I clicked another slide and the man took a sharp breath. I’d considered leaving the slide out. It had been hard for even me to look at, and was maybe too graphic for a business meeting. But the sight of the blue-skinned child curled over a subway grate in NYC was necessary to get my point across.
“Turn it off,” the man said. “We’re done here.”
“I have more slides.” I reached for my laptop.
“I don’t need to see any more.”
Closing the computer, I tried to smile but probably managed more of an awkward twitch of my lips. His eyes landed on my elbow.
Shit. Could he see the hole in my jacket from there? I should’ve tried to patch it up before I’d left, but I was already late and figured slapping duct tape over it would make it even more obvious.
He coughed. “Mr. Linton—”
“Baxter, sir. You can call me Baxter.”
“Mr. Linton,” he said again, “you cannot be serious with this presentation. First of all, your . . . organization, I guess? It has how many employees?”
“Uh . . .” I shuffled from one foot to the other. “Well, right now it’s just me. But with your investment, I can bring on more employees, and a production team, and—”
“So how many of these blankets have you actually made so far?”
I eyed the prototype I’d laid on my end of the table. “Just the one right now, but that’s all I need to show you how it works. If I could just drape it over you, I’m sure you’d experience how warm it will make you in only seconds.”
“You’ll do no such thing. I don’t need a dirty blanket on my suit. I assure you my jacket is worth twenty times more than that rag.”
Well, that shut me up.
“Mr. Linton.” He spread his palms. “Let me lay it out for you. You come in here with a wrinkled green blanket, a hole in your sleeve, graphic pictures of dead children, and not a single employee or other interested investor. Have I got this right so far?”
“I . . . well . . .”
I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window. We were pretty high up. If I took a running start and jumped far enough, could I somehow impale myself on the Washington Monument? That might be preferable to standing here and just taking the haranguing from this man.
“Secondly,” he continued, completely unaware of my death-by-monument plan, “you’re asking me to contribute to the homeless problem by offering to pay for their warmth. Son, we need fewer homeless, not more.”
Blood rushed to my head. All of a sudden, I wanted to fling him out the window instead of myself.
“Sir, with all due respect, giving blankets to the homeless will not create more of them. And, as much as you’d like to ignore the problem, homelessness is not something that is just going to go away. The least we can do is not let them die on the streets like animals. They’re fellow human beings, after all.”
The man grunted. “They’re drug addicts and alcoholics who yell at me when I refuse to give them my hard-earned money. Make them get a job, I say. Contribute to society.”
“It’s not that easy,” I muttered. I folded the blanket and shoved it into the gym bag I’d carried it in. I unplugged my laptop and rested it on the bag. “I can see I’m wasting both of our time here. I’ll show myself out.”
He only nodded as I skulked out of the stuffy room. I shook my head at the redheaded receptionist as I passed. My meeting had been pushed back, so we’d had lots of time to chat beforehand. She’d seemed fascinated by my concept, and had told me she was crossing her fingers for me. And she’d written her phone number on a Post-it and slid it into my pocket with a wink.
The receptionist—or Brittani with an i, as the yellow slip in my breast pocket detailed—was on the phone when I exited. She frowned at the shake of my head, then gave me a look that pretty much told me I’d be better off setting her number on fire rather than trying to use it.
Unfortunately this wasn’t uncommon. With what women called a “nice guy” face and the ability to make them laugh, I could swing a number. But the moment they found out I was straddling the line of unemployment, they usually took off running. Not a lot of women found poverty appealing, for some reason.
Straightening my shoulders against two rejections within the span of thirty seconds, I headed to the elevators. My phone beeped just as I pressed the down arrow. Scott’s name and number lit up my screen:
Dude. Beers. Tonight. ON ME.
I scrunched onto the already packed elevator and rolled my neck. I needed that drink, but if I had to hear my friend whine about his ex one more time, I was definitely going to impale myself on the monument.
But Scott was buying, and that was a rare occurrence, indeed. Who was I to turn down a free beer? I texted him back a yes, hoping the news was that he’d finally moved on with his life and found someone else. If not, I had a piece of paper with a number on it for him. Unlike me, at least he had a job. Brittani with an i might thank me.
• • •
“Bax! Dude! You made it!”
Scott’s voice cut across the crowded bar as I stepped into my familiar haunt. The Flying Pig was only a few blocks from my apartment, so I’d dropped off my stuff from the meeting and walked there. The crisp fall air helped to clear my mind before I entered the stifling heat of the bar. I dodged the after-work drinkers huddled in groups around the standing tables and slid into our usual booth.
My friend had obviously already started on the beers without me. He swayed in his seat as he introduced me to the others at the table. I knew a lot of them already. Before I’d decided to pursue my own dreams, I’d worked at the accounting firm of Rafferty and Sons. That was where I’d met Scott, his then-girlfriend Allison, and Clare.
Clare.
My body froze as my brain whispered her name.
