Million Dollar Devil

by Evans, Katy

  “Oh my god, it’s James Rowan!” a middle-aged woman screams across the lobby, barreling toward him. “Everyone! It’s that hot guy on the side of the building in Times Square!”

  “Go,” I mutter, pushing at his chest. “Greet your adoring public. Show them what a PURFFFFFECT man you are, James!” I scaldingly grit out.

  Suddenly, a slew of women are heading this way. He turns, bracing himself, allowing me just enough time to slip out of his arms and into the restroom.

  Maybe he tries to follow, but I don’t care. I slip into a stall and need almost an entire roll of toilet paper to stem the tide of my tears.

  I’m too drunk; I can barely stand up straight. The walls of the stall are bending and squeezing in my vision.

  Maybe a minute or an hour later, I hear a rap on the door, and someone—I think it’s LB—says, “Lizzy? You’re on in two!”

  His voice sounds like he’s underwater. Or speaking through wadded-up cotton.

  Two minutes. For what?

  Right. I have to give my speech.

  I don’t even know how I walk across the room. I push open the door to the stall and blink to focus on my face in the mirror. Everything’s bleary, like I’m looking at myself through a kaleidoscope, but I know I don’t look my best. My hair’s a mess, and my face is red.

  But what the fuck. I’m game.

  Let’s get this show on the road.

  Anger starts replacing my hurt. I blow my nose hard into a paper towel, toss it away, and stalk out of the bathroom. When I get to the ballroom, I trip over my own feet as I make my way to the table. I grab my purse, fumbling with the clasp as LB looks at me. “Are you okay, Lizzy?”

  I salute him. “Never better, Little Bitch.”

  Whoops. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

  Ah, fuck it. He’ll get over it. My daddy pays him enough.

  I climb up to the podium. Or stumble is more like it. I don’t care. Suddenly I could laugh at this all, because I don’t care.

  My gown suddenly has too much fabric swishing at my calves, and it’s too fucking in my way. I yank it out from between my legs and pile it all on my arm. Grabbing onto the podium for dear life, I signal for the band to cut the music, and stare at the dumbstruck faces in the audience.

  “Okay, people!” I scream into the audience. “Let’s get this party started!”

  That really quiets them down, almost too effectively. You could just about hear a pin drop. But really, all I can hear is my blood rushing through my ears. It sounds weirdly squishy.

  I blink and look down at my cue cards. The writing’s too small. And did I write this shit in Chinese?

  I toss them to the side.

  I look up, just to make sure I have everyone’s attention. Yep, they’re all still there. God, they’re so quiet and still. Is this an audience or a photograph of an audience?

  “All right,” I say, trying to think of what I was going to say. “So. Why are you all here today?” I point at random people in the audience, stalling for time. They all look like deer caught in headlights. “That’s a good question.”

  I can’t remember shit.

  I look over at LB, hoping he’ll give me a hint, but little bitch that he is, he’s just staring at me, mute. Thank you, fucker.

  Part of it comes to me. “I remember now. I’m Lissy Banks.” My name comes out all wrong, and I know that and vow to be more careful with the next thing I say. But for some reason, the next thing I say sounds like “Coshureweeksbankslaunch.”

  Someone coughs. I think I’m losing them.

  But I feel good. Like I can take on the world. I can turn things around.

  “Sorry. Let me start over.” I grab the microphone and decide I might be better off walking the crowd. Because maybe if I move, even with this stupid too-much-fabric gown of mine, I can keep up with the room, since it’s spinning around me. A flash of inspiration hits me as I stumble out into the audience. “When my father started the company over thirfty years ago, he wanted Bangs to be symomomous with style, elegance, and sopisticashion. The face of our newest line, James Rowan . . .”

  I’m supposed to say “embodies all that,” and that is when James is supposed to come out, with the spotlight on him, and do his little twirl on the runway. He does, exuding confidence and control, but I can’t get those final three words out. His eyes sweep over me, full of concern.

