by Ian Bull
As you enter the offices of Velodrome USA, there’s a huge mural of two bicycle racers in a banked velodrome. It’s a photo from the mid-60s, and the riders and the people in the crowd look Italian. The racers are coming right at the camera; their faces are twisted with pain.
The company logo at the bottom says it all: Finish First.
I’m one of those riders, hauling ass to beat the other guy. The other guy is every other executive working at the company, and whoever gets more shows on the air gets to keep his job. So far, I’ve won. It’s success through brutal competition.
Smiling men in dark sunglasses and tailored suits fill the grandstand alongside chic women in Audrey Hepburn sun hats. They’re the rich guys betting on the race. They’re the real winners, because they’re running the show. That’s where I belong—with them.
My phone says it’s ten a.m., which means I’m supposed to be in the Monday morning meeting. I weave through cubicles decorated with Star Wars and Taylor Swift posters and whatever other pop culture talismans these worker drones need to survive. I find the glass-walled main conference room, take a breath, and head inside.
Gil holds court, like a bald Steve Jobs in his jeans and black turtleneck. “The strategy session for the summer happens tonight at seven p.m., and I want better ideas than 101 Plastic Surgery Disasters,” he says, then stops talking as I walk around the long table and find my seat. Five people stare at me as I open my MacBook Air. Tom drums his pencil, Russ pretends to type, and Janika and Lisa blink. They all answer to me day to day, because I’m the Director of Development. It’s only when we’re with Gil Krauss, the VP of Development, that they remember his greater and crueler authority.
Tina Swig is midway down the table, alert in her black skirt and purple striped top. Her eyes are on Gil, though, who looks like a penis with glasses sticking out of a black sock. I’m the only one who knows she’s exhausted and has a killer hangover after a night of fantastic sex in Honduras, followed by a bumpy red-eye back to Los Angeles.
“You’re late, Mr. Snow,” Gil says. “This meeting starts at ten.”
“It’s thirty seconds after ten, so technically I’m still on time,” I say.
He tries to kill me with his laser eyes, but I shrug those beams right off. “Tina, casting update, please,” Gil says loudly, while still staring at me.
Tina clicks her computer to life. “We are in stage one of casting Mistress to a Millionaire. We have two true mistresses to wealthy men who are TV-ready. We have one wife who we know will go off in a big way once the mistress reveals—”
“Mr. Snow, you didn’t return my emails this past week,” Gil says, interrupting Tina.
“I was on unpaid vacation. I didn’t work.”
“Tina was on sick leave with the flu. She still got her work done and answered emails.”
“I was in a third-world country with poor Internet access.”
“Where did you go?” Gil asks.
“Is my vacation the topic of the meeting now?”
“I just want to know where you went, and more importantly, what you did.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Your contract with Velodrome dictates that we own any idea you have during your two-year contract, even ideas you develop on your own time.”
“I wasn’t developing or pursuing any ideas,” I say.
“Bullshit. You can’t buy a salad without wondering if the people slicing your tomatoes deserve a reality show.”
“You want to know what I was doing? Let me show you.” I grab the remote from the conference table and click on the Apple TV, open my computer photo album, and electronically toss images onto the big monitor. The first photo is of a topless brunette woman in her forties, with massive, dangling breasts, standing ankle-deep in blue water on a white beach, grinning behind her Gucci sunglasses. The women inhale; a few men laugh.
“This is Kat, who I met on vacation. In my private life, I’m a naturist.”
In the next photo, Kat stands next to a naked man with gray hair. His drooping, sunburned paunch covers most of his unit. Both hold up tropical drinks.
“This is her husband, Hank. He runs a vitamin company in Philadelphia.”
I went to the Honduran resort island of Roatan for two days before Tina arrived. I found a nice naturist resort and worked on what I hoped would be my final presentation to Gil.
“See? No pockets for cellphones. Therefore, no emails.”
