by Ryli Jordan
Was it too big? Did it sit right? Were her tits perky enough? Was her vagina tight? It bugged the crap out of me because I knew she was starting to turn sour. Sure enough, when I didn't answer her call one day, she freaked out and started asking me who I was with. Then she started asking me if I was with “her.” As if there was some fictional mistress in my life. I'm a one man woman.
That's when she started calling me, asking where I was, what I was doing. If I had plans, I was cheating. If I didn't answer, I was cheating. If I didn't call soon enough, she assumed I was getting rid of my mistress so Kirstie wouldn't hear her on the other line. I tried to reason with her, just like I tried with every other girl that did this, and she just wouldn't listen so I decided to cut her off, and it's pissing her off to no end, but it's her fault.
Now I know that most girls aren't like that, and there are men like that too, but everyone knows what I'm talking about. There are people that you simply have to filter out, and that's the truth.
I ride the waves of life, see where it takes me, and try to have as much fun as I can along the way. Power freaks don't have any place in my life. Power, in general, is a dangerous thing. I've seen what it does to people and I'm not going to allow that to happen to me. I don't have to. I'm rich, unemployed and young. I can do anything I want to.
The only problem I have in life is finding a woman that's the same with her clothes on as she is with them off—a real genuine woman. That's why I decided to go to the city and begin the hunt. After rushing through traffic I hit downtown and parked my car in the lot behind the Langston. I took the back entrance, hoping to avoid the crowds, and knocked on the solid steel door they reserved for VIP members.
It opened up automatically, and a man the size of a gorilla let me pass through to my private booth. There was coke and rum already waiting for me and a bottle of wine on reserve if I found somebody worth sharing it with. I took a seat and watched through the two-way mirror as the crowd passed by.
“Hey que paso, hue?” Jorge came up wearing a modern zoot suit and a black fedora, looking like the worst kind of scum on the planet.
“Hey.” I took a sip of my drink.
“Anyone in particular catch your eye?”
“I'll let you know.” I stared back at the crowd to let him know that it was time for him to leave.
The music was a blasphemous mix of sugary pop songs and thuggish beats that grated on my nerves, but it was like the background music at a buffet. I didn't pay it any mind, and it let me know who was there to get laid. The women that wanted it were dancing alone or with their girlfriends. The girls that didn't want anyone were there with groups and the desperate ones were sitting at the bar sipping their fruity drinks while sitting on their phones.
Still, there would be stragglers, like the young woman, with dark blond hair sitting with a bottle of whiskey wearing a tight black dress, something you'd find in an old black and white movie with lipstick as red as fresh blood. She just wanted to go out and get hammered. That sounded like the kind of challenge I wanted. So I pressed a button underneath the booth and Jorge appeared from his place on the other side of the wall.
“Would you like any party favors this evening?” He asked with a menacing grin.
“No. I want the one with the bottle in the black dress.”
“You gonna hit that?” His cocky smile made me wanna’ sock him. That man had no shame.
“Offer her a bottle and don't be a douche. Take off that fedora. I don't want her thinking you're a pimp.”
He threw the hat into the kitchen like a Frisbee and effected a thuggish swagger when he walked outside and approached the woman. She didn't notice him at first. Then he sat down and she gave him a look like he'd just walked off the street and poured herself a shot.
It took him a second for her to acknowledge his existence, then she finally agreed to go with him. She smelled like sandal wood when she walked in. I stood up, let his eyes move over her body and smiled. “I'm Ray.”
“Crystal.” She offered him his hand.
“Would you like to have seat?”
“How about you lift up my dress and screw me right now.” She met his eyes with a seductive smile.
“That works too.”
I swept her out the back door and flew back to my house where we wrestled around in the sheets and shared a bottle of aged whiskey until we collapsed in each other’s arms.
I must've left the curtains open because the first thing I noticed that morning was the light drilling into my eyeballs, and the unholy sound of my land line, like a jackhammer hammering into my skull. I reached over Crystal, picked up the receiver and answered, “Hello.” My throat was so dry it felt like it was going to collapse.
“Mr. Valenti?” It was a stern sounding woman.
“What?”
“I'm with the Los Angeles police department.”
He shot up off the bed, nearly crushing Crystal's back with his knee. “What!?”
“Sir, I need you to calm down.”
“And I need you to tell me why you're calling.” I took the phone out into the hall.
“Your father Antonio was found dead in his estate.”
“Are you serious!?”
“Yes, and you have my sincere condolences.” They didn't sound sincere. She had the demeanor of a drill sergeant.
“Well, how did die?”
“He overdosed on oxycontin. Did your father have a drug problem?”
“He was a functional addict. If he overdosed it was accidental. What's going to happen?”
“We'll need you to come identify the body.”
“Anything else?”
“We believe it was an accident. There was nobody around at the time of his death and he barely took enough to kill him, so there's no reason to believe this was on purpose.” She gave me the address and I had a car sent out to bring Crystal home.