  Some concern. He’s such a fake. Like all of them.

  I wanted to make the perfect man. But I made another dime-a-dozen phony.

  I stare at him. My voice falters.

  And something inside me just cracks.

  “The face of our newest line, James Rowan, is . . . a fucking fraud.”

  His eyes fall on me, hard. I look away to avoid his gaze, but every other eye in the audience is on me.

  “It’s true. Everyone thinks he’s such a sop—sop—” I can’t get the word out. “Elegant person, the epitome of style and grace. Bull fucking shit! He didn’t fucking know what a butter knife was before I met him. Three months ago, he was practically living on the street, in a bar, doing dares on YouTube for peanuts. He’s nobody, and you all think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. You’re all so stupid, falling over him like he’s the Second Coming. You put a sewer rat in a suit—he’s still a sewer rat.”

  I glance around the room, at all the faces, white with shock, and I just don’t care anymore.

  “Introducing the new face of Banks LTD, James Fucking Rowan, liar and asshole extraordinaire.”

  Then I drop the mic to the ground and run away, as far and as fast as my high heels will carry me, leaving the ballroom in absolute silence.

  James

  It isn’t how I thought I’d spend my first night in New York City.

  After Lizzy ran out on me, leaving me alone on stage with two thousand faces staring at me, I slowly exited the stage and went after her.

  But she was gone.

  Jeanine came out a few minutes later. “Well. Look at that,” she said. “You’re nobody again. I guess she fucked you both—”

  I held up a hand to her and silenced her with a look. “Don’t. Don’t even talk to me or Lizzy again.”

  And then I stormed outside, loosening my tie, ignoring the stares from people on the streets. I wanted to see Lizzy, but I knew she was done with me. Maybe I could’ve explained things to her, but I was tired. Tired of all the shit.

  I navigated aimlessly for hours, until I found myself in the middle of Times Square. And there I am, right on the side of one of the buildings—a giant, ten-story-high billboard of me, leaning against a wall, in the same Banks Intrigue tuxedo I have on now. Though I’m surrounded by a million other ads, I’m the focal point.

  Holy shit.

  I pull out my phone, think about snapping a picture for Charlie, then stop myself.

  Charlie doesn’t want a picture of me. He wants me.

  I open my web browser and switch my flight to tomorrow morning. There is a packed week of meetings scheduled, but from the way everyone was looking at me, I get the feeling I’m done here.

  Since I won’t complete all those meetings, I won’t get my second half of the money.

  My contract with Quill is a no-go.

  I also owe LB $200,000, and after all the purchases I made when I first cashed the check, I don’t think I’ll have enough in my account to cover it.

  But none of that matters.

  Not the car, or the apartment, or the nanny, or even the fancy private school. Not a single thing.

  She’s what matters.

  And I fucked her over, big-time.

  How hard would it have been to just put her first? To say fuck you to the money, to my fake image. She knew who I was and didn’t care about any of it, and yet I had it in my head that I couldn’t be worthy of her unless I became this asshole. I trashed my people, Charlie, and everyone I cared about for this bullshit.

  I deserve this.

  “Hey!” someone calls to me. “Aren
’t you James Rowan?”

  I shrug. James. Jimmy. I have no fucking clue who I am these days.

  When I don’t answer, they leave me alone.

  I turn my back on my billboard and dial Charlie. When he answers, sounding sleepy, I realize it’s past his bedtime. “Hey, it’s me,” I say.

  “Jimmy? What time is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I wanted to tell you I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Okay?”

  “You will?” I can sense the excitement in his voice. “What about—”

  “Forget all that. I’m coming home to you because you’re the most important thing to me, now and always.” As I walk, someone bumps me, but I don’t care. I’m feeling stronger already. “Okay?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy. Hey, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t tell you ’cause I was mad at you. But Lizzy came over. Last week.”

