Calamity Rayne: Gets A Life

by Lydia Michaels

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I was at the gym, working out behind Cute Butt Guy who happened to be watching CNN. See how much I love you? I actually interrupted my hot ass fantasy to change channels on my machine and do a little investigating. I don’t really know who Davenport is, aside from being crazy rich, but I like the jewelry his daughter designs and his one son is hot—the other one is okay. Anyhoo, apparently, he had a heart attack at his estate in New Jersey and took a nasty fall down the steps.”

  “Get to the point,” our friend Tyler griped, finishing his beer.

  “Shut up,” Elle snapped and turned her excited expression back to me. “So they were interviewing his son, you know, the serious one who’s always with him—not the cute one with the man bun. The other one. He said his dad’s recovering from the attack but he’s going to be off his feet for the next few months because when he fell he also broke his leg or something. Isn’t that great?”

  “That he’s recovering? Sure.”

  “No,” she shook her head. “Don’t you see, Rayne, they’re going to need additional help!”

  My brain finally made the connection and I gasped. “Oh my God!”

  Tyler rolled his eyes. “Puh-lease. You think you’re going to get a job working for the Davenports? You? They aren’t going to hire just anyone. They’re probably looking for a Harvard graduate and likely have an arsenal of interns salivating at the opportunity. You’d be lucky if someone even glanced at your resume before sending it off to spam.”

  Elle waved over a waitress and ordered another round. Turning back to Tyler she barked, “You don’t talk anymore.”

  My heart was beating faster than usual as my mind started a mental checklist. I needed to act quickly since the story already broke on CNN. Would email be the best approach? Maybe something on paper would be better. Or perhaps a phone call if we could find a contact number. Remington Davenport was huge, and he had homes across the country. There had to be a phone number somewhere.

  Elle’s fingers snapped in front of my face. “Rayne, are you listening?”

  I distractedly looked at her. “Hmm?”

  “I said my boss used to do Naomi Davenport’s hair when she worked in New York.”

  Connection! “Do they still talk?”

  “No, but she might have her number.”

  Tyler shook his head. “I’m sure going through Remington’s ex-wife is just the way to get in his good graces.”

  Rather than respond, Elle tapped the bottom of her beer bottle to the mouth of Tyler’s freshly opened one, which caused the carbonation to erupt and forced him to plug his bottle with his lips and chug it down before it overflowed all over the table.

  “You don’t talk anymore,” she snapped.

  When she looked back at me, I whispered, “Will you ask her to call Naomi?”

  Elle held up her phone. “I’ll text her now.”

  It’s really amazing when alcohol gets involved in lifealtering decisions. Logic fades and risks shrink from hurdles to hopscotch until nothing stands in your way. Then, on the tails of a hangover, you wake up in your childhood bedroom—not at all luxurious—and sobriety sets in hard.

  After draining my first cup of coffee, I stared at my cell phone in shock. I had a voicemail from none other than Naomi Davenport, first wife to one of the wealthiest men in the world.

  My fingers shook as I listened to her message a second time and I immediately had stomach pains. I don’t know why, but I’ve always gotten cramps whenever faced with new opportunities like job interviews, car purchases, or the last pair of leather boots on sale just before winter. All of these things landed me in the bathroom. So it was no surprise that I was calling my BFF in a panic from the toilet the moment my brain kicked on and my coffee kicked in.

  “She called! Naomi Davenport actually called my cell phone!”

  “That’s awesome, Ray!”

  “Awesome? It is so much more than awesome. It’s fucking amazaballs!”

  “Did you call her back?”

  “No, I’m waiting for my nerves to settle and trying to figure out what the hell to say to a woman like Naomi Davenport.”

  “Well, first, take some Pepto and pull it together. Second, stop using both her names. It’s creepy and puts you below her. You gotta fake it ‘til you make it, and that means acting like you’re on the same level.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “Who says? They’re just people with money and fancy cars and way nicer houses than us. You could play that role.”

  I honestly believed I could imitate “good enough”—at least for a short time. I could do anything I put my mind to temporarily, but duration was my Achilles heel.

  I was the type to invest in expensive sneakers, run two miles, and never looked at a treadmill again. Some people had big eyes when it came to eating. I had enormous eyes when it came to life, but also the attention span of a squirrel on crack when it boiled down to following through. Which was why I owned about twenty beautiful journals with three pages written in each one, a diary for each year starting with a promise to write every day.

  “Rayne! Focus!”

  I stood and washed my hands, wedging my phone between my shoulder and my ear. “I am focused. How long does a broken leg last?”

  “I don’t know. Five weeks? Two months?”

  That seemed doable, but I was jumping ahead. “I guess I should call and see if she can give me a contact before I start thinking of the cons.”

  “Yes. You need to call her back before they find someone else for the position. According to the interview I saw yesterday, he’s in the hospital for the next couple of days, but once he’s out his family will have hired someone. You have to jump on this quickly, so stick a tampon up your ass and take a sedative to calm your nerves and make the call.”

  I smiled, because Elle truly knew me better than anyone else in the world. “Do you really think I have a shot at being Remington Davenport’s assistant?”