Chapter 2
I spent all afternoon fielding off the hounds. Every genealogist in the country was working over time trying to prove that their clients had a stake in my father's fortune. Then there were the lawyers. As soon as I managed to get a replacement phone, they started calling, one after the other, offering their condolences, services and outlining their fees, all while trying to make me believe that they were the only ones that could keep me swimming in money.
I knew my place. My father had no living family, my mother was dead and I was his only child. The executor was a trusted friend and he assured me that my mother and I were the sole beneficiaries, but that I would have to take over the company and swim with the sharks.
I was taken, surrounded by my father's personal security to the headquarters of Valenti mobile, in downtown Los Angeles. It was a monolithic structure built on the backs of Chinese laborers that made everything from the phones he sold to the walls that held the building together. They took me to t the sixth floor where a formal fanfare of random lackeys stood on either side of the hallway to greet me when I walked in. I dodged them as best as I could, flanked on both sides by my security guards.
I'm a staunch democratic socialist. I hate the corporate system. It's a funnel setup to gavage people like my father with enough money to turn their livers into gold.
That was why my father was on his way out. He was a glutton, and the lifestyle caught up with him. He was nodding out during his board meetings, taking pills when he should've been working, he hadn't taken care of business in 30 years. The board got their way without any interference from him and they weren't going to like me coming in and trying to take control, but I planned on making some changes and they were going to have to deal with it.
I dawned a pair of the biggest sunglasses I could find and filled my stomach with sports drinks to stave off the feeling of having my head stuck in a microwave. Then I stumbled into the office and braced myself against the table to keep from falling over.
“Mr. Valenti,” Regis Harper, the de facto dictator shot up out of his chair. “Are you hung-over?”
&n
bsp; I gave him a cocky grin and fell into my chair at the head of the table, affecting fluid, drunken movements to add to the effect. Then I looked around the room. “Y-you're stuck with me.” I spat out with a flawless drunken tone.
Harper grabbed the phone. “Yeah, security could you have Ray Valenti removed from the building? No...” his voice went lower. “He's drunk.” There was a pause. “Oh, yeah? Well, enjoy eating ramen for the rest of yo—
He pulled back the receiver, shocked. Then he hung up the phone. They must've hung up on him.
“I pay them,” I mumbled. Then I gave him the finger with a sickly, drunken grin and let my head hit the table. I added in fake snoring sounds to cement the effect.
“This is just unbelievable. His father hasn't been to a board meeting in five years. We can't allow this. I'd like to make a proposal to remove Raymond Valenti from the board immediately.”
“I think you need to give him time,” Janice, the head of marketing, spoke up. The company needs fresh voices. Our last two releases completely flopped and you were running both campaigns, Harper. I'm not letting anyone over 50 design a device that's marketed to millennials. You can't relate to them and they hate every single piece of software we put on our phones. We are not marketing to a geriatric clientele.”
“We don't need drunks designing phones either. For all we know he could be a needle user.”
“I'd know.” The security gorilla boomed from the back of the room. “And you're a complete idiot.”
I snored then coughed as loud as I could to keep from laughing.
“Get out,” Harper pointed at the door.
“He's the only thing that's going to keep the company going. You're fossils.” He turned around and left the room.
“Now what do we do? Obviously, he's incompetent.”
“He just lost his father.” Henry Helmsworth, the head of manufacturing cut in. “And I seem to remember you acting quite a bit worse when Helen died. You came in here high as a kite for an entire month and we didn't throw you onto the streets. We gave you time, and we looked aside from your indiscretions. Now we are going to do the same for him, Regis and you're gonna deal with it because we all have equal shares for a reason. This company is a democracy. You need a unanimous vote to get rid of the boy, and you don't have it so sit down and stop having a hissy fit because we've got business to attend to.
Chair wheels screeched against the marble floor. Then the lights went dark. I peeked my head up enough to see what was on the projector screen.
“This is the Eucharist,” Henry began, “It's the first luxury smart phone.” A high powered 80s rock ballad started blasting on the speakers while the slides flashed from one jewel encrusted phone to the other “We offer ruby, emerald, solid gold, platinum and carbon fiber. Each model features the latest in processing and memory. Unlike virtually every other phone on the market, it is fully customizable. You can change out the battery, processor and even add more ram. It also comes with a mini HDMI port that allows you to hook the device up to your TV or computer.” The music reached a crescendo and stopped.
I took the chance to let out a loud snore to make sure they thought I was sleeping.
“You hear that? Are we gonna let that little brat profit off of all of our hard work.”
“Just give us some time,” Helmsworth said. “He might just be useful.”
“I give it to two weeks.”
Harper asked every incompetent question imaginable, and scrutinized the project until he was thoroughly convinced that a toddler could've made a better model out of tinker toys. The head of marketing, of course, was impressed. Luxury smart phones were virtually nonexistent, but they were in high demand. It was a completely new market. They wouldn't have to compete with anybody.
