“No, I think I saw him with someone. But who knows?”
Glancing around and seeing people everywhere, I tell him, “I think I’m going to try the food trucks. Any suggestions?”
“I don’t think you can go wrong with any of them. Good luck, and thanks again for the rescue.”
I line up at a food truck, and as I debate ordering the shrimp or the carnitas tacos, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I see Mason. “Hey. Have you tried the tacos? Any recommendations?” I ask.
“I had the fish and they were fantastic. Try one of each and let me know.” Leaning in he says softly, “Can you believe all these people? And they all seem to be having a good time.”
Turning to him, “You seem surprised.”
Mason begins to stammer, when Dillon walks up and says, “Hey. Try the shrimp tacos. They’re awesome.”
Dillon leans in and barely above a whisper says, “If Perkins Klein thinks they can undermine us, this party shows them we have a lot of people in The Valley who support us.”
Perkins Klein has recently been trying to sabotage our business and steal it away. We probably went a bit overboard with the carnival to show people we were viable and strong, but seeing all the excitement, I think it was worth it.
CHAPTER TWO
Trey
I didn’t ask to be born into American royalty, and what’s worse, I didn’t ask to be born into Silicon Valley royalty. Everywhere I go, people know who I am. They know my name is Charles Michael Arnault III, or Trey. Being famous for being famous—or having a pretty face—isn’t enough. I run Sandy Systems, a Fortune 20 company that my parents started, but I still want to make my own mark in the world.
I’m a man who cares about people, a man who has ambitions of my own as opposed to riding the jet stream of my family. I’m regularly approached by the paparazzi, members of the media, or people who’ve never met me but think they know me. I dislike that they feel they can ask me anything and expect I will happily answer. The answers to the most frequently asked personal questions are as follows: Yes. No. We're merely good friends. None of your business. Honest, she's my cousin from Montana. I've worn both. Maybe someday, but not outside of the Bay Area. Thank you.
I’m out with my buddies at a trendy club in the Tenderloin district. It’s dark, the loud music beats to a dance mix, and three of my friends and I have secured a private corner of the club, though girls still seek us out. We get it, we’re spoiled. Unfortunately I’m always on high alert. Now that everyone has a camera, everything can show up in the tabloids, so I have to be cautious.
A beautiful blonde, wearing a skintight micro dress and stilettos with cleavage and enough shake that her double Ds are most likely real, shimmies up to me and says, “Hey there, handsome.”
“Hello.”
“I’m Heather,” she says as she leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Immediately her hand goes to my crotch, and she strokes me. It doesn’t take much and she has me hard. “Shall we go back to your place?” she asks, putting a finger seductively into her mouth.
I wish this was the first time, but unfortunately this happens a lot. Most women are interested in my bank account, what I can do for them, or getting themselves some publicity. TMZ features me about once a month, and I can’t stand it. I need to be careful. I have stockholders—and, more importantly, my parents—who cringe every time I show up in the tabloids.
I slow us down a bit, preferring we talk. “Tell me about yourself, Heather.”
Seemingly frustrated that I’m not marching her out to my condo, she sits down as she lets out a breath of boredom. “I live here in The City, and I work for a financial company downtown.”
“What do you like to do when you aren’t at your job?”
Restless in her seat, she purrs, “You mean when I’m not giving spectacular blowjobs?”
Good grief. I force a smile. “Yes.”
With a big grin, she sits back, twists her finger in her hair and seductively licks her lips. “I volunteer at a homeless shelter, and I like to take sunset strolls along the beach.”
“Really? Which shelter?”
“Oh you know, the one on 3rd Street.”
Through my various commitments, we do a lot of work with the many homeless shelters throughout town, and I’m very familiar with where she’s talking about. “Delancey? Or is it Sanctuary?”
She runs her finger up and down my chest. “I’d love to see where your happy-trail line goes.”
“My happy-trail line?” I know exactly what she means, but she’s even more aggressive than the usual women I meet.
Giggling, she coos, “Yes, silly. You know, the line of hair that starts below your belly button and leads to somewhere exciting.”
I’ve got her number. She’s one of those who wants the notoriety of sleeping with me.
I give up. She isn’t interested in me personally. They never want to talk about when my cousin and I visited the earthquake disaster zone in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Or when I was sixteen and spent the summer working as a wrangler in Wyoming. They want fame, fortune and notoriety. Not me.
I try several times to start a conversation, then hint at having her move on since I’m not going to take her home or go home with her, but she’s relentless.
“Can we take a selfie?”
“My panties are so wet. You should see.”
“I love this song. It makes me horny.”
My friends are distracted by women they’ve met, so I politely excuse myself from her relentless attack, explaining that I need to go to the bathroom. She follows me right to the door. I wonder if she was planning to come in and join me.
Club bathrooms are so gross, but I hide for a few moments, stalling as long as I can and hoping it’s long enough.
Heather is still waiting for me when I emerge from the bathroom.
“I’m sorry. I need to go,” I tell her.
She appears crestfallen as she pulls a card from her pocket. “Oh. Okay. Here’s my number. I’d love to see you some time.”
