Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  Lucas nodded. Jays then nodded to the waiter. The waiter nodded back and hurried away.

  “So what do you think about the Boar?” Jays asked. Lucas considered which thing to compliment in order to impress Jays the most. But in truth, he had no insight into anything.

  “I love the art,” Lucas ventured. Neither man reacted.

  “So Jay and I were just talking about the so-called ‘mole’ in your office,” Jason said. “You know, Rogue Empire, who keeps posting on that Noser message board? I was suggesting to your Dear Leader here that a crackdown may be in order.”

  A recent Rogue Empire post had compared Jays to the North Korean dictator. It struck Lucas as highly unfair, but Jays didn’t seem to mind.

  “Letting people vent is an effective way to handle employee frustration,” he said. “And, anyway, I doubt Rogue Empire is actually one of our employees. It’s probably J. P. Maddox himself, trying to drum up page views. Pathetic.”

  “But if it is someone on the inside,” Jason said, “I’m sure your loyal friends would keep their ears to the ground?” He nodded at Lucas.

  If Rogue Empire was a mole, Lucas didn’t have the faintest idea who it might be. Now his heart rate spiked. How could he possibly investigate his own colleagues?

  “I would never ask Lucas to snitch,” Jays said, looking mortified. “Luke, I hope you know that.”

  “Of course.” Lucas swelled with relief. Yet again, the Editor had proved his critics wrong; he was a fair and decent person.

  “So, Lucas.” Jason twisted his pinky ring with agitation, clearly frustrated that Jays had shot him down. “Did you see Carmen’s publicity stunt?”

  “It was hard to miss,” Lucas said, uncertain of how critical he should be.

  “That Adam kid was ugly as hell,” Jason said. “I’m amazed she could stomach it.”

  “Which is why it went viral,” Jays said, his eyes fixed on the whiskey he was swirling. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”

  Lucas tried to decipher the current running through Jays’ voice. Was it resignation? Disgust? Admiration? A little bit of everything?

  “Honestly, man, you should have kicked her curbside when you had the chance,” Jason said. Then he turned to Lucas. “But your boss is a sucker for beautiful women. And Carmen is at least that.”

  Jason was playing all of this as a big joke, but Lucas saw Jays’ eyes darken. Then the anger was gone. “Carmen’s helping us sell more magazines. Can’t fault her for that.”

  “No, sir,” Jason said, and looked at Lucas for further confirmation—as though his inclusion here were completely normal.

  Lucas’s drink arrived along with half a dozen small plates. “I’d like to make a toast,” Jays announced. “To our newest venture. The College. May it prosper and thrive.”

  “The College?” Lucas asked.

  “Jason, would you like to explain?”

  Jason was busily chewing a bacon-wrapped date. “You were born between the years of 1982 and 2004, am I right?” he asked, still chewing, his mouth open too wide. Lucas nodded. “Good.” Jason swallowed and Lucas watched a grotesque lump drop down his gullet. “Now let’s say you aren’t just a millennial but a very wealthy millennial, with a net worth upwards of ten million.”

  “Yes, please keep saying that,” Lucas said, thrilled to see Jays laugh.

  “Now our research shows a couple of things. One: You are educated, but you do not have a full-time profession. Two: You do not want a full-time profession, because it would interfere with your frequent travel, luxury consumption, and need for constant excitement—that is, ways to spend your money. Three: You are self-conscious about your wealth and the lux lifestyle you lead. The Great Recession, turmoil abroad, the widening inequality gap, the rise of social media: All of these things have made you acutely aware of your good fortune in contrast to everybody else. You’re guilty because you’re not a contributing member of society, even though, let’s face it, you don’t actually want to be one. So what’s the solution?” Jason gave Lucas a moment to consider.

  “Well, you mentioned college, so … give up some portion of your wealth to help defray the cost of student loans?” Lucas offered.

  Jason and Jays looked at each other and smiled, as though to say, Adorable!

