He frowns and steps forward, putting his hand over my waist to keep me from falling. His hand feels so warm I suck up the warmth like a junkie. “You really frustrate me sometimes,” he confesses. “You always have.”
“What do you mean? Always?”
He smiles, and his hand remains on me for a heart-pounding second. He gradually pulls it free, and I walk away as reluctantly as he removed his hand.
Christos
9 years ago…
“So what’s her name? The girl back home?”
“Bryn.”
“She’s nice?”
“She’s a little thing.”
Leilani puts my hands on her tits and presses them to my chest. “I’m nice too. I can be nice to you.”
She wants my dick.
But here I am, months after leaving Austin, still thinking of Bryn Kelly.
“I’m sure she’s with some guy now. It should’ve been me.” I get pissed thinking about it. About having to leave to become…well, better. At least good enough.
“There’s no should’ve. You’re here with me now, and I really want a piece of this gorgeous mouth. I want to feel this big nose…between my thighs.”
She squishes closer, and she feels good—warm, giving, her mouth moist as she presses it to mine.
“See, you might pretend I’m her—the first few times—but then you’ll forget her. Princess Bryn can go fuck herself.”
I let go, incensed. “Never, ever talk about her like that.”
“Christos! Come on, please. Christos!!”
Been breaking my back, day in and day out. Sweat and tears…well, sweat and blood, to be more exact.
“What the devil is this?” I laugh at Oswald during our sandwich break under the sparse shade in the construction site. He has a contraption on his ears that he never lets go of.
“I call it the headphone cave.”
“What is it for?” I grab it and examine the design. It’s awkward and not quite pleasant to the eye, but clearly Oswald likes something about it. “Seems to be a soundproof headset?” I say before I put it on, and all the noise from the construction turns off. Impressed, I pull them off and study them again. “It’s pretty genius.”
“Right? If only someone could see it.”
Someone. I look at him, the word resonating. I shoot him a daredevil look. “Let’s play around with it. Make it smaller, more visibly palatable.”
“Christ, man.”
“What? You don’t think we can mass produce and sell this?”
“No. I don’t. I don’t know shit about that.”
“All right. Give me this for a week. You own it. I market it. But we split the profits in half.”
“Half of nothing.” He chuckles.
“We’ll see.” Scowling, I toss my can in the trashcan and store the rest of my food away. “You think the guys who made Coca-Cola would’ve gone anywhere with black water? They fed us all the crap about happiness, life, and good times, sold it and now they’re intertwined. Public will buy anything if it’s well marketed.”
From my old Chevelle, I grab my pen and paper and start to sketch on top of the hood, tearing page after page. “We’ll make some stickers, contacting local retailers. It’ll take off.”
“Come on, I’ve got a woman and two kids, I can’t push something like this.”
“I can,” I tell him.
I’ve got nothing holding me back. Just myself. On one side, who I think I am, who I think I deserve to be. On the other, who I know I am, and who I want to be.
I think of Bryn—push the thought away. I cannot do this for her, not even for her. I need to do this for me.
Bryn
I spot a group of homeless people on my way to Christos and Co. on Monday. One of the women among the small group and I make eye contact. She’s hauling a cart with recycling cans, her hair is a mess, but her eyes are bright with anticipation when she spots me and asks me for money.
“Sorry, I can’t now. But if this goes well, I’ll invite you to a meal.” I pat my briefcase with all my folders.
“Good luck.” She grins.
I head inside, and I meet Aaric at his office again, this time a bit more prepared. This time, I steer clear of the ladies’ to avoid any distractions.
With a belly full of nerves and clammy hands, I show him my business plan.
Christos reviews it for ten minutes then nods and hands it back.
He levels me a look that makes my heart skip. How the hell did a boy with an interesting face become the guy with the hottest face in the world?
I wait for him to speak.
And wait and wait.
Until…
“Think bigger. The only way to make money is to take on a certain amount of risk. The higher the risk, the higher the reward,” Christos says.
“But it’s your money I’m risking.”
He nods, very slowly, and then equally slowly—nerve-wrackingly—he stands. He walks over, tips my chin. And tells me, trapping my gaze with his, “Don’t worry about the money. I don’t care if I lose it. I have plenty. Think bigger, Bryn.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth as he holds my gaze, and I nod dumbly like that waitress, shaking in my shoes because of his smile. It’s gone all too soon, and he drops his hand, back to business, and heads to his desk.
“Expand your concept. I’d be giving you the biggest safety net you could ever have in investing. I’m telling you it’s okay if you lose all my money. I want you to think big.”
“This is big,” I mumble, absently brushing my hand across the lingering tingles on my chin. “This is all I want to do, Aaric.”
I hate that I sound defeated and pleading, but I’m at a loss as to what else to say at this point.
He leans forward, his tone of voice almost intimate. Low. “See, bit, that’s the thing. The world doesn’t care how you personally feel about what you’re doing. You can hate it, and be good at it, and that’s all that matters to them. So in order for us to get you doing what you want to do, you need to give your potential customers what they want. Even, what they don’t know they want…because no one has given it to them yet.”