I smile, not wanting to hurt her feelings, and say, “Thanks.”
I call a Lyft and head out of the club, turning the corner as I wait for the ride-share to arrive. I try not to make eye contact with the people who pass me on the street as I text my twin sister.
Me: Hey. What are you up to?
CeCe: I’m out with the girls. You already done for the night?
Me: Yes. Want to hang out?
CeCe: We’re over at Quince. Come on over.
Me: Should be there within fifteen minutes.
Read the start of
Promise
Venture Capitalist Book 2
by Ainsley St Claire
CHAPTER ONE
Sara
I talk to several clients as I wander our fall picnic, ‘Carnival’ the theme this year. It’s a fun day—until I see him. I knew in the back of my mind that he might be here, but I was hoping that after our break-up Henry would want to stay as far away from me as I want to stay away from him.
Henry’s almost otherworldly in his chiseled strength, and from a distance, I can truly see how gorgeous he is. His light brown hair with natural blond highlights has grown since the last time I saw him. His blue eyes still look as if they see right through me. Sometimes with Henry, I used to feel so connected to him and so familiar that I was able to forget how absolutely devastating he is in the looks department.
All the color must drain from my face when he sees me and walks over. “Hey, Sara.”
“Why are you here, Henry?”
Staring me up and down like he’s buying a dress for his wife, he says, “I’m here to see you, princess.” He grasps me by the arm and leads me behind a tent, where we’re out of sight.
No one plays my body as well as Henry, and I hate the way it responds to him—my breathing quickens, my nipples pebble and my panties quickly become wet. That is until my brain fully engages, and I remember why we’re no longer together. “Henry, where’s Claudia
?”
Not taking his eyes off me, he points to the throng of people. “She’s over there somewhere with the kids. I had to see you.”
I glance around frantically. “Henry, this isn’t the time or the place.”
“But you aren’t returning my calls or texts. I miss you, and I need you,” he tells me as he rubs his hard cock against my mound while he tries to reach under the skirt of my sundress.
Trying hard to keep my concentration, I say with more confidence than I feel, “I haven’t returned your calls because there’s nothing more to say. You have a beautiful family, and I don’t want to be a mistress.” I turn to walk away.
Grabbing me by the arm, he pulls me to his chest. “I love kissing these lips,” he says quietly.
He kisses me, taking my mouth as if it belongs to him. My body deceives me, throbbing to feel every inch of him. He distracts me from my fortitude and the haze lifts. Finally, my senses come to me and I push him away to break the kiss.
He smiles at me. “I’ll call you later.” And he walks away.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, mad at myself for allowing him to get to me. I watch him leave, secretly wanting to reach for him and tell him to stay, but I know that isn’t fair to his family or to me. If he isn’t going to think of them, at least I will.
Glancing around the carnival, I’m in awe. Everywhere I look it’s wall-to-wall employees, clients and their families, here for the annual Sullivan Healy & Newhouse, or SHN, fall picnic. We’re the most sought-after venture capital firm in the Bay Area.
To show our strength in the market, our chief operations officer and fellow partner at SHN, Emerson Winthrop, and her team organized this spectacular event for over five thousand people. And what an event it is.
I see Emerson and walk up to her. “Are you hiding?”
She laughs. “Is it obvious?”
“No. I was only teasing.”
She puts her arm around my shoulder. “I can’t believe so many people are here.”
Turning to stare at her, I tell her, “Your team did an incredible job. I know Mason wanted to show the technology community that, despite the recent rough spots, we’re strong, and you’ve done it. Did you see the line of people working their way in?”
With so much excitement, she exclaims, “I know! I hope the food trucks have enough food for everyone.”
We begin walking and greet people as we wander through the crowd. I’m awestruck at all the fun people are having. It’s wonderful to see so many we work with outside of their offices or boardrooms with their families as they interact, network and enjoy the warm fall day.
A short, dark-haired woman approaches me. “Sara?”
I recognize her but can’t remember her name or her start-up we funded and helped to sell. How embarrassing. “Why, hello!”
“You guys have done an incredible job with this event. I can definitely see why these events are legendary. How are Mason, Dillon and Cameron?”
Mason, Dillon and Cameron are the three founding partners at SHN. They began funding start-ups together as a hobby and a way to share some of our luck, giving seed money to projects we liked as a side gig to their regular jobs. When four of their investments were bought for millions of dollars each, they were addicted to the gamble and the high of identifying a winner when investing in an exciting idea.
“They’re doing great. Have you seen them? They should be around here somewhere.”
“I’m trying to talk to each of you this afternoon. I’m so grateful to all of you. Without your support in my little fashion app, I’d still be working as an accountant, for a big firm dreaming of fashion and hoping to make my rent.”
Of course! Cindy Chou. I remember her. Her company was an early investment SHN made, having developed an app during an elective class at Stanford. I remember Cameron being amazed at how simple it was, but it would give all the fashion houses multiple ways to get their clothes out to potential buyers. We helped her sell to each of the fashion houses, then worked our way to the cosmetic companies and finally to the department stores. She’s more than a billionaire now.