I toss more onto the screen. The younger naturists play volleyball, while the older folks sag like potato sacks. The last photo is of a naked blonde snorkeling underwater, her breasts floating like balls in space. Gil bobs like a panicked boxer.
“I can make a Shutterfly book for you, Gil. I know you don’t get out much.”
A blue vein pops out of his pink forehead. “That’s it, you’re fired!”
“They’re going to fire you next, Gil. You just got rid of your best performer.”
I flick my security card like a Frisbee and it skitters to a stop in front of him. I close my computer and walk out of the conference room, two inches off the ground. I look back and catch eyes with Tina. She looks away. Gil’s shouts follow me from the conference room to the elevators as that capricious ass punishes the others for my bravery. Waiting for the elevator to arrive, I stare at the mural again and look at the winners in the gallery, who are watching the bike race. I’m almost in the box with them. The elevator rings and I get in. My new life begins now.
Seven hours later, Tina joins me at our agreed-upon rendezvous, a tiny Japanese restaurant on the edge of Koreatown with private dining rooms. The hostess taps twice, then slides open the Shoji-style frosted glass door. Tina slips off her shoes and steps inside, and the hostess bows and smiles as she slides the door shut, sealing us in for privacy.
Tina slaps me hard across the face. My skin stings.
“What’s that for? No valet parking?” The blood rushes to my cheek. I’ll have a mark.
“That’s for your performance today. It was stupid and dangerous.”
She’s dressed in a yellow halter dress with a brown leather jacket. Her hair is loose, and she’s wearing contacts instead of glasses. She may be mad, but she still got dressed up for me. I got dressed up for her, too, in my blue suit with the thin white pinstripes. It feels good, like I’m living in a new tax bracket.
We sit, and I down my cup of sake and push hers across the table. She sips and stares at me, her nostrils flaring like a racehorse. My heart races and my face is still hot—more from humiliation than pain, but I love it. I may get lucky again tonight.
“Why are you surprised? I create performances for a living, remember?”
“It was too good. People will talk about it. How do you know someone didn’t record it?”
“I was watching. No one recorded it. They’ll forget about us in a week.”
Tina looks around our private dining room. There’s a TV monitor mounted on one wall. Padded futon cushions surround the sunken dining pit with a wooden table between us.
“What is this place?” she asks.
“It’s a private karaoke dining room. We can eat a wonderful meal, have a few drinks, and then sing some songs. Or watch a movie. The sliding doors lock if we want privacy.”
She touches the soft futon surrounding the room and smirks at me, understanding.
“And what about you? How did your quitting go?” I ask as I pour more sake.
“I went to HR and said I had a family issue and quit. I didn’t even talk to Gil.”
The screen opens and our hostess comes in with the entrees I ordered. She’s a young Japanese woman, dressed in black slacks and a black shirt. She glances at the mark on my face, then bows and lays down sashimi, grilled octopus and eel, and rice. Tina eyes it with suspicion.
“Do you have chicken?” Tina asks.
“Teriyaki chicken, hai,” the hostess says. She bows and walks out, shutting the door.
“You don’t like what I ordered?”
“
I’m not eating raw fish. We have two weeks to do this, and one dose of food poisoning would ruin us,” Tina says. “I swear, if you fuck this up, I am going to kill you.”
I pop a piece of yellowtail tuna into my mouth. “Is that a sexual threat?”
“No, I will kill you. Because I need the money, and I refuse to get caught.”
I need to get back on her good side, although I like it when she’s angry. I pull an envelope from my jacket and hand it to her. “Here’s you first payment. In cash, as requested, though I think it’s safer to be paid in bitcoin.”
She peeks inside the envelope. It’s one hundred thousand dollars. Her green eyes widen.
“That should pay for private school for your son for a couple years,” I add.
“Let’s not talk about my son.” She puts the envelope in her purse.
“Why not? I don’t even know his name. I just want to know more about you.”
