Where the green grass grows ch 3

The Beach Club Undercurrents

The Beverly Hills Beach Club hadn’t changed, but the people inside it had. The high-domed ceilings and pristine white arches still overlooked the same stretch of Pacific sand, but tonight, the atmosphere was thick with corporate ambition and high-stakes political posturing. The fundraiser was a massive success, packed to capacity with wealthy donors, media influencers, and West Beverly alumni.

Dylan McKay stood near the edge of the terrace, a glass of sparkling water untouched in his hand. He wore a sharp but casual jacket, completely ignoring the flashing cameras of the local press. Beside him, Jack looked out over the crowd, his eyes scanning the room.

"You weren't kidding about the time warp, Dad," Jack muttered, adjusting his collar. "Half the people here look like they're trying to buy an election, and the other half look like they're trying to buy a country."

"Just keep your eyes open," Dylan warned quietly.

He looked toward the main stage, where banners for the Scott Scanlon for State Senate campaign hung alongside the stylized wings of the Sea Angels logo. Scott Scanlon was the guest speaker of the evening, and his platform was shifting fast, positioning him as a major political heavyweight.

David Silver stood near the main office overlooking the floor, a sharp, tailored suit matching his status as the proud owner of the newly renovated Beach Club. Beside him, checking off the high-profile guest list on a tablet, was Dixon Wilson. As General Manager, Dixon had transformed the club into the city's premier hotspot, but tonight, his focus was entirely on security. David threw a quick, respectful nod to Dylan across the room, acknowledging the return of the West Beverly legend, while Dixon subtly pointed a security guard toward the VIP tables—even from the management deck, the tension in the room was palpable.

Dylan turned as Brandon Walsh cut through the crowd. Brandon looked sharp, his journalistic posture intact, though his eyes carried the exhaustion of someone who had been covering the recent California University crises for weeks.

"Brandon," Dylan said, shaking his hand firmly. "Good to see you. This is my son, Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack. You look just like your mom," Brandon said with a genuine smile before turning back to Dylan. "I didn't think anything could drag you out of Michigan, man. Especially after everything that went down at CU. Kelly’s not here tonight—she’s still dealing with the fallout from the Mercedes-Benz dealership sabotage—but the whole West Beverly contingent is buzzing that you’re back."

"I came out for Jake Hanson and the Sea Angels," Dylan said, leaning in closer so his voice wouldn't carry over the chatter. "But Brandon, I’m skeptical about what’s going on here. Specifically with Jasper Vance."

Brandon’s expression immediately sharpened. "Jasper? He and Annie are practically the guests of honor tonight. Their student rallies have gone mainstream. They're backing Scott’s new legislative platform, and the crowd is eating it up. They’re becoming incredibly popular."

"It's a front," Dylan said flatly. "Before we came here, Jack and I were out on the surf line in Malibu. I saw Jasper on the shore. He wasn't alone, Brandon. He was with Colin Robbins."

Brandon blinked, completely caught off guard. "Colin? Kelly’s ex? The guy who nearly ruined her? What the hell would a campus activist leader want with a high-society art grifter like Colin?"

"That’s exactly what we need to find out," Dylan said, his eyes locking onto Brandon. "But a guy like Colin doesn't talk to a guy like Jasper unless there's a ledger involved. Keep your ears open."

Brandon nodded slowly, his investigative journalism instincts taking full control. "I'm on it. I'll start digging."

Across the crowded ballroom, far away from Dylan's watchful eyes, Jasper Vance was weaving through the VIP section. He spotted Noah Hunter standing by the bar. Impeccably dressed and holding a premium scotch, Noah looked relaxed and confident, the powerful heir to the thriving Hunter Oil empire.

Jasper slide in beside him, his expression perfectly practiced—a blend of modern revolutionary zeal and corporate charm.

"Noah," Jasper said smoothly, raising his glass in a silent toast. "I wanted to personally thank you for being here tonight. Your presence means a lot to the cause."

Noah glanced at him, his expression calm but business-minded. "I'm here for the charity, Vance. Not your politics. Your little student revolution at CU isn't exactly aligned with the corporate landscape."

Jasper chuckled, a low, hypnotic sound. He stepped closer, ensuring his words were strictly between the two of them.

"That's where you're miscalculating, Noah. The public needs to see the theater of the new administration. Even Scanlon is leaning toward major policy overhauls on the mic tonight. But behind the curtain? A real revolution is brewing. And if Hunter Oil invests in the revolution now, you can triple your money at a minimum."

Noah frowned, looking at the younger man with sharp curiosity. "What are you talking about?"

"It’s an oil man's game, Noah, and you better get your money while you still can," Jasper whispered, his eyes wide with a quiet, dangerous intensity. "The geopolitical landscape is shifting. The groups we are aligned with are moving pieces on the board. Once the government changes hands in certain territories, we can secure a massive amount of foreign oil assets directly for Hunter Oil. Not to mention, the sheer chaos of the revolution itself is going to cause global oil prices to skyrocket. You win on both ends."

Noah stared at Jasper, evaluating the calculation behind the younger man's heavy pitch. Jasper gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, leaving the oil heir standing alone.

Noah took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch, his eyes tracking Jasper as the young agitator melted back into the elite crowd. The promise of tripling Hunter Oil’s capital and securing foreign assets amidst international chaos was a massive play, but it was also a lethal minefield. To navigate a gamble this ruthless, he needed to consult someone who treated the oil industry like a blood sport.

Noah swirled the ice in his glass, a calculating smile touching his lips. Maybe John Ross Ewing can give me some advice on this one, he thought.