by Alexa Davis
STINGRAY BILLIONAIRE: THE COMPLETE SERIES
By Alexa Davis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Alexa Davis
From the Author
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Chapter One
Rory’s Treasures
Ellie
“The Louis XV-style double-mirrored armoire is your best bet if you’re looking to impress your guests, and you’ll have more than enough room to store your knick-knacks in the display area,” I tell Mrs. Taber as she’s glancing through the furniture section of the shop.
Welcome to Rory’s Treasures.
It would be a thrift store if they created thrift stores for the sole purpose of supporting the owner’s unwillingness to pick up a marketable skill. This shop is Troy’s dream.
Troy Kramer is my boss and the owner/founder of Rory’s Treasures. To this day, I don’t know who Rory is. Every time I ask, Troy’s only answer is, “He’s the guy I named the shop after,” and then he’ll lock himself in the office the rest of the day.
That’s why I’m here on the floor when I should be up near the register. Of course, when there’s only one customer, that customer tends to grow in importance fast.
“This was owned by Louis XV?” Mrs. Taber asks.
Every time I talk about this armoire, I get the same question. Troy’s been telling me just to say yes so we can get the thing out of here.
“No,” I answer. “It’s in a style named for him, but don’t let that discourage you. From what I hear, these pieces are highly prized.” Of course, Troy’s the one I heard that from, so who knows?
“Yeah,” she says, opening one of the doors to the armoire. She says, “I think I saw one in Wal-Mart a while ago.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say.
She glances up at me.
Here is my problem: Honesty’s great, but correcting people is said to be impolite. I’ve read How to Win Friends and Influence People. I fall asleep to it at night. Still, old Dale Carnegie hasn’t quite convinced me about everything.
“I could have sworn,” Mrs. Taber says.
“You may have seen a reproduction or something done in the style, but it’s not authentic,” I tell her. “This armoire comes with a certificate of authenticity.”
I try not to think too hard about the fact that the certificates of authenticity all showed up on the same day. I try even harder not to think about the fact that it was the day after I asked Troy why we didn’t have any for our genuine antiques. The signatures on each certificate do look surprisingly similar.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m just looking for an armoire, though. Do I need something ‘authentic?’?”
I know what I’m supposed to say; Troy’s been over it a thousand times like the problem is I just didn’t hear him.
“You don’t need something authentic, no,” I answer. “Modern, less expensive armoires will look just as beautiful and work just as well. That said, this is a real conversation piece.”
When there’s no plausible deniability, there’s no plausible reason to deny the truth.
“In that case, I think I’ll just keep looking,” she says.
“Ellie!” Troy’s voice comes from the office.
I don’t know how it is that he always knows, but he does.
Leaving Mrs. Taber, I make my way to the office doorway, saying, “Yeah?”
“You did it again, didn’t you?” he asks.
I shrug and widen my eyes to puppy-dog-levels, saying, “Did what?”
He lets out a long sigh, and for the first time, I’m noticing that there’s a line of flattened hair on the top of his head, going from ear to ear. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to sell that stupid thing?”
“You have microphones around the store so you can listen to what I’m telling customers, don’t you?” I ask.
Tactfulness has never been my strong suit.
“How many times am I going to have to go over this?” he asks. “Yes, the customer needs the armoire. You can’t find anything like it anywhere. I’m surprised we got one here.”
“Now, just so I’m clear,” I say, “Louis XV originally commissioned the armoire, but there was a problem with Amazon’s shipping service, and so it got sent to his friend, The Duke of Troy, to sell in his shop in the middle of nowhere, right?”
“People don’t come in for antiques because they’re cheap; they come here because they can’t find this stuff anywhere else,” Troy says.
I look behind me at the barren store. Mrs. Taber must have gone after I left her.
“Troy, people don’t come in here,” I tell him.
He’s leaning forward as if he’s expecting me to say more on the topic, but my point finally starts sinking in. “So your contention is that because we don’t get a lot of customers, it’s okay if we lose the few we do get?”
He’s running his fingers through his hair with little, flicking motions, trying to add body to the depressed line of hair where his headphones were. It occurs to me he might not have been spying. Could be he was just looking at porn.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell him. “I just don’t think we should try to push expensive stuff on people we know can’t afford it.”
“How do you know she couldn’t afford it?” Troy asks.
“First off,” I tell him, “the armoire is almost two grand. Second,” I continue, “I know Mrs. Taber. She was my third-grade teacher. Troy, I know you want to think we live in some large town where everybody doesn’t already know everything about everybody else, but—”
The bell above the shop’s door rings.
“Why don’t you get out there and see if we can sell something today,” he says. “That’s how businesses stay open: they sell things.”
