by Isabel Jolie
“He sent me your most recent business plan and updated loan application, now that I think about it. I haven’t checked it out yet.”
“Well, don’t. You don’t need to. He’s been great. You’ve been swamped, and there’s no need. Do you think you’ll get down here anytime soon?” Clicking sounds filtered through the line. “Luna mentioned you love skydiving.”
“Your middle name is Star?” Oh, shit. My loan application. I rubbed my forehead, thankful we weren’t on video and he couldn’t see me, because my cheeks were probably a shade of fuchsia.
“Yes, it is.”
“Did your parents want you to grow up to be a porn star?”
“Penelope Star has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” I half-laughed along with him.
“Where are you from?”
“All over.”
“Did you move a lot? Is your dad military?”
“More like my parents remarried. Visitation got bounced around over the years, but no, I pretty much lived in the same Louisiana town.”
“Ah. And let’s see… Wilkesboro High, Louisiana. That’s where you went to high school?”
“Yes. You can stop looking at the application now.” The next blanks on the form held no information because I didn’t attend college. I’d asked Thad Swain about lying on that field. But he told me that my instinct had been spot on, that chances were the bank would catch me in a lie. He’d come back with this technical school out in Nevada. I could do a ton of the coursework online at my own pace. With some additional online coursework, it would provide an Associate of Arts Degree in Restaurant Management, the equivalent of a two-year college degree. The extended silence on the phone meant Gabe hadn’t stopped reading all about my loser status.
“What about you? Are you from New York?”
“Technically, no. Connecticut. Parents happily married and still live in the house I grew up in.”
“Huh. Divorce is my family motto.”
“A ton of my friends have divorced parents. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know that.”
“Don’t get defensive.”
“Sorry. I just have more work to do today, and my mind strayed,” Somehow, him reading all my details on that application felt like showing him all my wobbly parts, something I didn’t do without proper planning, lighting, lotions, and glitter.
“Are weekends busy for you?”
“Yeah, they are.” I didn’t lie. My schedule might be flexible, but maintaining a profitable account required a ton of effort.
“Would it help you if I paid you enough to become your only client?”
“What?” I couldn’t have heard him correctly. That didn’t even make sense.
“It would free you up to pursue your restaurant.”
“Do you have any idea how much I make from my subscribers?”
“Based on your numbers of subscribers and the $2.50 monthly fee, I’d estimate around ninety thousand, but you’d have to minus out your advertising expenses and overhead like all the lingerie you buy. Name your number.”
I sucked in air and held the phone out. I wished he’d FaceTimed me so my open mouth would speak for itself. I glared at the phone in my hand then spoke into it. “I’m not for sale.”
“Well, you kind of are.” That fucker.
Rage burned my insides. The boiling, burning fury that only happened when someone touched on an ugly truth you’d rather not dissect. “I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Nope, not buying it.”
“Look, I’m screwing this up. Poppy, I’m coming back to visit Tate. Let me make it up to you by taking you out to dinner.”
A sailboat entered the marina, and I watched as they struggled to round a corner into their slip.
“Poppy, please. I admire that you’ve created your own business. I admire your entrepreneurial spirit. You are brave and independent. I do not think you are actually for sale.”
My eyes burned. But my internal emotional boil simmered. In my lifetime, no one had ever used the word “admire” and me in the same sentence. So, I liked that bit.
“I’m not sure when I’ll make it down. But promise me. You can pick the place. Take me to the kind of restaurant you want to open up.”
“We can go as friends.” My past flared up as I said those words, and shame choked out the oxygen in the room. I pushed out onto my back porch and sucked in the salty air.
“Nope. I told you. I’m not letting you trap me in that box. We’ve already shared a kiss. One I haven’t forgotten. Don’t tell me you have…”
I remembered. But I also had experience with boys like Gabe. Even if Gabe didn’t want to label me as his friend, or his best gal pal, he didn’t want to date me. I might not be the brightest, but I was a smart enough girl to know that much. I wasn’t the kind of girl he’d date. Oh, sure, he might offer up to be my only…what was his word? Client, but no. I had a Gabe in my past. One not as wealthy, not as good looking, and not near as polite, and he nearly destroyed me.
“I’ve got to run. Let me know when you’re in town. Maybe we can meet up.” Or maybe not.
Chapter 9
Gabe
* * *
“Close the door.”
I assessed Nigel, our managing director, and technically my boss. He sat behind his desk, stoic, lips in a straight line, eyes emotionless. The last time I had been in the same room with the man, he’d declared open bar for everyone and had had a supermodel wearing only a sequin G-string on his arm. That had been months ago. In his office, gravity clouded his expression, and his deathly serious tone told me shit had gone down.
I inhaled deeply as the latch clicked. We’d weathered severe storms in my time at Belman. Whatever this was, we’d get through it. I checked the time. Markets opened in thirty. I trusted Nigel to be efficient in his message.
“I’m going to be taking a leave of absence.”
“What?” Cold air circulated through my open mouth, and I closed it. I sat down and leaned forward. “Why?” Cancer? I took quick stock and observed no signs of a health issue. He still had hair. His suit fit. The shirt collar around his neck didn’t gape open, like I’d seen in the case of the deathly sick.
