Million Dollar Devil

by Evans, Katy

  Bring it, old man, I think, stepping out of the car.

  The meeting with the people at Saks goes well. Mr. Banks turns on his charm and is actually smiling and jovial with these clients. But every time he looks at me when no one else is paying attention, I get a threatening, icy stare. I do my best to put it off, but it’s like navigating a minefield. I find myself wishing again and again that I had Lizzy by my side. That I could touch her, hold her, go back to her apartment with her and celebrate another win.

  But I fucking can’t. Not now.

  At the end of the evening, I finish my Macallan and my cigar at the bar with Mr. Banks and the rest of the clients. When we say goodbye to the clients, Mr. Banks claps me on the back and says, “Good show, boy. Keep it up. Let’s go home.”

  I shake my head. “I think I’ll just stay here a little longer.”

  “All right,” he says. “Remember, we’re golfing tomorrow with some buyers from Neiman Marcus.”

  Golfing. Shit. Golfing?

  I should be in a panic. But I’ve been on high alert all evening, and I don’t think things can get much worse. I can’t have Lizzy, so I’m fucked any way you slice it. “Looking forward to it.”

  He leaves.

  I summon the bartender.

  “Another Macallan?”

  I shake my head. “Give me a tequila,” I mutter to him. “The cheapest shit you got.”

  “Sir?”

  I’m not a sir. I’m a fucking fraud, and her father knows it.

  “Just pour the fucking drink,” I mutter.

  I need to get shit faced, as soon as possible.

  Lizzy

  It’s been a week since I last saw James.

  Well, in person.

  He’s everywhere now. On every city bus billboard that I see. On TV, in all of the special appearances we scheduled for him, and even in some new ones that I didn’t even know about. In newspapers. When I walk down the street, if a man has his hair or his build, I think it’s him. But it’s never him.

  And he never texts me anymore either.

  After I found out my father knew about us and he left my apartment, I wished I hadn’t said what I had.

  But I had to. We had to put the brakes on. All of our futures hang in the balance.

  James is the picture of class. He is sophisticated, smart, sexy . . . everything a woman wants. I saw a news story where women were just throwing themselves at him. One woman actually fainted in his path, she was so enthralled.

  Even if he isn’t real, he sure looks it. My creation has outclassed me.

  I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, not wanting to get out and face the day.

  This is for the best. Banks LTD has never done better, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it? When I gave my father the latest update on how well all of the marketing featuring James was coming together, he actually stopped me and said, “Good job, Lizzy.”

  I’d been waiting all my life to hear those words.

  But for some reason, when I heard them, they bounced right off me, like I was wearing a suit of armor.

  I barely cared.

  How stupid am I? To have gone and gotten myself so wrapped up in a man that I can barely get out of bed? He’s just street rat Jimmy Rowan, a nobody. He’d be nothing if it weren’t for me. So I guess the joke is on them.

  Ha ha. I can’t stop laughing. Really.

  I roll over in bed and see that the clock says it’s noon. I should be in the office, but I can’t bring myself to think about work right now. I stumble out of bed and go to the kitchen, where I grab a bag of potato chips, the closest thing I have to junk food in the house. Then I go back to bed, feeding myself handful after handful.

  The phone rings. I look to see that it’s Jeanine as I reach for another handful and realize the bag is empty. Darn it.

  I answer. “Hello?”

  “What is going on with you?” she asks me. “You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, tumbling back out of bed to see what else I can scrounge up in my kitchen. “Been busy.”

  “I can tell. James is a sensation! I can’t believe all the amazing press he’s getting. Your father must be so happy with you! And you must be thrilled too. He almost passes for a real gentleman.”

  “He is. He’s fooled everyone.” Even me.

  Finding nothing in the pantry, I open my fridge. Just yogurt. Gross. What I wouldn’t do for a gallon of cookie dough ice cream.

  “I saw a news report of him on the greens at Ansley with your dad,” she continued. “He’d obviously never played golf before. But he was so goddamn adorable nobody cared.”