After everybody left, and the meeting adjourned, I heard the sound of somebody picking up the jug of water off the table, then footsteps walking closer, so I peeked out as best as I could without being seen. It was Harper about to tip the jug over my head.
Just as soon as he got close, I jolted up, fists flying. “Whose there? Who’s there?” I spun around manically and stuck my foot out and kicked him to the ground.
“Aw! What th—
“Oh my god, are you OK?” I crouched down to his level, barely concealing my smile.
“You did that on purpose!”
“No, I didn't I swear,” I stood up to help him up, but he brushed my hand away.
He looked back at the glass then back at me. He was going to try and pour that water on me. “Are you sure you don't need a towel or something?”
“I'm fine. Get out. Just go and don't come back here again.”
“O-oh,” I laughed. “You're going to be seeing a lot more of me.
I walked out the door into the hall and found myself bombarded by groups of men and women covered in exaggerated TV makeup.
Chapter 3
“Mr. Valenti...”
I rushed down the hall, frantic to avoid the flood of reporters running after me.
“Mr. Valenti, is it true that your father left you the company.” A woman in a tight red dress managed to fight her way to the head of the pack.
“Mr. Valenti...”
I turned a corner and wound up at a dead end.
“Alright! Back up. This isn't a stampede” Dick Thompson, my father's greased up PR manager pushed to the head and lifted his hand. “You OK for a few questions?” He turned back to me.
“My blood alcohol level is dangerously low.”
“They're going to start talking smack if you don't play nice with them. It could be bad for the company.”
“Fine.” I conceded.
“Single file, people. No cutting in line. No cameras. No tape recorders and any who does otherwise will lose their right to exist. Mr. Valenti will give each of you five minutes. Now hurry up and figure out which one of you is going to go first.”
“I hate these people, more silicon than human. If a single one of them tries to push their way ahead, drag them out of the building and trespass them.” I stormed into a small conference room at the end of the hall. There was a collection of courtesy water bottles and chocolate bars sitting in the center. I got rid of them and opened the blinds so the east-facing sun would be hitting them straight in the eyes when they walked in.
The first person to enter was a man with over-gelled black hair, a powdered face and a smile that belonged on a douchey Ken doll. He walked to the front of the room and said, “Hi, I'm Kent Rockham.” In a radio host voice. He offered me his hand and waited for me to shake it.
“Have a seat.” I motioned for the seat at the far end of the table.
“OK.” He reluctantly sat down and took out a tape recorder.
“Put that back.”
“The people deserve to hear from you, Ray.” He covered his eyes from the light. “You're the new face of Valenti.”
I stared him down and waited for him to do as I asked. He tried taking his phone out instead, but I told him to put that away too.
“I apologize. I understand that you'd like some privacy during this time of grief.”
“I have a quick statement. Nothing more.”
“Alright.” He pulled out a small piece of paper.
“My father's death will not halt the operations of the company. I will take his place as CFO and maintain leadership of the board. We have a new lineup of products, including luxury smart phones that will be used to help further the field of mobile technology. Do not quote me. Paraphrase.”
“How are you dealing with your father's death?” He asked sympathetically.
“You may leave now.”
“Bu—
“Leave the building immediately. You're trespassing.”
I pulled out my phone and texted the guard to escort him out when he left the room. They sent in the next man, a short, pimply ginger who had a racket of questions that had to be pried from his hands when he left the room with nothing more than the statement I gave all of them.
<
br /> They wanted to dig until they found the secret that could send my father's empire crumbling. I trespassed all of them and had the guards on notice to arrest them if they came onto the property again. At least that way, I could try and avoid having them stick around to take advantage of any leaks. Anyone wanting a single word other than the statement I gave them would have to wait until we announced the Eucharist. For now, they'd get the one hint and that was it.
This was about business, nothing more. Death was a private matter, one that I would face alone. I knew my father as a hard worker and the rare individual who found success and still managed to maintain his integrity even in the face of addiction. He never cheated on my mother, of that I'm certain. He treated his employees right and he made sure that I knew right from wrong. I would never allow that image to be tarnished by a bunch of over-caffeinated, over ambitious vultures trying to pick at his corpse.
If the media got their way, I'd be sitting in the gutter shooting up while they followed controversy after controversy. It was my job to protect myself from them. They were my worst enemy, but I knew how to handle them. They only had as much power as I granted them.
That was why, one after the other, they got the exact same statement and an escort to show them out of the building. It took hours. There were hundreds of them, and every one had their own angle. Several reporters had flown in from Europe and the Latin American media came traipsing in, with their translators in tow. Finally, when the sun was about to go down, and I was ready to get some food, I got up and popped my head out the door, where a young woman, wearing a pearl white skirt suit and bright red lipstick was standing.
“I'm the last one,” she said.
“Good. I'm tired. Come on in.” I walked to the miniature fridge at the back of the room. “Would you like a water, maybe something a little stronger. Figure you deserve a reward for waiting there for four hours.” I pulled out a shooter and a water for myself.