I roll my eyes, saying, “Oh, now you tell me.”
“If you’re not going to bother with what I’ve asked you to do on the sales floor, maybe it’d be best if you just sit up front or do some dusting or something,” he says. “Or are you going to have trouble ringing this guy up if he wants to buy something?”
With a sigh, I slink from the office doorway. I wonder who I’m going to strong-arm next.
The shop’s not all questionable antiques. Pretty much anything you’d imagine would be in a thrift store, pawn shop, or antique emporium is in this shop.
The problem in this town, Mulholland, is that it’s so small, everyone has a job, but it’s hardly ever a job they would have wanted. When people here reach the age of eighteen, they either move away, or they fill out a form with the local job broker, Grant. That’s what I did.
I’m still not sure if Grant is the man’s first or last name, but I do know that he’s as good as HR for every shop, store, and company in Mulholland. Nobody gets a job without his approval because there aren’t any jobs to be had.
I guess he’s the only one who knows where to put people where they’ll do the least amount of damage.
When someone like me does the stupid thing and decides to stick around Mulholland
after graduating high school, Grant’s got to look for somewhere to put them. So, here I am.
If I didn’t live in the village proper, I wouldn’t have been able to get anything in town at all. I guess I should feel lucky or proud or something, but Troy and I have never seen eye-to-eye when it comes to sales or business strategy or advertising or ethics.
I don’t know that we’ve ever agreed on anything, now that I think about it.
Grabbing the feather duster Naomi, my sister, got me on my eighteenth birthday as a gag gift, I set about prettying up the shop. I’m not going to lie to this guy, and Troy’s going to get after me again if I go up to the man and start telling him the truth, so I just keep my distance.
After a while, though, I come to about where the man is standing, only the next aisle over, and I can’t help but say something. “Are you looking for anything particular today, or just browsing?” I ask.
“Actually,” the man says, keeping his back to me, “I was hoping you could help me.”
Oh dear. “Sure,” I answer. “What is it that you’re looking for?”
“I’m looking for a few things,” he says. “First, I wanted to see if you had anything Fabergé.”
I hate it when this happens. It’s only ever happened a couple of times since I’ve been here, but this guy seems like someone with an interest in actual antiques.
“I haven’t seen anything like that around, but let me check with my boss,” I say.
Troy will never forgive me if I let a big fish out of the shop without telling him.
“I was holding out some vague hope that you might be able to help me,” the man says.
“I’d be happy to,” I say, “but I really should check with my boss on the Fabergé. If we have anything like that, he’d—”
“You don’t have any Fabergé,” he says. “That’s fine, though. I’ve always found his pieces to be frightfully pretentious, though I will admit to having coveted more than one of them in the past. Unfortunately, those pieces are not for sale.”
What this guy’s doing, it isn’t about antiques. This guy just wants me to know that he has money and a lot of it. More likely, he just wants me to think he has a lot of money.
A real-life connoisseur coming in here is a special occasion: It’s only happened a couple of times. Some random guy walking in here with a bloated ego, saying he might buy something here if there was anything “expensive enough” for him: that happens in here at least once a month.
I’ve never known anyone like that to buy anything. They’re the type who love the mini-prestige that comes from convincing someone that he’s got more money than the Pope. They’re the ones that’ll buy a beaten down, used and abused Porche body, have some guy put a lawnmower engine in it, and tell everyone how much he loves taking it on “ze Autobahn.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to hide the annoyed tension from my voice. “Is there something that you were looking for?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I was hoping I might get your number and take you out to dinner sometime.”
I lean a little to one side, trying to see the man’s face. It’s probably Mr. Simpkins again. He’s been in here to ask me out on a date at least once a week since I started here. If the man ever bought anything, he’d be our best customer.
Mr. Simpkins is a nice enough man; I just prefer dating a little closer to my age range. At sixty-four, Mr. Simpkins is a bit—what’s the nice way to say it?—mature for me.
“Mr. Simpkins, I appreciate the disguise and all, but I just don’t think you and I would have anything in common,” I say.
“I take it this Mr. Simpkins is my competition,” the man says.
“Come on,” I say. “Turn around and face the music.”
The man turns around, but it’s not Mr. Simpkins. The man’s looking at me, but I don’t have any words.
The man’s tall, probably 5’10” or thereabouts. His short, dark, immaculately groomed hair provides the perfect compliment to his tan skin and dark brown eyes, and yeah: I recognize him all right.
The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, and the man is crouched over me, saying something my addled brain can’t even begin to decipher.
“You’re Nikolai Scipio,” I mutter when I finally find my voice.
“Call me Nick,” he says. “Are you all right? You fainted.”
I sit up, almost headbutting him in the process. “You’re Nick Scipio,” I repeat.
