by Nova Rain
Chapter Two
“You did what?” Diane squeaked, rubbing her blurry eyes.
“Office Fab is ready,” I announced, a smile of bliss bursting upon my face. “I fixed all the glitches. It’s not going to destroy anything anymore.”
“Are you sure?” She insisted, lowering her voice.
“I’m positive.” I gave an emphatic nod. “Sam helped me find what I’d been doing wrong. I spent all night at his place working on the software.”
“Good for you,” she praised, her serious expression staying on. “I’m sorry, son. It’s too early for me to process this. I’m going back to bed.”
Stupid idea.
I couldn’t help but think of that, watching her return to her bedroom. Diane wasn’t the morning type, and this was the crack of dawn. I was lucky she hadn’t thrown a vase at me. However, I could wait a little longer. I had all the time in the world to speak to her about this.
With adrenaline still flowing freely through me, I sat down on the couch. I pictured myself in a year from now. In a fancy designer suit, my feet up on the desk and my pockets bulging. There would be a fridge in the corner, stocked with my favorite beer: Corona. At the snap of my fingers, five, voluptuous girls in bikini’s would come in. I leaned my head on the back of the couch, feelings of calmness enveloping me. Boy, was that a nice picture…
All of a sudden, the sound of loud laughter had me pry my eyes open. Sam was sitting in the armchair on my left, in his light-green uniform, holding his stomach.
“Oooh, yeah, that’s it, come to daddy,” he assumed a deeper voice, impersonating me. “What the hell were you dreaming, man?”
“Hot strippers,” I groaned in a drowsy voice. “How long have you been here? How did you get in?”
“You left both doors open,” he chuckled. “Chris, I, uh…” he faltered. “I was thinking about that favor. I’d decided to talk to you about it after work, but after you left, I realized I couldn’t wait that long. You know I have a Master’s degree in public relations, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because you’re going to need a publicist and I want that job,” he explained, assuming a more serious tone. “I’ll handle your interviews, your public affairs, everything that concerns how you look to everybody.”
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” I asked, casting a puzzled glance over at him. “It’s too early for me to think about getting a publicist. I haven’t even started a firm yet.”
“I know I’m getting ahead of myself,” he admitted. “I just wanted you to keep that in the back of your mind. You and me against the world, Chris. Taking care of each other. Making sure no one harms what you tried so hard to create.”
“It sounds good,” I commented with a smile. “First, I need to promote ‘Office Fab.’ Do you have any ideas?”
“We’ll talk to my boss,” he suggested, his tone casual. “We’ll try to convince him to host a trial version of the software on the company’s website. Thirty days are enough I think.”
“Cool. Should I make an appointment?” I posed that next question, leaning my forearms on my thighs.
“You’ve got me. You don’t need an appointment,” he assured me, flashing me a bright-eyed look. “But it would be good if you came with me to the mall. Mr. Dinkins’s appointments start at 9am. We’ll have a whole hour to tell him about your software, instead of the usual thirty minutes his other clients have.”
“We have to go back to your apartment,” I claimed, recalling how I left it just hours ago. “I forgot…”
“It’s in my car,” he interjected. “Go get dressed and meet me downstairs.”
Without wasting another second, I rushed back to my bedroom. Changing clothes, I began to wonder how I was going to introduce my creation to someone who had no idea about it. Yet, it dawned on me that it didn’t matter. Sam’s boss had to be a seasoned professional. He had seen enough versions of Microsoft Office to know exactly what it was. All I had to do, was talk to him about the ways “Office Fab” was better.
I couldn’t believe how different I was feeling upon my return to that large building. Just eighteen hours ago, I had been ready to give up and perhaps apply for a job there. Now, I was oozing with confidence. I strode through the huge halls of “Web Vibe” like I owned them. In my heart, I believed that my time had come.
The elevator ground to a halt at the sixth floor, and I had the same feeling as the night before: anticipation, mixed with enthusiasm, and a pinch of fear. There was always a chance that Dinkins would fail to see the benefits of my creation. It was small, yes, but it was there. But, I wasn’t going to back down. This was by far the most important business meeting of my whole life.
“Good morning, Rachel,” Sam greeted the elderly secretary with a smile, not bothering to stop. “Is Dinkins in?”
“He just got here and he’s in a crappy mood,” she informed us. “Where are you going?”
“Trust me, he’ll be in a better mood within the hour,” my friend said, gesturing me forward.
The secretary’s small office opened out into a space three times bigger. There was a library on the left, its shelves full of books. In the corner, stacks of documents were on top of the desk. Sam’s boss would have to put some of those down to see if anyone else had joined him in his office. He was a small man; he couldn’t have been more than 5’5” or 5”6. What he lacked in size though, he seemed to make up for in loudness.
“Where the hell is my coffee?” He shouted, slapping a pencil case off his desk.
“It’s coming, sir!” I heard Rachel’s panicked voice.
“Mr. Dinkins, good morning,” Sam tipped his head down in a polite manner. “This is my friend, Chris Fullerton. He’s a software developer.”