  “I think talking to one of his ex-wives is the closest you’ve come in your hunt for Occupation Luxury, so you better make the call before she forgets about the favor. Call her back. Call me when you’re done.”

  I winced as my nerves continued to knot painfully in my stomach. “Okay. Thanks, Elle.”

  “You got this. I’m hanging up now.”

  I took a calming breath and glanced at the toilet. “Pull it together, Calamity Rayne.” Backing out of the bathroom, I grabbed a notebook and turned to a blank page.

  I replayed Naomi’s message one last time and broke into a sweat. Maybe I had a glandular problem. The temptation to look up symptoms for sweating was resisted because I knew those websites only led to extreme hypochondria. But seriously, women were not supposed to sweat this much.

  Ignoring the distraction, I saved the contact in my address book and hit the call button.

  Chapter Two

  That Awkward Moment Called My Life

  The call to Naomi was over in less than four minutes. She complimented my ambition, offered some sage advice on developing a thick skin if I planned to enter the vicinity of her ex-husband’s ego, and concluded with a friendly laugh that bordered on patronizing.

  As I stared at the number to reach her son, Hale Davenport, or the one Elle liked to refer to as “the other one”, my skin broke out in a fresh sweat. Hale was Remington’s eldest child and usually filled the background of any press conference that included his father. He had one expression—and it was very close to the kind of face a stoic man would make while receiving an enema.

  To better prepare myself, I Googled the Davenports and beefed up my background information. There was another son, but I could never remember his name. He had long hair and Elle referred to him as “the hot one”. He was younger and had that effortless, cool air about him. The only reason anyone knew he existed was because he sometimes showed up in family portraits whenever the media got a peek inside one of the Davenport’s homes. And he was gorgeous.
/>   Naomi, Hale’s mother, was someone Remington had been married to for a New York minute. Seraphina, the youngest heir to the Davenport throne, came from Remington’s third marriage. There weren’t any kids from the fourth marriage, which actually seemed like it might last, but that wife passed away a little under a year ago, and there had been no news of future wives since.

  Remington Davenport was attractive in a rugged, wealthy manner, sort of like a beat up one hundred dollar bill—quite valuable, but also well used. His silver hair and leathered complexion was shadowed by an intangible essence of authority. His wives—all four of them—were decades younger than him and clearly in it for more than his looks.

  I wasn’t saying someone couldn’t love him for more than his money, but let’s be honest. Remington Davenport didn’t get to where he was by being easy. He was a demanding bastard with an ego the size of Texas. It made him a cutthroat businessman who exacted preciseness.

  Basically, he was scary as fuck, but I totally wanted to work for him.

  Assuming I might somehow manage to finagle my way into this man’s life, I’d probably have the interview shits twenty-four seven, but working for the Davenports would be the experience of a lifetime, and I wanted the opportunity regardless.

  Desperate to see how the other half lived, to have a minute to pretend I knew what it felt like to wipe my mouth on a linen napkin I didn’t have to stain treat, I envisioned my success like The Secret had taught me. The fluffiness of their towels pressed into my skin and the affluent scent of their air filled my lungs. Yes, I wanted all of those luxuries. But without the price tag, of course.

  Money took work. I couldn’t imagine the amount of work it took to accumulate the sort of wealth Remington Davenport had, especially being that his parents were basic middle-class citizens at some point. It seemed reasonable for him to be a short-tempered grump. All the man did was work. I didn’t want that sort of life. I just wanted a glimpse of the benefits. Who wouldn’t?

  After another long trip to the bathroom, I had my thoughts somewhat organized. One had to take chances to make changes, but I liked to have a bit of science backing all big decisions.

  First, I decided I would call from the kitchen because my living room had a dead zone that sometimes dropped calls. Second, I would use my Marilyn Monroe voice because when I got excited, I sometimes spoke way too loud. The Marilyn kept me at a tolerable decibel without too much shifting from my natural dialect. It would be easy to phase out should I actually meet these people in person.

  And third, I would finish up the call with an epic freeze frame jump and air punch, because hey, I was putting myself on the line here and might be making a total ass out of myself. Then I would have some ice cream because it was rude to leave half a pint in the freezer for more than a day.

  Laying out my notepad I wrote down the words thank you and underlined them next to Hale Davenport’s name. I was a fairly polite person, but sometimes I forgot to express my appreciation and gave the impression of having no manners.

  Taking a deep breath, I dialed and hit send. The phone rang twice, and then my heart imploded, and all the air in my lungs evaporated.

  “Davenport.”

  I liked to talk. I talked all the time. I even talked in my sleep. Ask me the time and I’d build you a watch. I didn’t even need a conversation topic, and sometimes I talked about three totally unrelated things at once. So the fact that I was now sitting at the kitchen table like a brain dead mute shocked the shit out of me. For the first time in my life, I was utterly speechless.

  “Hello?” the thick voice spoke into the phone again.

  Say something. Say anything. Talk! Just fucking make a sound instead of sitting there. Jesus fucking Christ you’re blowing it—

  “Are you…” Oh God. “…happy with your current cell service?”

  Annnnnnnnd the line went dead. I was a total twat-faced tit. Tossing my phone on the table I dropped my head into my palms and groaned. “Great.”