He smiles. “So, I was thinking a nice, quiet place with plenty of candles, a friendly atmosphere—that is, if you don’t think that’s too forward of me.”
I was voted most outgoing in high school, but the only thing I can think to say to this stranger is, “Uh…”
“Or,” he says, “if you’d prefer something where there’s not so much pressure on the conversation, we could always go paintballing.”
Nikolai—Nick Scipio isn’t a local, but I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s been on the news enough over the last year or so; I can’t imagine anyone with a TV wouldn’t know who he is.
“Paintballing?” I ask.
“Just checking to see if you’re still paying attention,” he says and smiles. “So, Ellie—”
I interrupt, “How do you know my name?”
“I had you followed,” he says. “I bribed a guy from the DOJ to have a team keep an eye on you, let me know any sordid details, that sort of thing.”
The reason I’m not laughing is that Nick Scipio, along with being particularly recognizable, is also one of the richest men in the country. After Stingray Next Generation Technologies—his company—went public, he went from being a college dropout to being a billionaire overnight.
They’re making a movie about it.
It was the biggest thing like that since Zuckerberg. I wonder if the two know each other. Of course, they do. All those guys know each other.
“Ellie?” Nick Scipio asks. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring off into space awhile.”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt.
“I was just joking about having you followed,” he says. “I got your name off your nametag.”
I look down. Upside down, my badge says 31773. Troy’s label maker only does numbers. I look up again.
“You know, you should probably get a new one of those made,” he says. “I got it pretty quick, but I imagine it’s the kind of thing that’ll give unscrupulous men an ostensibly justifiable reason to stare at your chest.”
“And you’re not one of those ‘unscrupulous men,’ I take it?” I ask.
“Scruples can be overrated,” he says. “No, I wasn’t staring at your chest.”
“Mr. Scipio …” I start.
What the hell is Nick Scipio doing in my store asking me on a date?
“Mr. Scipio,” I repeat.
“Please,” he says, “call me Nick. Let me help you up off the ground, or are you still feeling lightheaded?”
I rise, a hand which has to be worth at least a few hundred million helping me. “Nick,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s supposed to be happening here. If this is one of those hidden camera shows, I think you already got your footage when I saw who you were and hit the ground.”
“No cameras,” he says. “I honestly just wanted to stop in and see if you might like to go out sometime.”
It’s exactly my luck that the only time in my life I’d meet a billionaire, he’d screw with me like this. What’s worse, and I know this is silly, but the most persistent thought in my head right now is that if I don’t sell half the store before this man leaves, it’ll be my head.
“Like I said, we don’t have any Fabergé,” I speak, “but I’m sure we could find something in here to suit you.”
“Really,” he says, “I’m not here to look at your wares. I came by a Spanish restaurant on my way to town. I haven’t been inside of it yet, but it looks nice enough.”
“I don’t get it,” I tell him.
“You’ve never been there?”
he asks. “I think the place was called Carne Celeste. If I remember accurately, I believe that’s ‘Heavenly Meat.' I don’t know; I guess it’s better before you translate it. What do you think?”
What do I think? I think someone’s screwing with me. Only, I don’t know anyone with the kind of connections to get a call through to this man’s office, much less convince him to come all the way up to Mulholland just to mess with my head.
I think, if anything, the guy’s just cruising through town on his way somewhere else, saw something he liked in the window, and thought he’d try it on. No, I’m not flattered that I’m the thing.
If the man’s serious at all, he’s looking for a groupie. I’m not a groupie.
You see all the time how celebrities, especially moneyed business tycoons, will descend on a poor, unsuspecting young woman only to use her for what they think she’s worth and then dump her. There’s almost always a story in the tabloids about how the woman was “crazy” or “clingy” when all that happened was that the woman was dumb enough to say “yes” when a man like this one came through the door.
The thing a guy like Nick Scipio banks on is that whatever woman he’s talking to is going to be so stupidly impressed by how much money he has that she’ll start thinking it’d be worth it to get treated like that. After all, the guy’s loaded, right?
Most people would do any number of things to be thrown away by a man like this.
Well, not me. Either he’s just screwing with me now, or he’s trying to screw me a different way half an hour from now. Either way, I’m not interested.
I mean to tell him all of this, but the only thing I manage to get out of my mouth is, “Uh…”
Chapter Two
Office Space
Nick
This afternoon wasn’t precisely the moment I’d hoped, but Ellie did agree to dinner—once she started speaking in people words again.
The fame, the stories in the press, the public perception that I wield some immense amount of power and that if there is some unholy cabal running the world, I’m probably on it: I know I’m supposed to hate it. It’s a great timesaver, though. I never have to wait in line for anything.