“But I…will?” I say, reading his train of thought and feeling inspired by it.
His lips curl in quiet male pride.
I gather my things and silently walk away. Hating how hard my heart is pounding—not because of his momentary rejection, but because of HIM.
The way it felt to have his thumb and forefinger on my chin.
The way I wanted the rest of his hand on my face, for everything to miraculously go poof and go away, including the briefcase I’d had on my lap, and for the warmth of his body to be flush against mine. Or rather, mine against his.
Crazy that Aaric only embraced me once when we were kids, but my body cannot seem to forget (and admittedly and uncomfortably, long for a repeat). Even when he was skinnier, he was warm and comforting.
Yet also a little bit too exciting.
“What the fuck, he said it’s okay to lose his money? He never does that. He’s always threatening and he never makes investments he knows he will lose—he always knows he’ll win back something,” Jensen says, confused.
I shrug and tug Natchez toward the park, feeling a bit discouraged after days of thinking and being unable to amp up my proposal.
Why would Christos risk his neck for me? My business plan is a piece of shit. My whole damn life is shit. I’ve had three meetings with Christos and still nothing.
Here I am in New York, a city I’d still get lost in if I wandered out far enough, with a project I’ve had years to plan and is still no closer to maturing, and lusting after another woman’s man, unable to make my project even remotely interesting to him.
“Why can’t I be like you, Natchez?” I ask the Husky, stroking the flat of his back as he turns his head and licks my bare calf. “Oh, you think it’s all solved with a lick. That’s not real life, buddo. At least that’s not real life for humans. Hmm? But g
ive me another one?” I let him sniff my hand, and he licks my fingers, and I giggle happily.
That evening, I sit with my computer, my drawings, my plan. And ask myself repeatedly the same questions he’s asked me.
What will differentiate my business from them?
What can I offer the market that is fresh and different?
God. I look at all of his success and I can’t even get on my feet on my own.
But I’m doing this.
I spend all weekend cooped up, trying to make sense of this dream of mine. I think of my parents—what I learned from them.
I remember opening Kelly’s. I remember how I used to be asked questions all the time from customers. Does this shirt match this skirt?
“You’re a visual person. You see things that aren’t there,” my mother would tell me. Aunt Cecile would gush about the simple but pretty outfits I always wore. Could I incorporate it into the business?
By next Monday, I decide not to call Christos and Co. but head over there instead.
Once again, the homeless woman asks me for money.
“Soon. Wish me luck,” I promise, giving her an apple I brought for her instead.
“Good luck,” she says distractedly, gazing down at the apple.
I wait patiently outside his office for his appointment to leave—and when Christos appears at the door, I rise to my feet.
Our eyes lock—and hold.
“I want to meet up with you,” I say.
He raises one eyebrow at me, then two. Shooting a chiding glance at his assistant, she starts to apologize, “She refused to—”
He quiets her by making a “five minute” sign, and then he nods me into his office. “You know you’re the first person who just walks in here expecting to be seen because she feels like it?”
“Well, it’s important.” I walk forward and take a seat across from his desk as he takes his.
“First of all, I need to ask: why are you helping me?”
He shoots me a look. “I’m not helping you yet.”
“I think you are. You’re being more than generous with your time and patience,” I say.
There’s a moment of quiet as we stare at each other. Christos then leans back, scraping his thumb along his lower lip as he looks at me. “You’re responsible, you’re honest, you take criticism well, you don’t retreat in your shell and cry about it. You go and fix what needs to be fixed, you have vision, and that’s what makes a great entrepreneur.”
God, I think my heart just skipped a thousand times, one for each word. “Do you mean that?” I ask.
“Do you have to ask that?”
The look he sends me clearly states he’s a man who means what he says…
I exhale and shoot him a look of gratitude.
“Okay. So I’ve got a great idea,” I tell him as I pull out my presentation. “I’ve even hashed out a business plan. Aside from our head department store in New York, and a kickass website—both carrying exclusive items that I will design along with the top-selling women’s fashion brands—House of Sass will be a personalized, trendy, fashion-stylist software. I have here some studies that prove that women dressed the part make better decisions and act more confidently and get more done when they’re confident about their looks. I want to offer them an app that will act as their personal stylist, with a push of a button. May I?”
I motion to approach, and Christos—hot in slacks and a white shirt—is watching me with a sparkle in his eye as he nods.
I take my phone and show him the small test application that I tried out with a developer this week.
“It’s not done yet, but you have the best tech people around,” I explain, blushing when I realize this must look so rustic to him. “This is homemade. I’m hoping with your loan…” I turn to meet his gaze, and look away when I realize he’s very, very close, “the software can be fully developed. Its database can include location and weather…top-selling products from around a certain mile range nearby…suggestions on what’s in style if you choose to amp up your spring, fall, winter, and summer wardrobes with a few must-have pieces. If the trends are thick belts, chunky bead necklaces, whatever’s up.
