by Alexa Davis
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 l
ike 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.
Naturally, there are times when it does get in the way.
For instance, right now. I’m sitting in the restaurant, working on my third round of free chips and salsa and people are starting to stare.
I suspect this afternoon would have gone quite a bit differently if nobody had ever bothered to take my picture or write down my name. If nothing else, I’m sure Ellie wouldn’t have fainted and then stood me up at this restaurant.
The waiter comes over and compliments me on my cell phone. When I tell him, “Oh, it’s great. Believe it or not, I can order a cruise missile strike with the touch of a button,” he just stands there a minute.
People sometimes tell me I’ve got a dark sense of humor, but that line tickles me.
“Don’t worry,” I say to the young man with the rather pale face and the pitcher of ice water, “I’m pretty excited about the free chips. I think I’ll spare the restaurant.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
His nametag says Daryl.
“Daryl, I wonder if you could help me with something,” I say.
“Anything, sir,” he says. His voice is quivering almost as much as his hands. If he makes it back to the kitchen with half the water that used to be in the pitcher, it’ll be a hell of a feat.
I glance around and lean toward the young man. He leans forward to match me, and in a slow, even tone, I ask, “Could I get some more salsa?”
It takes a few seconds for Daryl the waiter to process that I’m not going to threaten to blow up anything. I think the reason that particular gag amuses me to the extent it does is that people are so quick to believe I’ve got missile codes just because I have a multi-billion dollar corporation under me.
As I think about it; I do have the phone numbers of more than a few senators and congresspeople in the phone sitting so calmly on the Formica table in front of me. There are a couple of governors in there as well, but they only call when they want something, and I’m pretty sure they have little to do with offensive strikes.
I guess if I wanted to, though, I could make it happen.
That’s a realization I’m not likely to forget.
“Oh, sir,” Daryl the waiter says. “Yes, sir.”
He scampers off, and I allow myself the slightest of smiles. Even with the recognition of my almost frightening and disproportionate amount of power, however, I’m still a guy sitting alone in a restaurant.
Daryl comes back to the table, and I’m pretty sure he stole the salsa he’s now putting in front of me from that older couple’s table in the corner. “Here you go, sir,” Daryl says and tries to make a quick escape.
I don’t let him. “Hey, Daryl,” I say. He freezes midstep, walking away from me.
“Yeah?” he asks, turning around.
If I couldn’t see all the eyes set on me right now, I bet I’d still be able to feel them.
“Would you mind coming over here a second?” I ask. “I prefer not to shout.”
Too quick for dignity, Daryl’s at my table, and I think if there is a next time, I’ll offer to take Ellie somewhere a bit less public. If this is uncomfortable for me, I can only imagine it must be that much more painful to watch. When it’s happening to someone else, you don’t have the illusion you can do anything about it.
Then again, she lucked out by not coming. It was a brilliant move. I’m starting to believe I should have done the same.
“Did you need something?” Daryl asks.
“Yeah, could I have the check?” I ask.
Daryl shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.
“Daryl, if you’re trying to communicate something to me, I don’t follow,” I say.
He keeps shaking his head. “The chips and salsa are free,” he says.
“The water?” I ask.
“Free,” Daryl answers.
“Well then, I suppose all that’s left is to say good evening,” I tell Daryl. I’m almost sure I hear a few scattered voices echoing my final two words.
When people want to impress you or make themselves out to be a kindred spirit, the first thing they’ll do is learn how to agree with everything you say. When you’re not giving them any opinions, the more ardent will just repeat the last few words you say while mirroring your gestures and nodding while you talk.
What I’ve never understood is how these people assume I’m a decent person. Most of the billionaires I’ve met are the most callous, craven bastards with whom I’ve ever had the misfortune to share a room.
With millionaires, it’s more of a mixed bag.
“Good evening,” Daryl says, and I finally feel like I can get up without committing some crime, though my eyes are on Daryl as I grab my cell phone off the table.
When I’m on the spot like this, I always feel like I’m supposed to say something even when logic clearly shows otherwise. “You stay out of trouble,” I tell Daryl. “Stay in school and don’t do drugs, unless they’re legal, or you have a prescription, but even then, you know,” I say, “go easy.”
Sometimes I forget how much I hated this town.
Finally leaving the table—and a generous tip�
�I endure a few autographs before I make it to the door. It’s not that I’m stuck up: I’d just like to leave this restaurant as quickly as possible.
After I’ve finally signed almost everything offered me—I draw the metaphorical line at underwear—I walk out the door, almost running into Ellie.
“You’re here,” she says, her face a certain shade of embarrassed. “I thought you’d have left by now.”
“I didn’t believe you were coming,” I answer. “We can head inside if you want, but I’m assuming you wouldn’t be out here right now if there weren't some conflicting feelings. Can I tell you something that might take the pressure off, though?” I ask.
She’s crossing her arms, turned partially away from me. “What?” she asks.
“I just want dinner,” I tell her. “Me being who I am—I’m assuming that’s what’s bothering you?”
She nods. “It’s a little weird having a big-time CEO walk into your nothing shop in the middle of nowhere and ask you out for dinner at the middling of three restaurants in the village,” she says. “It makes me wonder what it is you actually want.”
Ellie’s elbow-length, straight, auburn hair catches a little in the breeze, and now she’s brushing it out of her almost turquoise eyes. Sure, the romantic lighting is provided by the flashing green and red neon sign in the window next to us, but she’s enough to leave me searching for words.
“It’s dinner,” I tell her. “Well, dinner and your company during that dinner are what I was hoping for, if you want to get specific, but that’s the end of the plot.”
“You sound like someone who’s used to people distrusting you,” she says.
I smile, but I hold back my chuckle. “Nobody owns a company and doesn’t have enemies,” I tell her.
“But out here, where the richest family in town is the one that runs the gas station and has a two-level house and a basement instead of a two-level house including the basement, it’s different, right?” she asks. “You don’t have any enemies out here because the only thing people know about you is the money. Because of that, you’re supposed to be able just to walk into a shop, pick a girl, and then that’s that until you get sick of her, but that’s not me. You walked into the wrong store and picked the wrong woman if you think I’m going to throw myself at you because you’re in the newspaper.”