  I blew it. What the hell was wrong with me? The severity of what just happened hit hard. All this searching and hoping was for nothing because now my number was probably blocked like a goddamn telemarketer.

  Reaching blindly for my phone I dialed Elle while pressing my face to the surface of the table.

  “Did you call?” she answered.

  “Yeah,” I moaned, still not lifting my face off the table. Why bother? I was going to live here forever.

  She tsked. “Oh, that doesn’t sound good. But hey, at least you called. You took a chance.”

  “You didn’t hear my side yet.”

  After explaining what happened, Elle was silent for a minute. “So call him back.”

  “I can’t. He probably blocked my number, and now he thinks I’m a telemarketer, or worse, a crazy person who impersonates telemarketers. Who does that?”

  “You’re not the first.”

  “Prank calls went out with the fourth grade, Elle. I ruined it.”

  “No, you didn’t. You just need to call from a different number. And this time talk!”

  “I don’t know what happened. I’ve never been speechless in my life. He answered and suddenly I broke out in a cold sweat, and I couldn’t think.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t even a Davenport. Did it sound like The Other One?”

  “Well, Naomi gave me his number, and he answered by just saying Davenport. His name’s Hale by the way.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him talk. How was his voice? If he was a Davenport he’d probably have a stern voice.”

  I frowned at the phone. “I don’t know. He said two words and hung up. Can we please focus on the fact that I totally screwed up what might have been the chance of a lifetime?”

  “Relax, Rayne, it was a phone call. Do the number block thing and call back once you get your big girl panties on.”

  “Can you call?”

  “No. For God’s sake, be a grownup!”

  I huffed. “Fine.”

  That was a lie. I wasn’t going to call back.

  “I mean it, Ray. Call him back or you really will have blown your chance and I’m not going to pity drink with you when strapping on a pair and using words could’ve avoided this. Stop making such a big deal out of nothing.”

  “Fine,” I gritted with a little more conviction. “But I expect some sympathy when I call you back in two minutes.”

  “Deal, but you have to call him first. Goodbye.” The line went dead.

  “God, she’s such a bitch,” I muttered as I punched in the code to block my number and dialed again. “This is so stupid.”

  It was now abundantly clear how farfetched this entire plan was from the beginning. The chances of more than a phone call were nonexistent, which really made me an idiot for being afraid. Admitting this was a one and done deal made everything a lot easier to face.

  Send.

  The phone rang only once this time. “Davenport.”

  I cleared my throat and winced at how bad that probably sounded as a greeting. “Hi, I’m looking for Hale Davenport.”

  I’ll tell him who I am and then this will all be over. I’m totally getting drunk tonight.

  “Speaking.”

  Apparently, rich people only spoke in one-word sentences.

  “Hi. My name’s Rayne Meyers. Your mother gave me your number.”

  “My mother?”

  Ah, two words. Progress.

  “Yes. You see, I’m calling about your father. I’m sorry, by the way, and I’m glad to hear he’s recovering. I heard he might be in the market for an assistant, and I was interested in the position—of assisting your dad on his road to recovery that is. I’d like to help out.” God, I really should have rehearsed this.

  “Are you calling from a company?”

  “Um, no company. Just me here at Rayne Meyers and Associates.” I silently laughed, certain I was self-sabotaging any chances. But let’s be real. This was not how the rich and famous hired the help.

  He
didn’t seem amused. “Are you a nurse?”

  Feeling like I was back in the principal’s office and half my age, making light of the situation didn’t seem the most mature decision I’d made that day. I was clearly wasting this man’s time. “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever worked for one of our companies?”

  Now he was using lots of words and not blowing me off, which cranked my fear back up to full throttle. I pressed a hand to my stomach and shut my eyes, willing the nervous cramps not to return.

  “No. Honestly, I heard your father was sick and might need some assistance. It sounded like an interesting opportunity and—”

  “The position requires traveling and would be no less than six months. Is relocating an issue?”

  Okay, now I was really scared because he was actually acting like this might be possible. “I…I can relocate.”

  “I’m sorry. Can I put you on hold for a minute? I need to take this call.”

  “S—sure.” The line silenced and I stared at my kitchen searching for hidden cameras. When a minute passed, I started doodling penises. Big penises, little penises, hairy ball penises—

  “Ms. Meyers?”

  The pencil flew out of my hand as my palm covered the erotic graffiti on my page. “I’m still here.”

  “If you’d like to email me your resume I’ll take a look. We need to fill the position by tomorrow, so you should hear back from someone within a few hours.”

  “Oh. Okay.” What the hell was happening?

  He rattled off his email, and I scrambled for my pencil, quickly jotting his contact info down in between dicks. When the call ended I wasn’t sure if it was all a dream or what? It couldn’t possibly be that simple.

  Drumming my fingers on the surface of the table I considered calling Elle, but I knew she’d just yell at me for not sending the email first. So I pulled out my laptop, opened my resume and gave it a quick onceover before attaching it to an email.

  Being that I forgot to say thank you on the phone, I made sure to slip my gratitude into the body of my email. Then I hit send.