The Billionaire Game(24)
“Bye now. Try not to trip on your assumptions on the way out!”
“But I thought we were—”
I slammed the door shut, locked it, and put in my iPod’s earphones, turning the volume up to the max as I loaded my favorite comfort track, the complete audiobook collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, including the little-known spoof ‘How Watson Learned the Trick.’ Then I climbed into bed. Alone. And tried not to think about the fact that I’d just screwed up what was probably the most important meeting of my life.
Sometimes, when life gets complicated and stressful, it helps to concentrate on something comparatively soothing and simple, like violent murder.
NINE
Two days later, I was vacuuming my apartment for the seventh time—any dirt particles that remained were too small to be seen by any but the most powerful microscope, and there was a very real possibility that the continued suction was going to start pulling up the crappy carpet itself, but these were small considerations in light of the fact that compulsive cleaning let me avoid thinking about such niggling little questions like: where do I go from here? Do I even have any options left? Am I doomed to a life of unprofessionalism, hot make-outs with guys whose pictures can be found by the word ‘unsuitable’ in the dictionary, and business failure?
In other words, the apartment had never looked so clean. I was half-expecting Martha Stewart to show up and have a seizure out of sheer joy.
I picked a piece of non-existent lint off the couch and grabbed the furniture polish for the coffee table, which was already gleaming like King Midas had stopped by earlier. My treacherous eyes lingered on the cell phone I’d left lying on the table, and my even more treacherous mind thought: you could call Asher. You could ask for one more business meeting. He really did seem to get it towards the end of that discussion, and if this meeting just happens to end with you banging him on his desk, then…
No, no, NO. Calling Asher was a terrible idea, even without following it up with the terrible idea chaser of actually having sex with him. Even if he really had been starting to get where I was coming from, and he wasn’t just in this for the booty, he wasn’t going to change his whole business model just for me. Asher took small companies and made them into big companies that made millions, and then billions. He didn’t throw out small change to people who wanted to make a little high-end boutique, no matter how good they were at making out.
Not even if they made him moan when they slid their tongue into his mouth, their hands gripping his ass like I wanted to meld into him, like I couldn’t even wait to have him inside me—
God-motherf*cking-dammit, I was doing it again!
Focus, Katie! This isn’t about your libido and your loneliness for once, this is about your life! Your dream!
Somehow the phone was already in my hand, the contacts scrolled down to Asher’s number. I stopped my thumb before I could hit his name, and scrolled down further. Lacey. Lacey would know what to do.
I hoped to God she did, or this apartment was going to be so clean that I was going to asphyxiate on Lysol fumes.
#
“…and now I just have no idea where to go from here.”
Lacey’s assistant handed us a couple of coffees as I finished spilling the tale of my disastrous business meeting with Asher and the following half-naked make-out that was currently competing for the number one slot in both my list of hottest experiences and worst ever life choices.
“Damn, girl,” Lacey said with a look that somehow managed to be both horrified, sympathetic, and impressed. “You do not do anything by halves, do you? Do you even know what halves are? Do you remember the concept of fractions? I remember that we were in seventh grade math together, but I also remember that your answers on all your worksheets tended to be the words ‘Aaron Davidson’ with a bunch of hearts doodled around them.”
“What can I say?” I said, draining my mocha latte with an appreciative sigh. Ah, sweet caffeine. Almost as good as alcohol for making the world look like a surmountable challenge. “That boy was a thirteen-year-old Casanova, and I had this amazing friend who was always willing to help me—”
“Let you copy my answers,” Lacey correct firmly.
“Help me,” I agreed. I shot a pleading look at Lacey’s assistant, and she mercifully handed me another cup of java before leaving to attend to her duties at her desk just outside of Lacey’s palatial new office. “Seriously, though, thanks for listening to me rant about all this. Also, give your assistant a raise. She deserves it.”
I drew in another deep gulp of hot strong chocolatey brew, letting my eyelids drift shut in satisfaction. Lacey’s assistant had discovered a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop run by two Ethiopian immigrants who had made coffee their life study, and Lacey now bought from there exclusively and in bulk. The people who came to her office for meetings were starting to follow her lead too, and it was easy to taste why: not only was the flavor smooth and subtle, but their coffee had the highest amount of caffeine you were legally allowed to sell in the United States.
Or, as I liked to call it, the perfect amount.
Unfortunately, even the most delicious coffee couldn’t solve everything, or even put off the problems forever until they solved themselves. I groaned, knuckling my forehead. “I think I invested way too much emotional energy into this thing with Asher working out. I told myself it was my one shot, but I just meant that to motivate me to do good on my presentation. And now I’m halfway convinced it really was my one shot, and I f*cked it up harder than a f*cked up thing from Planet Complete Fucking Disaster.”