“You probably know why you’re here,” I say.
“I’m here about the job.” She can’t figure out where to look. Her eyes dart from eye left eye to my right eye, down to my mouth, and then starts over.
“Which job is that?” I say, leaning back in my chair, stretching out my legs, and crossing my ankles.
“The, uh—”
“Hey, isn’t that the dress you were wearing when you won nationals?” I say. This is how you learn who people are. You shove them out of their comfort zone and pay attention to how they react before they can put on whatever mask feels appropriate. She’s better than most, I’ll give her that. Cooler. Her eyebrows shoot up for a second, but then she finds the mask. She’s calm. Tranquil. She’s seen it all.
As if.
“Yes,” she says. And there’s the tell. Her voice has changed. There is still uncertainty in it, no matter how serene and unruffled her face looks. “How did you know?”
“I see a lot,” I say. “I like games.”
“You don’t say,” she says, looking at the chair against the wall. “I never would have guessed.”
“I do. You want to know the secret to success?” I watch her look around the office. She wants to know how I got all of this. She just won’t admit it. “It’s that you treat it all like a game. Or like an experiment.”
“All of what?”
“Life. Everything. All of it. You play to win. You play to have fun. You learn the rules so you can break them when it suits you. You smile. That’s it.”
She smirks. She knows what she’s working with, but she doesn’t have any idea just how good she looks. I can tell she’s never been with a real man. Not like me. “You should write a self-help book,” she says. “A thousand ways to be annoying.”
I laugh. I’ve never been talked to like that in here. It’s intoxicating even though she’s horrified. She literally claps her hands over her mouth as if she can’t believe the words that just popped out of her. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” she says. “I’ll go. Give the job to someone who’s not insane.” She turns to walk away.
“I like insane,” I say, getting to my feet. I fetch the chair for her and carry it over to my desk. “Have a seat.”
She sits. Still blushing.
“So, you probably want to know how I found you,” I say.
“That would be nice. But I assumed that you had someone hack into the phone system and send a massive storm of texts to everyone who fit your profile. I can’t imagine you had time to sit around watching all my videos, just to see if I’d ever mention my address.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t do the hack myself?” Not that I could. I’m good at what I do, but I doubt I could even learn basic HTML. She’s closer than she knows on the videos, though. “And what profile do you think you would fit?”
“Well,” she says, looking at the ceiling for a moment. I can see the wheels turning. She’s going into debate mode. This is why she’s here. “Given the appearance of the women in your lobby, not to mention Zippy or Lima or whatever her name is behind the desk, you like them young, physically attractive, and, if I’m any indication, ambitious. You also put stock in risk takers. Not everyone would respond to an advertisement as cryptic as your text message, but I’m guessing that you knew that, and I’m guessing that the majority of the people you sent it to did respond because you knew they would. You don’t ask questions you don’t know the answer to, at least not often, and you don’t invite people to visit you who will say no. Even with that lunatic cop on TV. And because you said you like games, you need other people to play with, and those need to be people who will accept your version of the rules since you will undoubtedly be in the position of power. On the surface, at least.”
She’s good. She knows it. And that’s good for both of us. This is going to be fun.
“You’re hired,” I say. I reach into my desk and pull out an ancient bottle of whiskey with two glasses. One inch for her, two for me.
“Really?” She laces her fingers together and her eyebrows shoot through the roof.
“Really. To us,” I say. We clink our glasses together.
I tell her that she’s going to start on Monday. I tell her when and where. She writes it all down. It never occurs to her to ask what the job actually is, which suits me fine.
The job was never the point.
The game. Always the game.
“This will be a good experiment,” I say. She frowns, wondering why that sounds familiar to her.
Chapter Three - Maya
When I step out of the elevator I’m thrilled to see the women packing their things and heading for the door. Zima is glaring at me like she wants to scalp me. Word travels fast here, and the thought thrills me. They all know it’s me. I got it. How did he tell them? Was it the robot voice saying “It’s over, all of you get out!”
I walk over to Zima and tell her to put me on the books for Monday. Looking like she’s chewing on lemons, she types something into her computer and tries to act as if the world bores you when you are Zima, goddess of the reception desk. As I turn to leave she says, “Hope you last longer than the last one. Or not.”
What the hell did that mean? As if I’m going to ask her.
“I’m sure I’ll do fine. Hey, are you going to be my receptionist as well?”
Zima ignores me with a storm of keystrokes. I show myself out and text my best friend, Angela, who, just as I knew she would, insists that we meet immediately for drinks and gossip. Ten minutes later I sit down at a café down the street and wait for her. After telling the waiter that I’ll be ordering soon, I Google Conrad to see if there are any updates about him and the cop.
Nope. Just more of the same.
“Oh my God I was going to ask you about that!” says Angela, who has just appeared and has apparently been looking over my shoulder. She pulls back her chair and sits. “What did he say about it?”
“Angela. It was a job interview, not a chat. Why would he bring that up?”
“I assumed you would bring it up. I assumed you would want to know.”