“Who gives a fuck?” Dinkins growled, glaring up at him. “Does he have an appointment?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” I interjected, stepping past Sam. “After many years and thousands of dollars’ worth of damage, I managed to develop my own office suite, called ‘Office Fab.’ Its name says it all. In essence, it incorporates every function of Microsoft Word, in a much smaller size. It demands about thirty percent less hard disk space, twenty-seven percent less Ram and forty percent less CPU power. It’s right here.” I set my hard disk down in front of him.
“Has it been tested?” He asked, his tone just as stiff.
“Extensively,” I was quick to respond. “Sir, this software is so light that it can run even on the oldest of computer systems. Go ahead. See for yourself.”
“This’d better be good.” I left his last comment unanswered. I stood there, hands on my waist, gauging his reaction. In the minutes that followed, Dinkins didn’t take his eyes off the screen. The distinctive ring signaled the completion of the installation. I let air into my lungs, the tremor in my arms coming back. Sam’s boss pressed a random number of keys on the keyboard and then glanced up at me.
“The ‘Word’ equivalent works well,” he praised. “There’s no lag at all. Let me check the ‘lightness’ part. I’ll have my subordinates check the other functions.”
At that, he pressed “Ctrl&Alt&Del.”
“Holy cow,” he whispered, his face falling in disbelief. “This thing is lighter than my printer’s software.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed with a nod. “Mr. Dinkins, I’d like to make you an offer. You host a 30-day trial of ‘Office Fab’ on your company’s website. The full version will cost $170. I’ll give you ten percent of what it makes in the following month.”
“Make that fifteen, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” He spoke in a much calmer tone, shifting his gaze over to me.
“Okay. Fifteen,” I uttered and offered my hand.
“Deal.” Finally, the angry man disappeared. The businessman in his stead shook my hand, filling me with hope. I didn’t like his counter offer, but his company’s website was my only chance of promoting my creation for free. “Web Vibe” had been around for almost twenty years. It had a steady
stream of customers, which was much, much better than me trying to promote software through a webpage no one had heard of. In other words, it was an ideal first step for an average nobody like me who was trying to make a name for himself. After years and years of failure, I had an opportunity to become something. Deep down, I believed I would succeed. Not because I was some kind of genius, but because I had put my heart and soul into this endeavor. I had a passion for what I did. I had ambition, along with a massive desire to revolutionize the industry. It was time for people to learn that they had another alternative. A cheaper and better alternative that wouldn’t drain their money, or their computer resources.
Love Technically: An Alpha Billionaire Romance
Chapter One
Rosanna
A fundraiser.
A chance for New York’s most well-off people to wear their fancy clothes; to flaunt their wealth by giving away some of their money to a good cause, like the rescue of an orphanage. In a few hours of their precious time, they would socialize with friends and competitors alike. They would be in the same room as one another, in order to show us mere mortals that business is the only thing that divides them. United, they can be stronger and contribute to a community that needs their support.
To me however, such an event held a much different meaning. It was my idea of hell.
As a waitress at the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Manhattan, I had to be at work early, just like every other member of the staff. My supervisor, Dorothy Reeves, filled us in on each and every guest. We went over pictures of them, and read articles about their business activities, so that we could identify them. She didn’t want us to call them “ma’am” or “sir.” It was absurd, but Dorothy was a perfectionist like no other. In her opinion, calling them by their real names made them feel more important. Afterwards, we moved to the lobby. We had to ensure that all tables were an equal distance from each other. Furthermore, we needed to inspect all the tablecloths, just in case one of them was stained.
By early afternoon, some of the junior waitresses like me and my friend Catherine, had to help in the kitchen. We had to be at the chef’s beck and call. Taking stuff to him, arranging food in trays, sometimes tasting it and learning the sequence of service. In truth, we were running around like chickens with our heads cut off. We couldn’t wait until the actual event began. Things were much calmer then. All we had to do was stroll across the hall, hoping that those rich folks would notice us and lighten our trays, whatever was on them.
That January night was like every other, apart from one, major difference: Chris Fullerton, the young multi-millionaire from Queens was throwing the fundraiser. Fullerton had developed “Office Fab,” a powerful, all-in-one application like Microsoft Office, but much, much lighter. It used a lot less RAM and computer power than its biggest rival, rendering it very popular, especially to users with older systems. They didn’t need to upgrade or even buy brand new computers. They just had to spend a fraction of that money to buy “Office Fab.”
Personally, it made no difference to me who threw that fundraiser. It could be the President himself for all I cared. It was my friend Catherine who did care. I wouldn’t have known all this information about Fullerton if it wasn’t for her. She had had a crush on him for months. It was very rare for her to not mention him. She was always: “Chris did this, Chris did that, he’s so gorgeous I could kiss his picture.”
“Newsflash, darling. You two don’t know each other. You can’t call him “Chris,” like he’s your ex-boyfriend or something.”
Despite my usual remark, she wouldn’t listen. Instead, she continued the same old rants about how good-looking and successful that geek was. Catherine had an extra reason to look forward to that Friday night. On the other hand, I didn’t. I just wanted it to be over, so I could get my money and go home.