“Our lawyers believe that the civil investigation into Cyr Martin and the CROW5 fallout is going to transition to a criminal one. They believe, or Belman’s lawyers believe, I’d be better off stepping away in order to deflect scrutiny and attention from the firm.”
“But you really didn’t…” I tried to connect the dots. “A Malaysian business went under. Happens all the time.” I thought about the rumors it had been nothing more than a shell company, but I’d seen the financials. Or I thought I had. “Did you push CROW5 through underwriting?”
“I did nothing illegal. But it’s better if I’m not acting as managing director during the investigation. I’ll be taking a leave of absence.”
“Paid?” I didn’t give a shit if he received salary or not, but it signaled how much culpability the firm believed he carried.
“Paid.” He grimaced. My heart beat sped up. What else?
I leaned back in the chair and crossed an ankle over a knee, waiting. Hit me.
“The firm may ask you to take a leave of absence.”
I closed my eyes and twisted in my seat, positive I hadn’t heard him correctly. He straightened his tie as he swallowed. He readjusted his small circular spectacles. His office chair creaked. The fucker was nervous.
“Why would I need to take a leave of absence?” I slowed my words for emphasis. “I had nothing to do with CROW5.”
His gaze fell to his desk calendar. “Your fund is the only one within the company that made money. This can’t be news to you. Overall, CROW5 lost close to a billion dollars. Other firms lost hundreds of millions of dollars.”
“Nigel, you know I had no inside information. I bought in after you introduced me to Cyr. After you told me it was a buy.”
“
And you sold before anyone else.” He raised his timid, beady gaze but still couldn’t look me in the eye.
“I sold because my understanding was CROW5 made money in real estate investments in Malaysia via a new technology appraisal app. I saw factors that would impede their growth at the same time I found a company that would be a ripe takeover target for Alphabet. I. Had. No. Insider. Information.”
His pupils finally manned up and returned my glare. “It’s not my call. I’m just giving you a heads up. There are photos of you at Cyr Martin’s New Year’s Eve bash in Singapore. The firm is concerned about the myopics.”
“The myopics, my ass. The firm doesn’t want to become targeted by the Justice Department and the SEC.” My thoughts raced. “What photos?”
He shrugged and threw a casual hand in the air. “It’s nothing to be worried about.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shock crossed the tiny Asian man’s face. Cussing bothered him? He was about to get a fucking earful of colorful verbiage. The ass wipe introduced me to Cyr Martin. “They want me to take paid leave? Step away from my fund? A fund I built and put together? The best performing fund Belman has?”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? What the…” I stood and paced the room. Out the window, a gray smog hung over the city skyline.
“I don’t believe the investigation will lead to you. Out of an abundance of caution, Belman has recommended that I back away for a period of time. You’re probably right. It won’t impact you.”
“An abundance of—” I paced, both hands on my hips, grinding my teeth. “My meeting with the FBI is next week. Should Belman’s lawyers attend?”
“Your lawyer should.” His gaze fell to random papers on the desk.
“God damnit, Nigel. What the fuck did you get me involved in? Is CROW5 really a shell company?”
“I believe the firm to be legitimate. I had the same information you had when you invested. I did not know of your decision to sell until after the fact.” His rote script told me it wasn’t the first time he’d said those words. Mother fucker.
“What photos, Nigel?”
“Call Perlman in legal. He has a file. TMZ, I think maybe even People magazine has some photos.”
“Of me?” I had never even made the New York Post. The room transformed into a drugged-out twilight zone.
“Well, you and various celebrities. Remember the party?”
Not well. Cyr’s parties were notorious for free-flowing alcohol. In another country, I let loose. “What celebs?”
“A rapper. Producer. Models.”
“A whole lotta of people I didn’t know.” Cyr Martin loved to cater to his version of rich and famous, which to me meant a lot of B or C level celebs. The kind of celebs whose names I’d never bother to remember.
“The lawyers worry about myopics.” He shrugged as he repeated his statement. He opened his mouth to say more, but I’d heard enough.
I charged down the hall, seething. I shoved my office door open so hard the handle slammed into the wall with a loud bang. Valerie stepped back, clutching a few papers to her chest as if they were a shield.
“What?” I shouted at her.
“I had some personal invoices for you.” She stepped back, eyes wide.
Guilt for scaring my assistant tempered my anger. I held out my hand. Aware I needed to calm down, I breathed deeply as I rounded my desk. The number on the invoice in my hand jumped out at me. “Ten thousand dollars? What’s this?”
“It’s the invoice from Restaurant Enterprises for the consulting for your friend. I wasn’t sure how you wanted to handle it?”
“For ten thousand dollars?”
“You didn’t say—” I could swear tears rimmed her eyes.
“It’s okay.” I tossed the papers on my desk.
“That’s the first invoice.”
“The first—” I had far more pressing matters at hand than miscommunication to my assistant. “Send me an email that outlines what you’ve agreed to with…” I glanced down to read the company header, “Restaurant Industry Enterprises.”
“Do you want me to stop them working?”