  I sighed. I’d heard that he was going to play golf. At first I was nervous, because maybe I should’ve given him golfing lessons. Turned out he didn’t need me. He pulled it off in fine style. He even ended up with a pretty respectable score. He can do just about anything. Without me.

  “Anyway,” she says breezily. “I was wondering if you’d get me a ticket for the New York launch at Fashion Week? I’m going to be in town that week, and I thought I’d stop in and see the sensation strut his stuff in person.”

  I nod absently. Even if my father tries to chain me to my desk, I’m going to New York. I don’t care what I have to do, but I will be walking James into the ballroom we’ve rented for the East Coast launch if it kills me. “Oh. Sure.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get with him.” She sighs. “You had him at your disposal, willing to do anything you said.”

  I don’t know why I say what I say next. Maybe it’s because I feel hurt, left behind. Maybe because I know it doesn’t matter, since it’s over. Maybe because she always gets the man, and I want her to know that once upon a time, I was wanted by this amazing, sexy man that everyone desires. “Oh, I did,” I say lightly.

  “You did?” I can almost hear her jaw drop to the ground. “Really? When? Spill!”

  “In LA. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a fling, like you said. He’s . . . really good.”

  She lets out a little squeal. “Oh my god! Is his body amazing? I would totally lick him from head to toe, like a lollipop. Did you?”

  “Well, we had breakfast in bed. And there was syrup involved,” I say.

  She squeals. “Nice and sticky! So was he yummy?”

  I swallow. I’d expected to feel better when I told her.

  But now I just feel worse. My stomach roils, which I expect has less to do with the potato chips in my stomach than this topic of conversation. “Um. Yes. He was just like you thought. Amazing.” I sound toneless, dead, my words hollow.

  “And?”

  I try to summon the details she obviously wants, but I can’t. It’s too painful even to think of, and it’s making me feel more and more like burying my head in the floor, ostrich-style, for the rest of my life. “I’m sorry. Someone’s at the door. I have to go. I’ll tell you more later.”

  “Boo,” she says, disappointed. “But I’m proud of you! It must’ve felt good just to break free, just once, for some good old meaningless fucking.”

  I end the call and throw my phone down.

  I guess I’m the moron. Because that meaningless fucking felt far from meaningless to me. In fact, it felt like everything. I’d never experienced anything like being with James. And who knows if I ever will again?

  At that thought, I feel nausea bubbling in my throat. I go to the bathroom and take a shower. By the time I’ve cleaned up, I feel better.

  And I’ve decided I need to do something.

  I’m my father’s daughter. I don’t just sit around and mope in times of crisis. I always feel better when I’m taking action.

  I get into my Audi and drive down to James’s house, not sure what I’m going to find when I get there. I knew he had a late night last night, promoting the line at some high-end nightclub, so maybe he’s home. I pull up to the curb and see his fire engine–red Porsche parked in the driveway. It looks so out of place in this modest neighborhood.

>   I climb out of my car and knock on the door.

  A second later, the door swings open. It’s Charlie. “Hi,” he says, a little confused to see me here. “Jimmy isn’t home.”

  “Oh.” I’m disappointed. “Do you know where he is?”

  He shrugs. “Big limo came and picked him up a half hour ago.”

  I rack my brain, trying to think of his schedule. “Why aren’t you in school? Are you home alone?”

  “I have pink eye. I’m contagious. And no, Jimmy got me a nanny.” He rolls his eyes.

  “A nanny?” I ask. I’m picturing someone young, blonde, and possibly Swedish.

  He nods. “Yeah. We’re also in the middle of packing up to move to some fancy apartment somewhere.”

  “Really? You’re moving?”

  “To be closer to the private school he got me into.”

  “Which school?”

  “Westminster.”

  I blink. “I went there! It’s an amazing school.” I swallow. “You’re moving to Midtown?”

