Chapter 3
Shane choked down the swallow of hot coffee he had just taken. His eyes teared up and he swiped his arm over his mouth to keep from spitting it all over his mother's Louis XIV desk.
"Excuse
me? Did I hear you correctly? My half-sister? What in the hell…"
Linda held up a hand, stopping
his barrage of questions.
"Son, I'll explain all about it later tonight. It's a long story, and you've got to get on the plane to Colorado for Raw. Vince expects to see you no later than 3pm, and you know how he gets when people are late."
"But Moth…" Shane sputtered.
"Not another word Shane, I mean it. This is something I haven't told anyone in twenty-five years and I need some time to prepare myself. Go, get to Colorado and when the production meetings are over, call me at home and we'll talk." Linda's voice brooked no argument. "And don't you dare mention this to your father, do you hear me?"
"Yes mother, loud and clear. I'm not nine years old anymore, you know." Shane dutifully kissed his mother's cheek and went to the conference table to gather up his things. "I'll speak to you around 7 o'clock Colorado time."
"Have a good flight Shane."
When he was gone, Linda slumped against the closed doors to her office. She crossed her arms over her chest and rested her forehead against the heel of her right hand. A moment passed and then she stood straight, squared her shoulders, and shot the French cuffs on the blouse under her elegant Chanel suit.
She crossed the Oriental rug and seated herself in the leather chair behind her desk. Her fingers tossed the Rolodex to a familiar card but she dialed the number without looking at it.
"This is Mrs. McMahon. Meet me in my office in one hour." Linda paused for the response of the other party. "Grant, no arguments. I don't care what you have scheduled, cancel it. This is an emergency." She hung up the phone with perhaps more force than was necessary and swung her chair around to contemplate the view from her picture windows.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Kennedy stopped punching the bag long enough to wipe away the sweat that ran down her forehead.
"Kenny hon, I think that's enough. The bag is dead and it isn't getting back up, I promise." With a wry smile, her trainer Bob Orton handed her a water bottle and a small white towel.
She accepted the bottle and downed half the contents in one swallow and poured the rest over her head. She gasped at the shock of the cold water sliding down her spine and then slumped bonelessly to the floor.
"Kenny, what's wrong? Has someone upset you? Want me to beat 'em up for you? I might be getting old but I've still got some fight left in me, that I promise you." Bob squatted down in front of her and raised her chin with his knuckles. As usual, he made some ridiculous face in an effort to get her to smile.
As usual, to Kennedy's chagrin, it worked. The old charmer still had it left in him; no matter how much she wanted to stay in a bad mood he invariably made her smile. She had recently joined a gym and hired him as a personal trainer to get her in shape to run marathons. It was a hobby she had taken up in college, but in the last couple of years it had fallen to the wayside as she made her way in the business world. Now that she was establishing herself nicely, it was something she wanted to get back into.
"Oh Bob, you know you wouldn't hurt a fly. I just can't picture you beating up on somebody." Kenny grabbed his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Comfortably past 50, Bob was a bit over 6 feet with wiry graying hair. Though still very strong in middle age, his muscles were definitely upholstered with a layer or two of cushioning. At her remark, Bob threw back his head and howled with laughter.
"Kenny girl, did I ever tell you what I did for a living before I became a personal trainer?" With that, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her to his office.