“Again, how many job interviews have you had where you walked in and started asking questions about the gorgeous man who was interviewing you?”
“Now you’re talking,” she says. “So he’s gorgeous? I knew it.” Of course, she knew it. We all know it. We’ve all seen his picture. I wonder how many of his pictures are serving as screen savers this very minute.
“Yes. But the pictures don’t do it justice. He’s got a…” I picture him in that office, his gray suit contrasting with the white carpet. His dark tie contrasting with his light blue eyes. The dark stubble on his jaw contrasting with his blond hair. “…a presence. Yeah. That’s it.”
“So what did he ask you? Did he flirt? Did he ask you to join a harem?”
“You know, there wasn’t really any of that. I wound up…I guess I wound up describing what I thought was his ideal type of woman.”
“Whoa! How did that happen?”
That’s when it hits me. I’m not sure how it happened. Worse, I still have no idea what I agreed to. “Oh shit,” I say. “Angela. He hired me and I didn’t even ask what the job was.”
The waiter appears. “She wants two mimosas,” said Angela. “She works for Conrad Storm now and it’s taking a terrible toll on her.”
The waiter is impressed. “Wow. What are you going to be doing for him?” He wiggles his eyebrows salaciously as if I just got back from the casting couch. Oh hell, for all I know, that’s what I did. Who the hell takes a job without the faintest idea of what it is? Yours truly. Not only that, I don’t know what the salary is.
“She’s going to be his executive assistant,” says Angela. “It’s got to be something like that, right? I just know it.” Glad someone knows what’s going on with my life. But she’s probably right. The waiter leaves and I tell Angela that he knew about my dress. That he had seen it on me before in my debate video.
“Oh my God! I bet h
e’s some insane stalker! But why was he watching your debate video?”
I’m proud to say that a lot of people watch that video. It gets taught in classes. That video led to hundreds more. I really nailed that one, but you’ve got to be careful when you show people what you’re good at. Otherwise, they want more. “I’m not sure,” I say. “But he said he likes…”
Games. He said he liked games. My debate had been about various experiments involving game theory, and how they could be used to exploit others. My point had been that game theory gets misused when people are pursuing romantic relationships. My opponent had said that not every interaction has an incentive. I had disagreed and mopped the floor with him. Was that what Conrad wanted from me? Someone to butt heads with? That video made such a splash that I released a follow up on Youtube, where I talked about how one of my relationships had gone wrong. It got shared. A lot. So did the others. A lot. It didn’t pay much, but it was crazy how people--mostly women--were suddenly listening to what I had to say.
“Likes what? I bet he’s going to like everything about you. Do you think you’ll have to, like pick up his dry cleaning for him? Do you think you’ll get to see his house?”
“I don’t know, Angela. I don’t know anything.”
I carry her questions for another 30 minutes before I head home. When I get to my apartment building, the elevator’s broken. I bet the elevator at Conrad’s office never breaks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a teleporter on site. He could step into it and appear anywhere he wanted. He could be in my bedroom right now, waiting for me. Mmm. There’s a moment when I open my bedroom door that I almost convince myself that he’s in there. But no. It’s just my four walls, my bed—unused for too long for anything but sleep—and a stack of books on a night table. The drinks are kicking in and I’m tired. I fling myself down on the bed, expecting to fall asleep quickly, just short nap. But then I start to dream, and the feeling of Conrad’s hands makes me squirm. I get myself off. It’s been a while. Hmm...what would it be like to have his weight on me, pushing me down into the soft white carpet? What would his back feel like if I was lucky enough to get my hands under that shirt? What would he sound like when he slipped himself between my legs and we started to move together?
After, I take a shower. This weekend is my last chance to back out. Am I getting myself into something crazy? No, no, not at all. He’s just a guy with a lot of money. Sex? No. Of course, that won’t happen. I’m not for sale and he certainly wouldn’t have to pay anyone for sex.
I just want to see what he’s like. I want to see what he means when he talks about games. So I’m not a billionaire, okay, but I know how to play.
And I’m not going to be a piece on anyone’s chess board.
Chapter Four - Conrad
“You’re late,” I tell her on Monday morning when she walks into the lobby. Seriously, this intercom is one of the best things in my life. Maya and Zima look up when my voice comes through the speakers. I never get sick of seeing the surprise, the masked delight. But I don’t like the look Zima is giving her. It may be time for her to move on. We’ve had a lot of disagreements over the years and have been through a lot together. We’ll see.
Maya is shaking her head. She points her finger at the ceiling, at whatever camera she imagines I’m watching from. She taps her watch and shakes it at me. I know damned well that she’s 15 minutes early. But this is where you learn. In the reaction. Zima’s clenched jaw and inability to relax, combined with her insistence on looking rapturously at me whenever I’m around—there’s no challenge there. Even when she acts miffed she’s too eager to please. Uncertainty is what gives life its exhilarations. There’s no uncertainty there. Not like with Maya, who has now marched over to the wall and is waiting for the elevator to open.