All sorts of jewelry were shimmering under the light of the chandeliers. Platinum, gold and silver were on display on New York’s richest necks, wrists and fingers. Thousands upon thousands worth of clothes were parading in the lobby, their owners chatter somewhat lower than the music. All dressed up in tuxedos, the band was playing jazz tunes. And this was perhaps one of the things I would miss, if I ever decided to work somewhere else. Along with Rhythm and Blues, jazz was my favorite music. For some reason unclear to me, there were two pianos on that stage. Steve Curtis, the hotel pianist was at one of them, whereas the one across from him was vacant.
I was holding a tray of champagne glasses, when, all of a sudden, most heads turned in the direction of the entrance to my right. At the beginning of a drumroll, I shifted my gaze there as well, wondering what the fuss was about. Dozens of camera flashes tore through the dark as a tall man approached.
“That must be him!” Catherine said, her voice stinking with excitement as she halted beside me.
“It’s too bad I don’t have a bucket,” I murmured. Although I’d been expecting her reaction, witnessing it was just unbearable. Within moments, the entrance door slid open sideways. Chris Fullerton walked in, in a gray suit and a reddish tie, wearing a smug smile that made my stomach churn. But just as I was about to avert my gaze, I realized that Catherine was correct about one thing. He looked good in pictures, but they didn’t do him justice. He looked a lot better up close. The man was at least 6’4”; he stood out from the small crowd. His short, light-brown hair shone in the strong illumination. Curly eyelashes adorned his green eyes. A well-shaved face and a sharp jawline completed a very attractive puzzle indeed. Posing with a couple of elderly businessmen, he seemed like an uncle with his tiny, graying nephews.
“Come to mama.” My friend’s wishful thinking put a smile on my face. “How often do you think he works out?”
“A lot, judging by that huge chest,” I uttered in a low voice while Fullerton headed for the stage. Straightening his tie, he turned around and faced his guests.
“Good evening, everybody,” he spoke in a warm voice through the microphone. “I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight. St. Francis children’s hospital hasn’t been able to order new supplies in almost five months, so please, get your checkbooks out.” A loud laughter roared through the hall at the end of his phrase. “Thanks again. Have fun. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Fun with you, sexy!” A deep, female voice brought up an even bigger fit of laughter. A redhead strode towards Fullerton, her glass raised.
“I’m going to kill that bitch,” Catherine groaned as the redhead in question hugged Chris. “Look at her. She can’t keep her meat hooks off him.”
“Relax, girl,” I advised. “Make a scene, and you’ll be sending out resumes tomorrow morning.”
I left her behind, understanding that there wasn’t much I could do about her. We had a job to do. We wouldn’t do it by standing still and gossiping.
I padded through small groups of people, settling my gaze on three men on my left. All of them helped themselves to a glass of champagne and returned to their conversation. Before I could step forward though, I caught Chris out of the corner of my eye. He pushed aside one of those men and stopped right in front of me.
“Rosanna…” He glanced down at the nametag on my chest, picking up a glass. “That’s a beautiful name. It’s pretty rare, too. There are not many Rosanna’s around these days.”
“I guess not,” I addressed him in a casual tone as he sipped the beverage.
Chris whipped his head in the direction of the band. “Hey, boys!” He shouted. “Let’s liven up this joint!” He suggested, jogging back to the stage. “Look at that girl’s nametag. Does that name ring any bells?”
“It sure does,” the drummer smiled and winked at him. The drum introduction that followed drew quite a lot of attention. Apparently, the song they were starting to play reminded most of those people of their youth. It wasn’t a stranger to me. In fact, I knew every single detail. Vocals, backup vocals and even who played what. My parents used to be Toto groupies. They loved that band so much that they had named me after one
of their greatest hits.
A wave of surprise washed over me as Chris seated himself at the piano. In a matter of seconds, he joined in, playing the rhythmic notes that followed the drums. With the help of the guitarist, the old ballad was soon overshadowing the noise of chatter. Not that there was much anyway. Chris’s move to perform that song had stunned almost everybody in the lobby. Either out of curiosity or amazement, they were all staring at him.
Unlike earlier, there wasn’t a hint of smugness in his expression.
Joy? Yes. He was ecstatic to be performing with a bunch of seasoned musicians almost twice his age. Every now and then, he would accompany Joe Birch, the band’s singer, doing backup vocals, his smile staying on his face. For the rest of the song, he preferred gazing out at his baffled guests, his long fingers dancing over the keys.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. If anyone asked me ten minutes ago what Fullerton could do, I would say “develop software.” Play the piano in front of three hundred people? Nope. Not even in his wildest dreams. Not because it was that difficult, but because Chris was a computer geek. Most likely, he had spent the most part of his adolescent years idolizing Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, not Steve Porcaro and Steve Lukather.
A loud round of applause began during the last guitar solo. Chris’s fingers flew over a big number of keys for the outro, piano notes and drum beats resounding through the hall. He remained still and leaned back, looking like a rock star who had just enchanted his fans. Cheers and whistles filled the air, rising above the sound of the applause.
“Remind me to choke you to death later.” Catherine’s comment had me smiling yet again.
“Why?”