  “The College,” said Jason, “is a membership-based lifestyle brand with physical locations in six cities, on three continents, for young people of means who want to save the world. Each will include a luxury apartment complex—called the dorms—complete with a hip restaurant, a high-end bar, state-of-the-art gym and spa, and an exclusive club. As a member, you’ll be able to move seamlessly between Paris and Tokyo and London and LA, meeting with like-minded individuals with equal passions for making a difference, without feeling like you’re some wealthy asshole hopping between continents. Instead, you’ll simply be ‘going home’ to the ‘dorms.’”

  “And we’ll offer classes,” Jays said. “We’re still designing the curriculum, but they’ll be subjects that help our members achieve their vision, such as ‘How to Cultivate Your Humanitarian Brand’ and ‘Locavore Mixology.’”

  Lucas was afraid to react. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke to laugh at or a serious idea to nod at. “Each course is designed to let the student feel that he or she is doing something good for the world,” Jason explained. “It’s about emphasizing the larger contribution.”

  “So…” Lucas frowned. “Forgive me, but how are these members going to save the world?”

  Jays smiled. “They can use their newfound passion for locavore cocktails to support small-batch distillers or their humanitarian brand to raise money for a good cause. If they ever get around to it anyway.”

  “Oh.” Now Lucas was even more confused.

  “Remember, Lucas, these kids are not like you and me,” Jays said. “We’ve struggled against significant odds to claim our place at the table. We can call our achievements our own. These kids…” Jays shook his head, but he was watching Lucas intently. “They don’t know how to strive. They want a safe space that indulges their best impulses, but without actually demanding action from them. We can provide that. But if you don’t agree, you can be honest with me, Lucas. I will respect your opinion.”

  Lucas tried to process all this. So was Jays … taking these kids seriously? Or exploiting the rich by indulging their self-obsessions? Jays certainly seemed sincere about one thing: the insurmountable divide between himself and his potential College patrons. It was extraordinary to think about the audacity required for a poor Kansas boy to believe that he could make it to the pinnacle of the empire. These kids aren’t like you and me. And the same applied to Lucas. “You’re targeting your desired audience with a message that appeals to them,” Lucas finally said. “Nobody says you have to like the people you’re selling to. As long as you offer what you advertise.”

  Jays nodded. “Very practical,” he said. “I knew you’d understand. And here’s something else that I think you’ll appreciate. I’ll be using funds from this venture to bolster and expand the magazine. This new source of revenue will make us less dependent on ad sales. It will allow us to build out a television studio, maybe even finance movies based on our most popular stories. There are numerous possibilities.”

  “It’s just a question of locking down the right investors,” Jason said. At this remark, Jays shot his friend a look. Jason cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “looks like you’re moving into the shop talk part of the evening, so I think that’s my cue to scram.” He slapped Jays on the back. “Talk to you,” he said. “And nice meeting you, Luke. You’ve got a big fan with this guy.”

  “Thanks,” Lucas said, leaning back into his chair. He was starting to like it here at the Wild Boar.

  * * *

  When Jason had left, Jays folded his hands over on the table and leaned over his whiskey. He hadn’t touched the appetizers, which made Lucas reluctant to continue eating, now that Jason had gone. “I asked you to join me for dinner, Luk
e, because I think your talents are being underutilized. I’ve enjoyed the short pieces you’ve done and your fact-checking has been excellent, but I told you a while back that I saw in you the potential for greater things. Especially with the right mentor guiding you.” Jays nodded to indicate himself as precisely this man. “I’ve got a project for you. A magazine profile. Would you be interested in that?”

  “Absolutely,” Lucas said, trying to contain his excitement. “That would be amazing.”

  “Excellent.” Jays opened one of his Milanese notebooks and tapped the page with his Lamy 2000. “The subject is an individual named Nicholas Spragg.”

  “Oh!” Lucas burst out. “I know him.”

  Jays didn’t seem all that surprised. “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s nice but hard to get a handle on. He likes to embellish.” Of course, Lucas had far more to say on the matter: That Nicholas was eccentric, uncomfortable, and at times plain weird, that he was both highly insecure and also guilelessly generous. But he didn’t say any of this, because oddly, it seemed unfair to Nicholas. “We’ve had some interesting talks,” Lucas added.