“I’ll bring you up in a few minutes,” I say. “You’re fifteen minutes early. I can’t just drop everything because you’re here.” I turn off the video feed and lean back in my chair. It’s more fun to imagine their reaction, sight unseen than to watch it. But I’m not feeling as good as I’d hoped. I can do the devil may care thing all day, but the truth is that I care deeply about some things. You don’t get to be a billionaire by not caring.
“Okay, come on up,” I say, turning the video feedback on. The elevator slides open and Maya steps in. 10 seconds later she’s stepping into my office, prepared to be defiant. But that falls from her face when she sees the new arrangement. I brought in a big desk that we’ll work at. There are two black couches. Who knows what will happen on those? The possibilities are endless.
“Redecorating?” she says, looking at the art that now hangs on the walls.
“When you were here before I was having the walls treated,” he said. “Had to take the paintings down. They’re pricey.”
“Oh, I bet. What were you doing to the walls?”
I grin. “Sound proofing them. If these walls could talk, you know. That sort of thing.” Apparently, she doesn’t find this roguish or charming. She just looks annoyed with me. It’s like a drug. She’s trying so hard to show me that she can take this or leave it, but she’s dying to know what’s going on. Soon enough, Maya, soon enough.
“What exactly do you consult for?” she says. Another unexpected turn.
“Huh?”
“You’re a consulting firm. You and your associates, although it looks like it’s just you up here. What do people want to know from you?”
“Oh. They want to know how to do what I do. I pretend they can, but while teaching them that they can’t, they make more money than before, so they leave happy.”
She takes off her purse and sets it on the floor. “Am I working for you, or the associates also?”
“After a manner of speaking. I don’t know how to say this, but…well, there really aren’t any associates. In my position, I’ve had to make certain legal moves to protect myself.”
“From what? International assassins?”
“You might be surprised. But no. I have plenty of enemies here. Plenty of things to protect me from right here at home. Including protecting me from myself, as it happens. And that’s where you come in, assuming you still need the job.”
“I never said I needed it. But I’m here. The first thing I have to say is that I’m no intern and I’m not going to be some bullshit assistant fetching coffee for you.”
“No. That’s Zima’s job. But I hired you to be an assistant, so that’s what you will do. You will assist me.” Before she can say anything else I gesture to one of the couches. “Please sit. We need to have a talk before we go any further.”
Her eyes dart to the couch. “I’m--”
“If I was trying to seduce I would take you somewhere else,” I said. “Just sit. Quit worrying.”
“I’m not wor--”
“Yes, you are. You don’t have the hold on your body language that you think you do, but that’s something I’ll be able to help you with. If you like.”
For an answer, she sits. “Okay,” she says. “What are we doing?”
“I’m in an odd position,” I say. “I’m a bit of a scientist and I’ve hit the wall with a new experiment. It’s something I need help with, and I think that you are in a unique position to help me learn some things.”
“About?”
“About myself. The world. Life. I’m not joking and I’m not understating how important this is to me. I think I’m in a position to bring about something that matters.”
Is it possible that she doesn’t know how good she looks? My God, the way she fills out that dress. I can tell she tried to downplay it. To look understated and professional. Suddenly it feels like I made a huge mistake saying that I had no intentions of seducing her here on this couch. But that might not be the only mistake I’m making. I’m nervous. I want this to work. One way or another, I’ve got to prove myself wrong. Or right. I can admit that I want her, I just can’t show it to her yet, and I can’t let it get in the way of my goals.
“First I nee
d you to answer a question for me,” she says.
“Sure.”
“Zima said that she hopes I last longer than the girl before me. What did she mean?”
Oh brother. “The assistant I had before you didn’t care about a damn thing I wanted to do. All she wanted to do was fuck me. That’s as honest as I can be about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’ve done your research on me. There aren’t many things I enjoy more than a willing woman, but she couldn’t focus on anything else. That sounds like the sort of problem any guy would love to have, but I actually have shit to do. Believe it or not, you’re here to keep me from getting distracted. Zima’s protective, that’s all. She wants what’s best for me.”
She bites her lip and raises one eyebrow. I obviously made the wrong choice. She’s distracting as hell.
“So here’s what I want to do,” I say.
Chapter Five - Maya
I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said he wanted to become a ballet dancer.
“A book?” I say. “What do you mean a book?”
“You know. It’s a rectangle made of paper, usually. There are words in it. You read them.”
“No, I know what a book is, but what does that have to do with me? Are you looking for a ghostwriter?” Of all the things I might have guessed at, this was far down the list. I’m not sure why it surprises me, though. Everyone with money is always looking for more, and a book that promises other people they can also be billionaires is a new income stream, especially when you can just throw money at a writer. “Because that’s not really what I do.”
“Are you kidding? You think I would let someone else write for me? I’ve got some self-respect, Maya, believe it or not. I have ideas. If they don’t come out in exactly the way I mean for them to come out, they’re not my ideas anymore. No one gets to think for me. But you might be able to think with me in a way that helps.”
CEO's Christmas Party: A Bad Boy Billionaire Boss Romance Page 50