AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Our escapade today doesn’t quite touch riding motorcycles on the track, pushing the speedometer to the red and then trying for just a little bit more. But for two feet on the ground, pulling off the swindle was pretty damn exhilarating.
It’s ironic that in my last week of being employed at the bank, I’m doing more work than I’ve ever done. I should go celebrate, but it wouldn’t feel right without the other half of my team. And Liz is pretty determined to go wine and dine the Alencars at that idiotic dinner.
I huff a sigh and look at the clock. It’s 5:30, an hour until the dinner starts. Still enough time to change into my tux… Maybe it would be fun…
The thought makes me laugh aloud. I’ve been to enough of these things with Mother to know that they’re boring as hell. But then again, Liz would actually be grateful if I went. She’s running herself ragged over this stupid account, why not make things a little easier for her? Ultimately we’re going to fail anyway, so it’s not like it’s going to benefit Mother or the bank at all.
And besides, it would be pretty satisfying to see Paul’s face when we sit down.
The image pushes my decision over the edge. I go into my room and dig my crumbled tux out of the ball of clothes I shoved into my suitcase. I make a half-hearted attempt at ironing out all the wrinkles and dress.
It takes all of twenty minutes to finish and Liz is still in the damn shower. What could she be doing in there? A devious image jumps directly to mind of Liz with her hand between her legs, picturing my tongue there instead of her fingers. It’s a pretty satisfying fantasy, one that makes me want to run into my own shower or, better yet, burst open the door and make the vision a reality.
I stare at the handle for a second and then shake my head. Probably not the best idea.
I don’t feel like another drink, but I head down to the bar anyway to distract myself and kill some time. It’s almost completely empty; the women I was talking to before (models hired for the showcases tomorrow) have fled to some other corner of the property. Only a single tuxedoed man sits at the bar staring into his beer.
I don’t particularly want to join him so I sit on a leather couch in the lounge area before a large television. It’s playing the news, something I make a habit of avoiding, so when the bartender comes over to ask for my order, I ask for the remote along with a glass of Scotch.
I flip the channel directly onto a movie I haven’t seen in years: Night of the Comet. It’s a delightfully terrible ‘80s B-movie, and one of the few things Mother and I can agree on enjoying. I smile at a particular memory of the two of us drinking two bottles of wine and watching it to celebrate me miraculously graduating from high school.
“Is that Night of the Comet?”
I turn to see the man from the bar has abandoned his barstool and is now standing behind me, a look of glee on his previously gloomy face.
“I’m surprised you’ve heard of it,” I remark. The man is around sixty, with a sharp face, wire-rimmed glasses, and graying dark brown hair that has recently been cut. He looks vaguely familiar, but then every guy in a tux looks exactly the same to me.
“Of course!” he says. “1984, Catherine Mary Stewart and Kelli Maroney. My wife and I saw this the night it came out, and—” He stops himself, for some reason. His face takes on that same troubled expression he wore earlier.
“It’s a good movie,” he states finally. “Look, look, this scene.” On screen, a guy in sunglasses shoots his own henchman who’s being held at gunpoint by the heroine. “‘I’m not crazy’,” he quotes with the character, “‘I just don’t give a fuck!’”
He laughs loudly in the quiet bar. “Hilarious,” he says with an expression of extreme satisfaction.
I look at him again, closer. This is not your typical straight-laced tech executive.
“I’m Rhett,” I say, offering my hand.
“Bill,” he replies shaking it quickly and not taking his eyes off the screen.
I’m impressed. Like the on-screen character, this is truly a man who does not give a fuck. So often at events like these everyone is constantly trying to compete with everyone around them. Everything is an exchange, every gesture a weighing of value. What can you do from me? What can I get from you? Bill, meanwhile, seems content to slump down onto the couch next to me and cackle at the movie like he’s in his living room.
I watch in silence for a bit, but my mind isn’t on the movie. Finally, I venture, “What brings you to the conference?”
That’s enough to rip Bill away. He gives me an odd look, as if he’s not sure if I’m serious or not. Then a smile cracks his craggy face.
“Ah, I have to go to this thing every year,” he says. “Make a speech, shake hands, et cetera, et cetera. It hasn’t been enjoyable since the ‘90s. What about you?”
Ah shit, what was our cover story again? Oh right.
“I’m here for my mother, Sloane Westing. She wants to invest in tech.”
His salt-and-pepper eyebrows shoot up at the mention of my mother. “Oh, so you’re Rhett Westing. I’ll say your reputation precedes you.”
“It often does,” I say with an easy smile. I know nothing Bill has heard about me has been good, and I appreciate that he’s not pretending otherwise.
“And Sloane said she wants to invest in technology?” Bill asks. He sounds skeptical.
“Apparently,” I say with a shrug.
