time at a Beaumont-sponsored event and talked about it on social media.
Phillip was very good at his job.
He found the clock. It was 11:49. He needed to get up. The sun was only getting brighter. Why didn’t he have room-darkening blinds in here?
Oh, yeah. Because the windows opened up on to a beautiful vista, full of lush grass, tall trees and his horses. Damn his aesthetic demands.
He got his feet swung over the bed and under him. Each movement was like being hit with a meat cleaver right between the eyes. Yeah, that must have been one hell of a party.
He navigated a flight of stairs and two hallways to the kitchen, which was in the original building. He got the coffee going and then dug a sports drink out of the fridge. He popped some Tylenol and guzzled the sports drink.
Almost immediately, his head felt better. He finished the first bottle and cracked open a second. Food. He needed food. But he needed a shower first.
Phillip headed back to his bathroom. That was the other reason he’d built his own addition—the other bathroom held the antique claw-foot tub that couldn’t hope to contain all six of his feet.
His bathroom had a walk-in shower, a separate tub big enough for two and a double sink that stretched out for over eight feet. He could sprawl out all over the place and still have room to spare.
He soaked his head in cool water, which got his blood pumping again. He’d always had a quick recovery time from a good party—today was no different.
Finally, he got dressed in his work clothes and went back to the kitchen. He made some eggs, which helped his stomach. The coffee was done, so he filled up a thermal mug and added a shot of whiskey. Hair of the dog.
Finally, food in his stomach and coffee in his hand, he found his phone and scrolled through it.
Ah. It was Monday. Which meant he had no recollection of Sunday. Damn.
He didn’t dwell on that. Instead, he scrolled through his contacts list. Lots of new numbers. Not too many pictures. One he’d apparently already posted to Instagram of him and Drake on stage together? Cool. That was a dream-come-true kind of moment right there. He was thrilled someone had gotten a photo of it.
He scanned some of the gossip sites. There were mentions of the clubs, the festival—but nothing terrible. Mostly just who’s-who tallies and some wild speculation about who went to bed with whom.
Phillip heaved a sigh of relief. He’d done his job well. He always did. People had a good time, drank a lot of Beaumont Beer and talked the company up to their friends. And they did that because Phillip brought all the elements together for them—the beer, the party, the celebrities.
It was just that sometimes, people talked about things that gave the PR department fits. No matter how many times Phillip tried to tell those suits who worked for his brother Chadwick that there was no such thing as bad PR, every time he made headlines for what they considered the “wrong” reasons, Chadwick felt the need to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Phillip about how his behavior was damaging the brand name and costing the company money and blah, blah, blah.
Frankly, Phillip could do with less Chadwick in his life.
That wasn’t going to happen this week, thank God. The initial summaries looked good—the Klout Score was up, the hits were high and on Saturday, the Beaumont party tent had been trending for about four hours on Twitter.
Phillip shut off his phone with a smile. That was a job well done in his book.
He felt human again. His head was clearing and the food in his stomach was working. Hair of the dog always does the trick, he thought as he refilled his mug and put on his boots. He felt good.
He was happy to be back on the farm in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. He missed his horses—especially Sun. He hadn’t seen Sun in what felt like weeks. The last he knew, Richard had hired some trainer who’d promised to fix the horse. But that was a while ago. Maybe a month?
There it was again—that uneasy feeling that had nothing to do with the hangover or the breakfast. He didn’t like that feeling, so he took an extra big swig of coffee to wash it away.
He had some time before the next round of events kicked off. There was a lull between now and Spring Break. That was fine by Phillip. He would get caught up with Richard, evaluate his horses, go for some long rides—hopefully on Sun—and ignore the world for a while. Then, by the time he was due to head south to help ensure that Beaumont Beers were the leading choice of college kids everywhere, he’d be good to go. Brand loyalty couldn’t start early enough.
He grabbed his hat off the peg by the door and headed down to the barn. The half-mile walk did wonders for his head. The whole place was turning green as the last of the winter gave way to spring. Daffodils popped up in random spots and the pastures were so bright they hurt his eyes.
It felt good to be home. He needed a week or two to recover, that was all.
As he rounded the bend in the road that connected the house to the main barn, he saw that Sun was out in a paddock. That was a good sign. As best he could recall, Richard had said they couldn’t move the horse out of his stall without risking life and limb. Phillip had nearly had his own head taken off by a flying hoof the one time he’d tried to put a halter on his own horse—something that Sun had let him do when they were at the stables in Turkmenistan.
God, he wished he knew where things had gone wrong. Sun had been a handful, that was for sure—but at his old stables, he’d been manageable. Phillip had even inquired into bringing his former owner out to the farm to see if the old man who spoke no English would be able to settle Sun down. The man had refused.
But if that last trainer had worked wonders, then Phillip could get on with his plan. The trainer’s services had cost a fortune, but if he’d gotten Sun back on track, it was worth it. The horse’s bloodlines could be traced back on paper to the 1880s and the former owner had transcribed an oral bloodline that went back to the 1600s. True, an oral bloodline didn’t count much, but Philip knew Sun was a special horse. His ancestors had taken home gold, the Grand Prix de Dressage and too many long-distance races to count.
He needed to highlight Sun’s confirmation and stamina—that was what would sell his lineage as a stud. Sun’s line would live on for a long time to come. That stamina—and his name—was what breeders would pay top dollar for. But beyond that, there was something noble about the whole thing. The Akhal-Tekes were an ancient breed of horse—the founder of the modern lines of the Arabians and Thoroughbreds. It seemed a shame that almost no one had ever heard of them. They were amazing animals—almost unbreakable, especially compared to the delicate racing Thoroughbreds whose legs seemed to shatter with increasing frequency on the racetrack. A horse like Sun could reinvigorate lines—leading to stronger, faster racehorses.
Phillip felt lighter than he had in a while. Sun was a damned fine horse—the kind of stud upon which to found a line. He must be getting old