“Cindy, I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. You were the one with the great idea. We were just able to help you get it to market.”
Glowing, she coos, “I can’t thank you all enough. And thank you for inviting me to this party. So many cute single guys.”
Really? How is it that I see only married men with their families? “Well, good luck. Let me know if there’s anyone I can introduce you to. We single girls have to stick together,” I share with her in a conspiratorial tone.
As I walk away, I catch glimpses of our employees and the four other partners.
Cameron is standing with a short, bald man I don’t recognize, and it appears as if he needs rescuing. I walk over. “Hey, Cameron.”
With a look of relief, he gestures to the man he’s talking to and says, “Sara, I’d like you to meet Gary Barns. He has a clever idea for us to consider. Very technical.”
I extend my hand. “Gary, so nice to meet you. I’m SHN’s in-house attorney. We’d love to see your proposal. You can forward it to our office, and I’ll get it to the right people to review.” Removing a business card from my pocket, I hand it to him. “My contact information is right there. Feel free to e-mail that off.”
“Thank you. I don’t have it down on paper yet,” he sputters.
Of course you don’t.
“No problem. Send it when you do. We get about a thousand requests a week. This allows us to catalog them into our offices and track them so no one can accuse us of stealing an idea. It protects you as well as us. Feel free to check out our website for what we’ll need to see from you with your proposal.” And before he can say anything else, I turn and lead Cameron away.
“I need to carry my business cards around with me so I can do and say the same thing,” Cameron mumbles under his breath. “Gary had me cornered”—he looks down at his watch—“almost forty minutes.”
“You were looking rather stranded. Glad I could help. We should know almost everyone here. Hopefully he wasn’t a party-crasher.”
“No, I think I saw him with someone. But who knows?”
Glancing around and seeing people everywhere, I tell him, “I think I’m going to try the food trucks. Any suggestions?”
“I don’t think you can go wrong with any of them. Good luck, and thanks again for the rescue.”
I line up at a food truck, and as I debate ordering the shrimp or the carnitas tacos, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I see Mason. “Hey. Have you tried the tacos? Any recommendations?” I ask.
“I had the fish and they were fantastic. Try one of each and let me know.” Leaning in he says softly, “Can you believe all these people? And they all seem to be having a good time.”
Turning to him, “You seem surprised.”
Mason begins to stammer, when Dillon walks up and says, “Hey. Try the shrimp tacos. They’re awesome.”
Dillon leans in and barely above a whisper says, “If Perkins Klein thinks they can undermine us, this party shows them we have a lot of people in The Valley who support us.”
Perkins Klein has recently been trying to sabotage our business and steal it away. We probably went a bit overboard with the carnival to show people we were viable and strong, but seeing all the excitement, I think it was worth it.
CHAPTER TWO
Trey
I didn’t ask to be born into American royalty, and what’s worse, I didn’t ask to be born into Silicon Valley royalty. Everywhere I go, people know who I am. They know my name is Charles Michael Arnault III, or Trey. Being famous for being famous—or having a pretty face—isn’t enough. I run Sandy Systems, a Fortune 20 company that my parents started, but I still want to make my own mark in the world.
I’m a man who cares about people, a man who has ambitions of my own as opposed to riding the jet stream of my family. I’m regularly approached by the paparazzi, members of t
he media, or people who’ve never met me but think they know me. I dislike that they feel they can ask me anything and expect I will happily answer. The answers to the most frequently asked personal questions are as follows: Yes. No. We're merely good friends. None of your business. Honest, she's my cousin from Montana. I've worn both. Maybe someday, but not outside of the Bay Area. Thank you.
I’m out with my buddies at a trendy club in the Tenderloin district. It’s dark, the loud music beats to a dance mix, and three of my friends and I have secured a private corner of the club, though girls still seek us out. We get it, we’re spoiled. Unfortunately I’m always on high alert. Now that everyone has a camera, everything can show up in the tabloids, so I have to be cautious.
A beautiful blonde, wearing a skintight micro dress and stilettos with cleavage and enough shake that her double Ds are most likely real, shimmies up to me and says, “Hey there, handsome.”
“Hello.”
“I’m Heather,” she says as she leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Immediately her hand goes to my crotch, and she strokes me. It doesn’t take much and she has me hard. “Shall we go back to your place?” she asks, putting a finger seductively into her mouth.
I wish this was the first time, but unfortunately this happens a lot. Most women are interested in my bank account, what I can do for them, or getting themselves some publicity. TMZ features me about once a month, and I can’t stand it. I need to be careful. I have stockholders—and, more importantly, my parents—who cringe every time I show up in the tabloids.
I slow us down a bit, preferring we talk. “Tell me about yourself, Heather.”
Seemingly frustrated that I’m not marching her out to my condo, she sits down as she lets out a breath of boredom. “I live here in The City, and I work for a financial company downtown.”
“What do you like to do when you aren’t at your job?”
Restless in her seat, she purrs, “You mean when I’m not giving spectacular blowjobs?”
Forbidden Love (Venture Capitalist Book 1) Page 21