  Jays made a note, and Lucas imagined him writing “interesting talks” in his tight, quick script. If Jays’ notebooks contained enough references to Lucas, then decades hence might not a biographer list Lucas among the Editor’s inner circle?

  “I’m glad to hear that you and Nicholas have a good rapport,” Jays said. “As I’m sure you know, he is poised to take over the family company. And yet, on the eve of his ascension, he flees for New York. I’d love to know why.”

  “You think he’s running away from something?” Lucas felt his pulse quicken. Perhaps this article would establish Lucas both as a profile writer and as an investigative reporter.

  “Not necessarily anything so dramatic,” Jays said. “Still, I’m thinking of something like, ‘The Heir to the West comes East.’ Readers respond to those kinds of romantic notions.”

  Lucas was already responding to romantic notions of another sort. He could see the photo art, featuring Nicholas standing against a big sky backdrop with a tiny replica of the Manhattan skyline sitting in his open palm. Inside a snow globe, maybe. And of course, he could see the byline: his own. Lucas wondered if he’d get paid anything extra—he could really use the money—or if the story would be a cover.

  As though reading his mind, Jays said, “If done right, this piece could really launch you, Luke. If it’s got the wit and panache that I’m anticipating, you might just find yourself moving up the masthead. The staff writing pool could use some fresh blood.”

  “I won’t let you down,” Lucas said, making this promise with the conviction of his entire being. In so many ways, this article was going to be a game changer. Finally, he’d publish an article under his own name. He wouldn’t just be Nice Guy; he’d be Lucas the Writer. He couldn’t wait to send the issue to his family as proof of his success. Hell, once he got a raise, he’d sign his parents up for a subscription.

  CHAPTER 20

  Carmen was feeling good. She was renewed, re-energized, reinvigorated. Not since her early days sneaking around with Jays had she felt so empowered. Kyle Carter had been a game changer. By the next morning, the YouTube clip had racked up 1,200,000 views; within the week, she had signed with a major talent agency, which now had three separate people—one for literary, one for film, and one for media appearances—working on her behalf. There was talk of a TV show.

  So now, just days after her star had shot into the stratosphere, Carmen luxuriated on a hotel bed in the Times Square Marriott and waited for Lucas. She was dressed in black lace lingerie, complete with garter belt, sheer stockings, and high heels. She was not taking the high road. She was angry, despite all her great success—not just because Lucas had hurt her, but because she had let him. She hated him and she hated herself a little bit and she was going to play with his head: She would make him want her so badly that he melted into a puddle of desire, confusion, and failure.

  Only when Lucas arrived, he looked different, older somehow, as though he’d been airbrushed, not with makeup but with a patina of maturity. He looked, she admitted to herself, hot. Not that she would let this influence her in the slightest. And yet, as he stood in the doorway, he seemed less wowed by her semi-naked, tarted-up body than expected.

  “You’re not drunk,” she said.

  “Are you shooting a Victoria’s Secret commercial?” he asked, ignoring her opening line. He walked toward the bed.

  “I was thinking about what you said last time, about changing our approach,” Carmen said, trying again. “I agree.”

  “Really? And what changed your mind? I’d think that sudden celebrity could go to a person’s head.”

  Carmen tried not to roll her eyes. Men were so transparent. Even back in elementary school, she understood that the boys who teased her actually liked her.

  Carmen sat up on her knees, her legs hip-distance apart, and leaned toward him. “Let’s just see what happens,” she said. “No stopping. No note-taking.”