  She did? No wonder she thought I was blowing her off. “That’s okay, tiger.”

  “And Jimmy? I haven’t finished packing.”

  “Forget the packing. What if we go out this weekend and shoot some videos?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Check the email and see if there are any good dares you think I should do. Okay?”

  I can just imagine him doing a fist pump. “All right!”

  “Sleep tight. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  “See ya, Jimmy.”

  Who am I? James? Jimmy?

  When I hang up, I already know the answer.

  DAY OF RECKONING

  Lizzy

  Monday morning, I’m waiting for the elevator, thinking I might puke.

  Again.

  I spent the entire night after the launch in my hotel room, hunched over the toilet, retching long strings of tequila-tasting spit and bile into the bowl. In the morning, when I woke up, my diaphragm hurt, and I couldn’t get out of bed even to check my phone. On Sunday, when I finally started feeling better, I checked my phone and saw a text from my dad.

  COME HOME ON THE NEXT FLIGHT.

  Just like that, all caps.

  And I immediately started feeling worse.

  It had gradually begun to dawn on me what a complete mess I’d made of Banks LTD, James’s career, my relationship with my father, and my own dignity . . . in that tiny five-minute period on stage.

  But honestly, it didn’t faze me at all. I didn’t care when everyone in the lobby was looking at me and whispering as I tugged my suitcase toward the exit. I didn’t care when I looked up at the television in the airport and saw that my little appearance and James’s downfall had made national news. CNN, go me! And I don’t care now that I’m probably going to be fired.

  Really, what difference does it make? I’ll end up in my prettily decorated apartment, helping Ugandan nonprofits, and feeling just as empty about my life as I do now.

  I take the elevator up to the top floor. This time, I’m an eleven o’clock, not even close to being first, because that’s where I rank now, in my father’s all-important scheme of things.

  When I step out into the reception area, my father’s secretary says, “Oh! Hi! Elizabeth!”

  I can tell the whole office is abuzz with what I did. She seems surprised I have the gall to show my face here again.

  “Your father’s meetings are running late. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

  I shake my head and sit in the waiting area, tapping my fingers on my knee. My father was released from the hospital the day after he went in, so nobody found out he had been in there, which is what he wanted. Unlike me, he was able to pull off his deception.

  As I sit there, I practice over and over again in my head what I’m going to say to him. I’m sorry doesn’t seem like enough for how royally I screwed up. But I feel like I could be apologizing until the end of the world, and it’ll never repair the damage I’ve done. So maybe I shouldn’t even try.

  Finally, his secretary looks up at me. “You can go on in.”

  I nod and whisper thanks to her, walk to the heavy double doors, and push them open.

  My father is sitting behind his massive wood desk, hands tented in front of him. “Lizzy.”

  I walk in and realize that LB is sitting there too.

  Of course.

  I sit on the very edge of the seat next to him.

  My father’s frown is scarier and deeper than usual. “What have you got to say for yourself, young lady?”

  All the apologies I was going to say just fly right out the window.

  I did all of this because I felt like I needed to bend over backward for my dad. Because I wanted him to see me as worthwhile.

  But why the fuck should I have to?

  I throw up my hands. “I couldn’t get anyone else. And I just wanted to prove to you that I could handle this. That I could make a man that everyone would fall in love with. So that you would finally see that I can make sound business decisions and I’m not just a pretty face.”

  “Sound business decisions? You call this sound?”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “I was thinking on my feet. I needed a man. And I found one.”

  He slams his hands on the table. “Have you been fucking him?”

  It hits me out of nowhere. I swallow.

  “I’m in love with him,” I whisper.

  He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You think he loves you? You’re out of your mind. That thing that you found—I hesitate to call him a man—will use you for your money.”

  His words themselves don’t hurt me. “It doesn’t matter,” I murmur. “He doesn’t love me. We’re over.”