“You and I are going to make a lot of money, we’re going to fuck like crazy, and I’ll even whip you if you want. But my private life is off-limits. It’s safer that way.”
The hostess comes in and places the chicken on the table. Tina waits until she’s shuts the screen behind her before asking her next question. “When are we going to Hong Kong?”
“We cast in Stanley Prison on Saturday night.” I reach into my satchel and pull out four manila folders full of dossiers of prisoners, plus a small hard drive with video files of the same convicts. I slide them across the table to Tina, who slides it into her own satchel and snaps it shut. She will reduce that pile of 200 potential contestants down to twenty, ranked in categories ranging from “Attractiveness” to “Charisma.”
“Saturday gives me plenty of time.”
“I also need you to edit the Up Close and Personal intro packages for the five prison contestants we already cast,” I say. “Use what we shot in the prisons, plus the acquired video on each of them that I gave you.”
Tina glares at me. “By Saturday? With a narrator? And graphics?”
“By Thursday, actually. We’re flying to Maui to meet the Boss Man.”
She tilts her head sideways and her glare turns to a smile. “Will I get to meet him?”
“If you get your work done. Graphics can be temporary, and you’ll narrate it live.”
“Me? Live?”
“Over dinner. You’ll present the intro packages to Boss Man yourself and talk us through them. I need an approved budget, schedule, and broadcast date from him, and the more you impress him, the sooner I can close him and get you the rest of your money.”
“That’s two weeks of work in two days.”
“And that’s a lot of cash I just gave you.”
“Will I finally learn what this show is really all about?”
“Will you be a good girl and do what I ask?”
She eats a piece of chicken, and then licks her fingers. She slides around the low table on the tatami mat until she’s right next to me. “What did you have in mind?”
I spank her hard on the butt, and feel her panty line under her dress. She gasps, eyes wide.
“Now you know how it feels to get slapped,” I say.
“So that’s where we’re headed?” She smirks, then raises her right hand and lets me have it again across the same cheek, raising the stinging welt even higher.
My heart beats faster and I stiffen in anticipation. I dart to the sliding door and lock it, then turn on the monitor already preloaded with my favorite video—one I know she likes, too.
The video intercuts between cameras mounted inside and outside a Camaro—the front hood, dashboard, side windows, backseat, and windshield. A handsome man with a mohawk and a busty woman with flaming red hair kiss in the front seat. The car revs, then accelerates—with the couple still kissing—and slams into a cement wall. The airbags inflate, saving their lives.
Tina gasps, digging her nails into my flesh. “I love Peter Heyman’s work,” she says. “This was the best TV pitch reel you ever did. Ahead of its time.”
“I still owe him money. But I’ll make it up to him. He’s my secret weapon on this show.”
“You really are a genius producer.” She leans in and kisses me.
My life really has changed for the better.
Chapter 9
* * *
Steven Quintana
Day 5: Wednesday Morning
Malibu, California
I stagger into the living room. The turquoise Pacific Ocean cuts across the windows in a line so perfect it looks like water will spill inside if I open the sliding glass doors.
“Julia?”
“In the kitchen,” she says. I stay clear of the windows as I ease through the kitchen door. There she is, barefoot in shorts and a t-shirt. She holds out a mega-mug of powerful coffee.
“Thank you,” I whisper, then take it and sip. Within seconds, the caffeine opens my eyes and cuts my pain. I inch my left arm upward and get it over my head. It hurts like hell, but I’m healing. I should be; I’ve slept over forty-eight hours.
“Feeling better?” she asks. “Because I sure do.”
“Much better, thank you.”
We made love all Sunday night, until I passed out Monday morning. Julia woke me up every few hours to feed me omelets, steak, and pasta. Now it’s ten a.m., Wednesday.
“Better enough to want to heal here with me?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It’s time for me to go,” I say, wondering if we’ll ever make love again. Why can’t I change and just stay and make her happy?
“Then I’m going with you,” she says, jamming her hands into her pockets.