I’d done my best not to think of her since she’d tossed the ring in my face and slammed the door on our life together. It had been almost a year. Hard to believe her name could still elicit a reaction from any part of me. But I had thought we’d be on our honeymoon by now. Drinking margaritas and screwing on the Hawaiian beach until we couldn’t move. The fact that she’d kept the plane tickets and our hotel room and taken another guy was the extra kick my nads needed.
Fuck.
I ran my hands through my hair. If I kept up this sorry-for-myself bullshit, I’d be crawling home tonight. I signaled Danielle, our usual waitress, for a beer. When she brought one over, I thanked her and told her to keep them coming.
“So, buddy.” I took a long pull on the bottle. The barley taste eased down my throat, soothing away all thoughts of Clare and the diamond that still sat in the bottom of my underwear drawer. “What’s the celebration? You’re not exactly known for opening your wallet, even at the best of times.”
The words had barely exited my mouth when a familiar perfume floated to our table. I hissed a breath between my teeth and tensed my body for the inevitable awkward post-breakup scene I was about to witness.
“Allison,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Baxter.” She nodded in my direction before leaning over and kissing Scott on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late, darling. I got called into a meeting right at five. Arthur’s a tyrant, I swear. He exists to torture me. I’m just going to go freshen up. Order me a white wine. I need it after this day.”
She left in a cloud of flowers, swishing her hips. Okay, that was definitely new. Both the kiss and the hip-swish thing.
I eyed Scott. “Uhh . . . you mind telling me when that happened?”
“Last night.” Scott leaned in, leaving the rest of our table to talk among themselves. “I showed up at a work party with another girl and Ally just lost it. She realized how much she missed me.” He tilted so far forward his ass probably left the seat on his side of the booth. “Not only that, but we went home and had the most mind-blowing sex ever. Seriously,
dude, she couldn’t get enough. I can’t believe either of us was able to function today.”
I took a gulp of beer and swallowed. “That’s great, man. I’m happy for you. I know how much you missed her.” As does my phone, from the numerous late-night texts I’d received since their breakup. “So, who was this chick you brought to the party? You barely leave the office. When did you have time to meet another woman?”
He sat back in his seat and pulled out his wallet. Glancing at the washrooms, he tugged a card out from between his credit cards and tossed it across the table.
“What is this?”
“It’s the woman I hired.”
“Hired? As in . . .” Now it was my turn to lean forward. “Don’t tell me you got a hooker for the party.”
“No! Well, not exactly. She’s more of an actress-for-hire. Check it out.”
I scrutinized the card. All that was on it was the simple drawing of a black mask in sparkling ink and an address in the bottom corner. “Dude, are you giving me Zorro’s card or something? There’s not even a name on here.”
“Her name is Rachel, and she just likes to keep an air of mystery about her. She also likes to meet her clients in person. It’s why there’s no number on there. You have to go to her office.” Scott’s voice lowered. “Quick, hide it. Allison’s coming back. As far as she knows, I met Rachel at the park.”
I slipped the card into my jacket pocket with Brittani’s number. Fantastic. Now I had two useless pieces of paper on me.
Allison slid into the booth beside Scott and took a sip of wine. I had to admit, Scott was happier with that girl around. Under his beard, his skin was tinged pink with alcohol and adoration for the woman next to him. I almost hated the guy.
“So, Baxter,” Allison said. “How is your business going? You’re trying to make clothes for the homeless or something, right? Have you gotten any investors?”
“Blankets.” I polished off my beer and held up the empty glass to Danielle so she’d bring another. “They’re blankets. They’re big enough to cover a person head to toe, and I stitched them together with materials that both keep the wind out and heat up according to your body temperature.”
“My friend the genius,” Scott said. He draped an arm around Allison. “I always knew you were too good for a desk job at the firm.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I said.
Danielle dropped my second beer off, giving me a half smile. She was definitely cute. Black hair streaked with red that framed her face in waves in the way those old cabaret singers used to wear it. Dark skin without a mark on it. Deep brown eyes and full lips she painted with gloss. Every part of her was perky, from her demeanor to her ass to her breasts.
We’d made out once in the alley behind the bar when I’d gotten wasted after Clare had left, but then I threw up into a Dumpster and that pretty much killed the moment. Nothing makes a woman back off faster than hurling day-old pizza on top of week-old nachos.
“This was one of those strange experiments I stumbled on,” I continued after Danielle left. “It was like five degrees out. The homeless man who usually sleeps outside my building looked like he was freezing, and he wouldn’t accept my invitation to take him in for the night. So I put together a blanket from things Clare left behind in the apartment, and gave it to him. He told me the next day it was the warmest he’d ever been. He said he’d even sweated at one point.”
Allison leaned her head on Scott’s shoulder. “So what exactly are you trying to do with them now?” she asked.
“Well, I managed to salvage the remaining materials and make one more as a prototype, but I’m trying to get someone to invest so I can afford to mass-produce them and hopefully sell them to every place in the world that needs them. So far, all I’ve gotten is kicked out of offices and old men looking at me like I’ve suggested cutting off their dicks.”