  He shrugs. “And you saw the car.” He scrapes his eyes over it and wrinkles his nose.

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “The new school’s okay, I guess,” he says, sniffling. “The problem is my brother.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s never home. And he’s being a little bit of an asshole.”

  “He is?”

  “He’s changed. He’s too busy. Too important. He don’t have time for me anymore.”

  My heart breaks as I look at the little boy. No, they didn’t have much before. But Charlie was happy, because he had Jimmy. Maybe James really is a monster now. Am I responsible for this?

  “Well. Will you tell him I stopped by?” I reach into my purse and pull out the envelope James gave me almost three months ago. I hand it to him. “Your brother gave this to me to keep safe for him, and I’m giving it back. He said it was his most precious possession.”

  He opens it and looks at it for a long time. Sniffles again. “I don’t know if that’s true anymore,” he mumbles.

  I start to tell him that of course it is, but he isn’t listening. He gruffs out a goodbye and closes the door on me.

  And I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse than I already did.

  James

  I’m about to blow a gasket.

  The movers are coming in a week to move us into our new high-rise condo in Midtown. The New York launch is in three days, and I have another big dinner tonight, and a list of things I need to accomplish before I get on the plane tomorrow. And Charlie’s acting like a little asshole.

  “I told you that you needed to start packing your shit up before I got home!” I shout, storming into his room. All his LEGOs and action figures are all over the place. He hasn’t done shit. I grab an empty box and start tossing stuff in. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Elsa, the nanny I hired, is Hispanic and doesn’t speak English well yet. She’s giving me a blank look. I say to her, “Did you not understand? He had to pack?”

  She’s staring at me, confused.

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  She shrugs.

  Forget it. I don’t have time for this. The house is a fucking shit hole, made even worse by the state of chaos it’s in. I can’t say I ever formed an attachment to this place, since we moved here after my family died, and we’ve been renting it. Charlie’s going to love this condo in Midtown. It’s hot.

  Almost as hot as the apartment belonging to another Midtown resident I know.

  But I can’t fucking think about her now. Even if she’s going to be right across the street from me. Her father’s orders.

  Yeah, it’s been weighing on me. I think about her almost every minute of the day. But like she said, this is for the best. She never tried to get in touch with me after our argument, when she told me we needed to cool it.

  I yank open a closet, only to find it full of his clothes. Really, he’s done less than shit. All he had to do was throw everything into the boxes. Easy. I start to grab the hangers and toss them one after another into the box, muttering, “I’m doing this for you, Charlie. So you can have a better life. And this is the fucking thanks I get?”

  When I reach down to the bottom of the closet for his shoes, I see something move in the darkness. I squint at it.

  “What are you . . . are you fucking hiding in the closet? Really? Get out.”

  I start to yank on him, but he pulls himself up into a ball. “No! Go away!”

  “Charlie!” I growl.

  Then I scrub my hands over my face. I’m not going to catch many flies growling at him like this. I count to ten, force myself to quiet down. I sit on the edge of the bed. “Look, tiger. I’m sorry. But I’m at the end of my rope here, and I really could use the help. I’m trying here. For us.”

  “No! You’re not doing any of this for me! It’s for you and your giant ego. Get the fuck out! You’re being an asshole!”

  I clench my fists. “Come out, Charlie. I don’t have time for this.”

  He doesn’t.

  Losing my patience, I lunge into the closet, grab him by the back of the neck, and yank him out. I’m holding him there, and he’s looking up at me, shaking, terrified, when it hits me, right between the eyes.

  I am being an asshole. I’ve never put my hands on him before, and now . . . who the fuck do I think I am?

  And I thought I was trapped before. Now, maintaining this image . . . I feel like I’ve been stuffed in a fucking straitjacket. At least when I was Jimmy, I knew who the fuck I was. And Charlie liked me.