  He studies me for a long, long time. “Lizzy. You have everything. That man can offer you absolutely nothing. Why would you want to—”

  “Because I do, Dad!” I scream at him. “That should be enough! I’m your daughter, but I’m not you! What I feel and want and like . . . why is that never enough for you? Why do I always have to want what you want, even if it’ll make me miserable? Why?”

  I start to sob into my hands.

  My father looks at LB. “Leave us.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll discuss that later.”

  I hear him stand, and a moment later, the door clicks closed.

  When I look up, he’s studying me. “Tell me what you want, Lizzy.”

  “I want you to see that I’m trying. That maybe my thoughts aren’t the same as yours, but they’re still valid. Maybe I’m not the best in this business, but I love it more than anyone. And everything I’ve done has been for you, and for the company. I didn’t want to pull James from a sewer. I did it because every other guy on the list turned me down, and I wanted to make you proud of me. That’s all.”

  I’m sobbing so hard I can’t see straight.

  There’s a long pause. Suddenly, my father booms, “No. I mean . . . what do you want when it comes to this man? This James.”

  I blink. “It doesn’t matter. He’s been practically ignoring me since we got back from LA. Whenever I see him, he—”

  “For god’s sake, Lizzy. He’s doing that because I threatened him.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “I told him that if he came near you again, I’d nail his ass to the wall. He said he didn’t care what happened to him. He just wanted to make sure that if anything went wrong, you wouldn’t be held responsible for it.”

  My mouth hangs open. “He . . . did?”

  He stands, pushes away from the desk, and comes around to sit on the edge of it.

  He hands me a piece of paper.

  I look up at it, blinking through my tears. It’s a check. For $500,000. Made out to James Rowan.

  “What is this . . . ?” I begin. Money to get him away from me?

  “That’s how much you promised him, yes? To fulfill the contract?”

  I nod. “But—”

  “Do you think he would be interested in signing on with us for the next, say, three years?”

  I blink. “What?”<
br />
  “LB just brought in the latest figures from the weekend. Turns out that sales of Banks Limited are surging. No such thing as bad publicity, I guess. People don’t want James Bond; they want the possibility of turning an ordinary man into something extraordinary. He’s quadrupled our sales projections for the year already.”

  I gape.

  “Part of this business is knowing when to take risks. You took a huge risk, which I never would have done. And it paid off.”

  I blink at the check and then look up at him. I can’t speak.

  “And yes, you have your own mind, and I’m glad that you’re not afraid to use it. I can’t say the same for anyone else in this company,” he says, glancing at me in silence. “I’m proud of you, Lizzy. You did this.”

  He lifts me into his arms and pulls me in for a stiff, awkward hug.

  But it’s a hug.

  My father is hugging me. For the first time since . . . when? I can’t even remember.

  “But—”

  “I can’t say I approve of James. But at least he had the balls to show up. And that? I respect that. A hell of a lot.”

  I pull away from him, shaking, my eyes wide. “Dad?” Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

  He nods and motions me to the door. “Now, get the hell out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

  I walk outside, my head swimming. No, it isn’t a giant glowing Harold Banks seal of approval, but I don’t think that exists.

  And James just got the closest thing I’ve ever seen.

  James

  I clap my hands in front of the camera as Charlie starts to film. “All right. What I’ve been dared to do today by viewer sickkid09 is to stand on the bed of this truck here as the driver plows me straight into this wall of light tubes at thirty miles per hour.” I affix the goggles over my eyes and the helmet on top of my head. “That’ll get me what, Charlie? Five hundred?”

  Charlie nods.

  “Five hundred. Easy money. Let’s go.”

  We’re in the middle of a deserted field south of Atlanta, and the sun’s starting to go down. The old fluorescent light tubes were free from the dump, but the wall frame took forever and a fucking day to assemble. I only have one take for this, and it isn’t the light tubes I have to worry about, though I’ll probably get some cuts from that. It’s falling off the bed of the truck that could really do me in.