“No. Is that a monthly fee?”
“It’s an initial deposit on a multi-phased project. The first phase is the consulting piece. The second phase would cover plans to launch the restaurant, and that fee amount would depend on the project scope.”
“Only phase one is authorized.”
“Yes, that’s what I told them.”
“So, if that’s the deposit, how—”
“Twenty thousand in total for Phase One.”
“Fine.” Twenty thousand dollars for another Class C celebrity. Fuck. One more thing that might look bad. And I didn’t even fuck her.
Chapter 10
Poppy
* * *
The tenth of the month marked the day I ran financials. A twenty-five percent decline month over month in subscriber revenue underscored the urgency of my situation.
Back on that random day three years ago when I decided on a whim to create an OnlyFans profile out of unemployed boredom. I had no idea it would end up generating more money than I made as a bartender. My experience had been a case of perfect timing. The world quarantined, a burgeoning platform, and a need for sexual stimulus. When I hit a six-figure annual revenue, it blew my mind. Now, mind you, that was revenue, not profit. You had to minus out the ad dollar expenditure and, of course, taxes, because Uncle Sam was no different from anyone else. He wanted his share.
Those were the good ole days. There’d been a lot of competition back then, but every day, competition grew fiercer. For a while, there, I’d lived life high on the hog as a high-ranking page. But, as my declining numbers showed, lame accounts didn’t remain at the top. I didn’t even do nudes. At the end of the day, spreadsheets didn’t lie. The gas tank on my temporary job vehicle needed a refuel.
I stared across the marina at Jules. I could see the shapes of a few patrons sitting on the deck, basking in the winter sun. Behind the large windows, a bartender sat there, probably rolling napkins, helping to prepare for the dinner crowd.
I thought the next time I worked in a restaurant, it would be as the owner. I’d moved into this marina-side home when I was raking it in. At one point, I earned over a hundred grand from OnlyFans. Times changed. My subscription base had declined substantially. And not only did I have tuition for the restaurant management online course, but I needed to be socking away every dollar I could.
The updated rental agreement emailed to me this morning reminded me of my terms. Fifty thousand coming due soon for me to stay another year. And that was Mrs. Rittenhouse giving me a huge discount. She could probably get closer to a hundred grand renting it to weekly tenants. The discount didn’t change what I could afford. The pit in my stomach did the math. No way could I justify another year. I’d blown way too much money in rent giving myself a gift.
Nope, this coming year, life changes were in store. I needed to find a small, cheap place on the mainland, and I needed to find a bartending gig. I could work during the day, and at night bartend. I’d save up money.
My phone rang, and I stilled when I read the name. Ben Parsons. I shouldn’t answer, but I did.
“Hello.”
“Hey, there, stranger. How’s it goin’?” His familiar drawl carried a strangling effect.
“Good. How are you?” Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I paced the screened porch. An older man lugging a white cooler across the boardwalk whistled, and the high-pitched sound carried across the marina.
“Good. I’ve got news.”
I’d already seen his news on Facebook over a month ago. An awkward silence filled the line.
“I’m getting engaged. But I guess you may have seen that on FB.”
“I’m not on there much.” Embarrassment warmed my skin when a vision of my hearting his post flicked before me. If he ever looked to see who liked it, he’d know I lied. But Ben would never read throu
gh three hundred likes.
“Yeah? I’d think you spend a lot of time on social media these days.”
“Why do you say that?” I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting. It had only been a matter of time. Someone from Lakewood, Louisiana was bound to stumble across my account.
“Oh, Pops.” At one time, I mistook his use of my nickname to be affectionate. “I want you to come to my bachelor party.”
“You’ve set a date?” They’d gotten engaged seven weeks ago.
“We’re thinking a summer wedding. But Billy wants to plan a weekend fishing trip for my bachelor party for all the guys. I thought I’d check your calendar, you know, make sure we pick a date you can make it out for.”
“Ben, I’m touched you want me to be a part of it, but I don’t think a fishing weekend with the guys is for me. Maybe another time.” The empty offer rolled off my tongue, sugary sweet and as void of merit as sweet tea.
“Billy told me you’d want payment, but I told him I didn’t think so. Wouldn’t you do this for me? Your best friend?”
“What, exactly, are you thinking I would do if I joined you on the fishing trip?”
“Well, it’s my bachelor party. We want strippers. And you probably know lots of them, right?” I shuddered as I comprehended what kind of entertainment he wanted me to provide. “I mean, don’t tell Cindy, but I’m one of your subscribers. I’ve always loved your rack.”
My vision blurred. The red circle wavered, but I pressed it, ending the call. Ben had been my next-door neighbor. Moved in when we were in seventh grade. We’d played video games together.
I loved him. Hard. On one Saturday afternoon in his parents’ basement, he mumbled, “You have great boobs.” His cheeks flamed pink, and his embarrassment lassoed my heart. Dumb girl that I was, I interpreted the blush on his cheeks to mean he liked me, too.
“Can I touch them?”
“Yes.” He’d dropped the remote. Groped me. He didn’t kiss me. Like a twat, I didn’t see a problem with that.