  I let him go. Smooth his hair. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  He starts to sob against me. I pull him to me and hug him, hard. Then I lift his head. “Look at me,” I tell him. “One more week. I’ve got one more week in this contract, and I promise, things will change. Okay? When I get back from New York and we move into our new place, I’ll take a weekend off. We’ll go somewhere, and we’ll do whatever you want.”

  He sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Whatever?”

  I nod.

  “Can we make more videos? Like we used to?”

  I clench my teeth. I promised myself I wouldn’t go back to that. That’s not who I am anymore. But Charlie’s looking at me, his big blue eyes full of tears. “Yeah. If you really want me to. That’s what we’ll do.”

  He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tighter.

  “So, here’s the deal,” I say to him. “You’re going to love your new room in the condo. It’s, like, ten times the size of this. And there’s a bathtub in the place you can snorkel in. No kidding.”

  He smiles.

  “So get your ass packed, or else we can’t go.”

  He nods. “I will. But I’m gonna miss this place.”

  “Yeah. Me too. I’ve got to go out to a meeting in a half hour, but I promise I’ll be home tonight to tuck you into bed at ten. Okay?”

  He hugs me again. “Yeah. Thanks, Jimmy.”

  Feeling a little more relaxed, I shower, change into a new suit, and head out in my Porsche to downtown Atlanta, where I’m meeting with Quill. I’m not sure who they are, or why I’m meeting with them, but it’s been a fucking whirlwind, so when I got a call from a woman named Kim, director of marketing at Quill International, who wanted to book me in for dinner and I saw my calendar was free, I went with it. I figured it was just another meeting with more buyers.

  Kim, a knockout redhead in a business suit who’s a poor substitute for Lizzy, shakes my hand and escorts me to a table in the corner with no fewer than eight old men in suits. I shake hands all around, help Kim into her chair beside me, and get ready to launch into my spiel, which I know by heart from repetition, about why Banks suits are the best.

  The oldest of the men, who is in the very center of the table, says, “It’s fantastic to meet you. Obviously we’ve heard much about you. And we wanted to see you for ourselves.”


  I order a Macallan 25 neat from the waiter and spread myself out. “Well, here I am.”

  Kim leans over and whispers in my ear, “You don’t disappoint. We’re so impressed.”

  I start to speak about Banks, when the older man holds out a hand and says, “I’m John Quill, the owner and CEO of Quill Couture. Do you know of us?”

  I stroke my chin. I don’t, but I’ve been a very convincing liar. “Of course.”

  “So let’s get down to brass tacks,” he says, leaning forward. “We have it on good authority that Banks only locked you in until the end of New York Fashion Week. Is that true?”

  I feel my confidence flounder but get it back. I look over at Kim, who’s waiting for an answer. They all are. “Yes.”

  Smiles all around. I’ve said something that pleases them. One man says, “Big mistake on their part,” and the rest of the men laugh.

  My drink comes. I forget to swirl or chew. I just swallow.

  Then I feel Kim’s hand on my knee.

  “Perfect,” John Quill says. “This is very fortuitous for all of us.”

  I look over at Kim, who is running her hand up to my thigh, kneading the muscle. I can’t pretend it doesn’t feel good or turn me on. But it’s fucking not what I need right now. I lace my fingers in front of me and try to concentrate. “How so?”

  “Because, Mr. Rowan,” he says, “we’d like to offer you a three-year contract to be the face of Quill Designer Suiting for, say, ten million a year?”

  I try to chew my next sip of scotch, but I end up biting my tongue. I can’t control my expression or pretend to be the face of total sophistication. I find myself stammering, unable to push words out. My collar suddenly feels too tight. I yank on it. Keep it together, Rowan. “Ten million?”

  “Yes. A year. With the option to extend as necessary,” John Quill says, just as Kim begins to brush her hand over my cock.

  My rapidly stiffening cock.

  “That’s . . . an attractive offer,” I say, shifting in my seat. Thirty million dollars. I can’t . . . I never thought fucking Jimmy Rowan would be worth that much in a hundred lifetimes. “I’ll need some time to mull it over, though, of course.”