“It’s like a personal shopper and closet organizer in one. And it can be accessible to everyone, even people with no budget. All it would require of them is less than a day to input their closet pieces. Picture upload (keywords) and the software does the rest. It’ll save you so much time in the long run.”
I click on a button that reads “Night out.”
And a list of three options appears.
“See, these are actual pieces that I own,” I say, feeling his gaze over my shoulder as he studies it.
“It’s suggesting sweaters and leggings, boots, and wide belts, because that’s a current trend. And it’s supposed to be cool tonight. Now…if we want to make this edgier, we can have users interact with one another. I can give my friend access to my closet to either borrow pieces or vote on my suggested outfits for my occasions.”
“Not a bad idea,” he murmurs. Impressed.
“It’s amazing what the right clothes can do for a woman,” I say, stepping back.
“Did it pick that out for you?” He motions to my black leggings and long sweater.
“No,” I admit. “I sold my wardrobe. To pay a software developer to help me chalk this up. But I kept some key pieces, mostly black or white, which I can mix and match. And my best pair of flats, stilettos, and boots.” I smile. “You realize you don’t need more if they’re well chosen.”
“One problem,” he frowns as he props back against his desk, folding his arms, “is the time it takes to input a closet.”
“I thought of that. But if we had representatives in every state, we could charge a small fee, like ninety-nine dollars, for one of our reps to go to your home and spend an afternoon inventorying your closet.”
For the next half hour, we discuss my expanded ideas on the store, and I tell him why I think it can be special, how targeting trendy women of all ages would be ideal.
He seems vaguely interested, until his assistant rings him up to tell him his next appointment has arrived.
“This meeting is adjourned.”
I quickly gather my things, hating that time flew by so fast. “So it’s a yes? Say it’s a yes, Christos. You want to say it. I know it,” I bluff.
“Work on it.”
His grin is so irresistible, I’m grinning too. “Can I wait for you outside to talk some more?”
“Don’t think so. I’m heading to the gym at 6.” He dials to his assistant. “Show him in.”
I force myself to leave, checking to see how much time I need to kill before it’s 6 p.m.
I spend the next hour walking Brooklyn, thinking of ideas as I wait for it to be six p.m. and corner him on his way to the gym.
My dad used to tell me the best thing he could ever give me was an education. I didn’t waste what I could get. Even when they died in the fire at the Las Vegas hotel and I quit college shortly after, I always tried using what education I did get. I went to live with my aunt Cecile, and kept thinking that I would do something with this education my parents had given me.
My first business, at eight, was a lemonade stand. It flopped. Nobody walked down the cul-de-sac where we lived—I had like one customer, total (my mom.) Even then, I always wanted to do something with my time. Something lasting. I wanted security and I knew, after losing my parents, only I could provide it to myself. I tried my hand at everything. But plants died. Even my goldfish died. Still, it didn’t keep me from wanting to put myself out there, create things, do things.
I promised my aunt Cecile that I’d be sure we were comfortable at all times in our lives. Even old age. I was thinking ahead. Unfortunately, my determination didn’t prepare me for failure times a dozen.
I always picked myself straight up by my bootstraps and kept going, though, certain that the wheel of fortune would keep turning and one day, I’d succeed.
It
wasn’t until after the store closed, after Mom and Dad passed, that I realized I’d had a natural talent for dressing the mannequins, and later, for mending and revamping my own clothes.
And it wasn’t until after many bad jobs, and a shit-ton of tears, that I realized I wasn’t only good at it, I enjoyed it. And it wasn’t until my aunt Cecile died that I realized…I was in my mid-twenties, a college dropout (I’d had to drop out to take care of my aunt), and should definitely think about doing something about my situation before I turned thirty.
I’m thirty now—and I have no more minutes to spare.
So, at 6 p.m., waiting for my future business partner and investor outside the Christos and Co. building, I rehearse the rest of what else I’m going to say. My pitch, as they say.
Some tag line, some brilliant marketing idea, something the man will find irresistible.
He exits and immediately spots me outside, not once breaking his stride.
“I didn’t realize I’d have an escort.” He removes his jacket and slings his duffel behind his shoulders.
“You’re amusing yourself with me, but that’s not a problem if you give me twenty more minutes to discuss my project,” I say.
His lips begin tugging at the corners then. “I’ll give you an hour if you keep doing a good job amusing me.”
“Goodness,” I exaggerate. “Are you that hard to keep entertained?”
“Hard to please.”
“And I’m pleasing you?”
“Pretty close to that.”
“Hmm.” I bite down on my lip under my top lip, then I notice he’s staring at me. At my mouth.
I let go and exhale, then I jump into the rest of my presentation.
We walk past the woman who asked me for money on my way in, the one I promised to invite to dinner if all went well.
As I explain to Christos why I think this is the best business, best timing, everything, she approaches.
“Did it go well?” she asks, eyes wide with hope.
“Oh, I’m not sure yet.” I glance at my future business partner. “Say yes so I can take her out to dinner,” I order.