  “I thought you’d made an executive decision that we weren’t going to—”

  Only he wasn’t able to finish the sentence, because her mouth was now pressed against his. When she finally pulled away, he was out of breath. Got him, she thought. This was going to be a cinch. But before she had a chance to make her next move, he’d pulled her toward him, returning the kiss with an angry, almost smothering passion. She had not expected such an immediate or forceful response. Lucas was still kissing her, moving down her neck, his left hand cupping her right breast so hard that it was starting to hurt. This was becoming a sport. Suddenly, he slipped his hand up under the bra and tweaked her nipple. She yelped. So this was how he was going to play? She grabbed his shirt and pulled him down to the bed and, before he could outmaneuver her, pinned him beneath her. She ground her lower body against his erection and suctioned her lips to his neck, but he was surprisingly stronger than his lanky frame suggested, and he quickly flipped her down onto the comforter and pinned her arms above her head. She opened her eyes and realized that Lucas’s eyes were open as well. For a moment, they just stared at each other, radiating hunger and fury.

  The next twenty minutes involved some of the most rapacious sex that Carmen had ever had. She couldn’t even remember the exact moment in which foreplay morphed into full-on intercourse. It seemed to her, while they were fucking, that they’d always been fucking—had never not been fucking. This was hate sex in its purest form. Desire fueled by an impulse to destroy.

  Afterward, they didn’t talk or touch. It was as though they’d been to battle. And unlike last time, Lucas didn’t get up and leave. He was staying, a conquistador. He still had things to prove.

  Rolling to separate sides of the bed, they fell quickly into sleep.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 21

  Lucas entered room 116 at the Ace Hotel. “Screw the Critics” had been running for seven weeks now, and it was paying off in ways nobody at the magazine had anticipated: Advertising pages were up 25 percent, and website traffic was up 50 percent on the strength of the columns alone. This thing wasn’t just a hit; it was practically a business model. Carmen was doing regular TV appearances. And finally Jays was paying for decent digs.

  As usual, Lucas and Carmen didn’t greet each other in any real way. No hug hello, like friends. No kiss hello, like lovers. They were neither of those things. They were like work nemeses.

  Their past few columns had been consistently hateful, though the sex, Lucas had to admit, was pretty fantastic. Cathartic. But the good feeling evaporated post-coitus as he considered the inevitable war of words. Carmen was a superb insult generator. In recent weeks, she’d called him a “sweaty-palmed man-child” and said that he grunted “like a college student lugging a couch up the stairs.” In turn, Lucas went for the emotional blows. “All you are is beautiful,” he wrote in his last column, pleased with the poetry of meanness.

  “Jays has a
demand,” Carmen said now. “A weekly theme.”

  As though on cue, there was a knock at the door. “Room service,” said a voice from the hall. Carmen secreted herself in the bathroom as an Ace employee wheeled in a cart of desserts. There was a banana split. A brownie sundae. A fruit plate. Cookies. Chocolates. And, straight from the hotel kitchen’s pantry, an industrial-sized bottle of chocolate sauce.

  “I guess we have to eat this shit off of each other,” Carmen said when they were alone.

  She and Lucas looked at each other in silence and, for a moment, Lucas felt something new toward Carmen, something like camaraderie. But it didn’t last. “Well, for fuck’s sake,” she said. “Take your shirt off.”

  No sooner did Lucas comply than Carmen hurled a handful of whipped cream at him. It hit his chest and splattered. It was his turn.

  “Lick it off me,” he said.

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to lick it off myself.”

  Carmen shrugged.

  “Fine.” Lucas grabbed the chocolate sauce and squeezed a goopy mess of it onto his palm. “OK, then take your shirt off,” he said, “or this shit is going all over it.”

  Carmen did. And with a heavy hand, just shy of smacking, Lucas smeared the chocolate across her breasts, then went to lick it off—to show her how it’s done. Almost immediately, he started to gag. It was just so much chocolate. He swallowed, trying not to cough as the disgusting mess slid down his throat. He looked at what was left on her body: at least three or four mouthfuls more. No fucking way. He stood up.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said, as if scolding a child.

  “Well, you look like you’ve been in a mud-wrestling match.”

  This, he thought, was actually pretty fun. He pushed her onto the bed and, feeling a rush of heat in his groin, dove down like her chest was a Slip ’N Slide. Aside from the additional stickiness of their skin and the occasional mouthful of sweat, the sex that followed was the same as always: angry and impassioned.