“You can’t. You’d give me away. Besides, Le Clerq may still be out there.”
“He’s not. He drove away about two hours ago.”
The kitchen window frames a fishing boat puttering through the cove. No decent fisherman would head out this late. A light reflects off one of the boat windows—that could be a camera lens catching the sun. I tug her away from the window as adrenalin surges through me.
“There’s someone on that boat, taking pictures.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “You like this. It gives you a better rush than you get from me,” she says, but not in an accusing way. It’s more like a sad observation.
She’s right. I get a heightened awareness that makes regular life seem like sleepwalking. The Army trained me to be an expert photographer, and Carl and I would live in this zone of hyperawareness for weeks while on reconnaissance missions. That’s when my life had excitement and purpose, and this crazy quest is the closest I’ve come to achieving that feeling again.
“I’m going to my apartment to get my cameras and my motorcycle. I’m walking there on the beach so I can come in from the ocean staircase and avoid the road.”
“Fine. I can walk you there. The beach is empty, and we’ll see people from a long way away and avoid them. I’m going to put on some workout clothes,” she says, and walks away.
I know I can’t convince her otherwise. Instead, I devour what’s in her fridge, then stuff a change of clothes into my backpack, along with painkillers, bandages, and a passport. I put on jeans, a t-shirt, a canvas jacket, and a baseball cap. I hear Carl’s words echoing in my head again:
She’s world famous, and who are you? You got nothing going on and can’t handle it.”
He’s right. I was with only four women before her, then won the jackpot and got Julia Travers. How could anyone handle that? The tabloids said that she was out of my league, and I believed them.
I take my computer from under the mattress and slide it into my pack. When Julia asked me to attend the Tech Awards, I arrived in Malibu a day early so I could try on the tuxedo she bought me, and I hid the computer so I wouldn’t have to answer her questions. Now I’m afraid to turn it back on; I may be an expert at hiding in the real world, but in cyberspace, I’m like the loud drunk who people follow home from the bar and rob.
Julia is waiting in the hall as I exi
t the guest bedroom. “Got everything you need?”
“I do,” I say, patting my backpack.
She nods, not mentioning the computer. “Let’s go, then.”
We slip out the side door and walk down the wooden staircase to the beach. No one sees us cross the sandy berm and walk next to the water, where the air is cool from the salty mist. Tivoli Cove and my bachelor apartment is a mile away. I’ll say goodbye to Julia there, grab my gear, and ride north to San Francisco, where I’ll pursue my leads about Hong Kong and find a computer expert who can turn on my computer without getting shot at again.
We walk in silence. A fit young woman in leggings and a yellow halter top runs toward us, her brown hair bouncing under a baseball cap. We walk higher on the sand to avoid contact.
We reach the end of the long beach. The sand curves to a ragged point where waves crash against tall rocks.
“Tivoli Cove is on the other side,” I say. “We wait until a wave hits, and as the water recedes, we run around the rocks. Okay?”
As the wave recedes, she dashes ahead. I sprint to keep up. My ribs hurt as I inhale, and my pumping arms tug at my sores. She gets around the point easily. I’m five yards behind her, and I reach dry sand just as the wave crashes into the rocks. I grab my knees and gasp for air.
“You don’t look so good,” Julia says, not even winded.
I don’t answer. My place is halfway down the cove, with a deck hanging over the sand.
“It looks safe,” Julia says.
“Let’s watch for a bit,” I say. We lean against the warm rocks. No one is in the cove this early. I hear a splash and see a seal with a silver fish in its mouth.
“Steven Quintana?”
I spin to find the voice above me on the rocks. I spot a tall and thin dark-skinned man who looks half-black and half-Asian—like a skinny Tiger Woods, but with a tight military haircut. He wears khakis and a blue polo shirt with a day pack over one shoulder, like he’s a college kid headed to class. How did he spot me first? I’m always the one watching, never the one being watched. He steps down and walks on the sand like it burns him.