Allison almost choked on her wine. She hated the d word. Scott rubbed her back and said, “What are you doing, though? Just showing up with one blanket and a PowerPoint presentation or something?”
“Exactly that.” I grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl in the center of the table and started popping nuts into my mouth as I tossed the shells on the floor. “I don’t have much more, man.”
“That doesn’t sound very impressive,” Allison said. “I mean, if you came to me asking for money, I’d want to know there was something worth investing in. At least more than one employee, maybe an interested buyer. Even a promise from the mayor that he would buy a bunch once they were complete. And did you show up in what you’re wearing now?”
“Yeah. But what’s wrong with this?”
“First of all, that jacket is wrinkled. It needs to be pressed. I’m also sure I spotted a hole or two. You look like you rolled out of bed and threw on the first thing you found on the floor.”
“Gee, thanks. Way to kick a guy when he’s down.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just trying to prove a point. The most important aspect in selling your product is selling yourself. Investors see you before they see your product, and they’ve already made their decision before you even open your mouth. If you show up looking like you don’t care, why should they?”
“She has a point.” Scott planted a kiss on her cheek. “My little salesgirl.”
“And what do you suggest I do?” I asked. “You really think some new clothes are going to make millionaires take me seriously all of a sudden? I’m still just this dude with no money, no employees, and a blanket made from recycling.”
“That might be part of the problem,” Allison said. “It’s just you. I think you need a partner, Baxter. I really do.” Allison’s purse started to chirp and she pulled out her phone and moaned. “It’s Arthur. He’s probably still at the office and can’t figure out how to turn off the computer or something. Be right back. The signal in here sucks.”
She trotted to the exit, her voice fading as she left the bar.
“Great.” I sat back in my seat. “Sure. I’ll just go out and get an assistant and ask them to work for nothing. What would they assist, anyway? I have nothing for them to do.”
Scott stroked his beard. “You need more than an assistant, Bax. I think Ally’s right. You need someone who can make you look good. Someone who can make your business look functional, or maybe even pose as an interested partner.”
“Perfect. Lemme just get one of those.” I scanned the bar. “Do you think I should go with Dean, with the beer belly and permanent mustard stains on his tie, or Beth, with her sixty years of experience and bright blue eye shadow?”
“That’s not what I had in mind. The card I gave you. Rachel, the actress-for-hire. She’ll play anyone or anything—as long as you don’t expect an intimate relationship. No sex stuff, obviously. But she might just be up for pretending to be your rich partner. Or, hell, it may be enough to bring her into meetings. She could sell Kryptonite to Superman. Dude, she’s that good.”
I polished off the second beer, letting the alcohol waft through my head along with the cheesy country song wailing from the speakers beside us. “Oh yeah? Will she work for free?”
“Well, no. She’s actually pretty expensive—”
“That puts me out.”
“Wait for it. She’s expensive, but she has a refund policy. If she can’t complete the job, you get your money back in full. She’s that confident. She gets her business through word of mouth, and the guy who referred me said she’s never had to give a refund.”
“Still.” I glanced at the door to make sure Allison hadn’t returned. “Where would I get the money to pay up front?”
“You have the money you’d been saving for the wedding, right?”
“I have some of it. A lot of it I’ve used for things like rent and food, but the rest I kept in case this whole endeavor tanks and I have to make as many of those blankets as I can on my own befo
re calling it quits.”
“That’s perfect, then. You have nothing to lose here. She either gets you a major investor and national attention, or you get your money back.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the card with her address.
“Do you really think this chick would go for it?”
His eyes followed Allison as she shoved her phone into her purse and headed back toward us. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” I studied the card, my finger trailing up and down the strange mask. Scott was right. I had nothing left to lose.
Veronica
I wasn’t sure what was worse: my blazing hangover or the nightmare that had ripped me from sleep. I clawed at the sweaty sheets, pulling them from my neck and taking deep breaths. Every breath decreased the speed of my heart but increased the pounding in my head. I moaned and laid my hand over my eyes.
Beside me, the rhythmic snores of the Rock God told me I hadn’t disturbed him. Phew. The nightmares didn’t come as frequently as they had when I was younger, but there was no way I was going to explain them to a man who had more muscles in his abs than his brain.
When my heart returned to a normal pace, I flipped onto my side and watched the world’s most lusted-after singer as he slept. The blanket had fallen to his waist, giving me an eyeful of reasons as to why I’d accepted his invitation. Tribal tattoos covered his chiseled shoulders, streaming down his back and around his hips, stopping right at the V muscles below his stomach that snaked under the sheets.
Long dark hair and the expertly trimmed stubble around his chin completed the bad-boy look. He’d been perfectly molded as the lead singer of the Screeching Monkeys, an alternative rock band that had gone from playing for colleges to performing at sold-out arenas around the world almost overnight.
Dealing in Deception Page 2