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I snort out a laugh and head down the hall to the board room, calling over my shoulder, “That he is.”
I turn back. “Oh, I almost forgot two things—I need a dossier on everyone who will be on the trip so I can read it on the plane.”
“Security’s already on it,” Donna says. “Second thing?”
“I need you to get in touch with the Ortegas and buy their superyacht, then have it sent to wherever Muffy wants to ship out from next week.”
“She gets a yacht and I don’t even get a car?” Donna asks.
“Yes, but trust me, it’s not because I love her more. It’s a down-payment on the team. Apparently it flatters her pasty complexion and she was planning to buy it as soon as our deal went through, only now we’re delayed and … and it’s a whole thing,” I say. “Just make it happen, okay?”
She salutes me. “One superyacht, coming up.”
“Oh, Richard, you weird, weird man,” I mutter, glad that I’ve got the entire cabin of the jet to myself so no one can hear me.
My flight to Lima will land soon, and I’m planning to stay on-board until the very last possible second to soak in the silence before embarking on a five-day fresh hell of Richard’s choosing. I’ll be thrown in with an odd mix of corporate suck-ups and representatives of quite possibly the worst ways to waste money known to man. Richard was big on searches for things no one will ever find—the Search for Intelligent Extra-Terrestrial Life (too far away, even if they do exist), Big Foot (imaginary), the Lost City of Atlantis (spoiler alert: not there, it was never there to begin with), and ghosts (again, not real).
I absolutely hate the fact that I have no idea what we’ll be doing or where we’ll be going for the next five days. What I do know is we’re not going to spend it sight-seeing and eating at Michelin-star restaurants in Lima. That wasn’t Richard’s style. Whatever this is, it’s likely going to be borderline dangerous and will most certainly involve posthumously inflating his sizable ego.
This is going to suck hard. And not only that, but it really does come at the worst possible moment of my life. Just when I’m about to grab the brass ring for which I’ve been reaching. Just as things between Muffy and I are at our most delicate—right before the sale. Donna’s still working on the yacht. Apparently the Ortegas are harder to reach than I would’ve thought. The clock is ticking fast on closing the deal, and every minute that I’m out of reach is sixty seconds too long. I need to be present, on it, and available to Muffy around the clock in case she gets cold feet, which is an absolute possibility. Not only that, but I really should be there for our first week with a new Chief Operating Officer. Anita’s got it handled, but it’s all about the public perception. The media is going to be sniffing around for signs of trouble. Any whiff of a lack of confidence in the leadership, and our stocks will tank like a lead ball tossed from the Empire State Building—fast and hard—which is why I’ve spent the entire flight studying for the trip. I need to be a leader out there, in case people post parts of our ‘adventure’ on social media. I’ve been reading about the climate, dangers, sights, and culture. I’ve also been studying the people with whom I’ll be traveling so I can figure out who to avoid.
I close the dossier I’ve been reading on one Karen Taylor, Cryptozoologist of the Yeti Research Institute with offices in British Columbia, California, and Bhutan. Karen hails from Canada and, when she’s not out hunting Big Foot, she loves to knit. She also collects cocktail napkins.
But more important than what I’ve learned about Karen (who sits firmly in a pile I’m making of ‘people to avoid’), I’ve noticed a pattern. Almost every team in the foundation has elected to send a woman, generally attractive, and on the younger side. So far, only one project is sending their actual director—Niles Thompson, of the Paranormal Investigation Team (or Ghost Hunters R Us, as I like to call them). If I had to guess, I’d say the only reason they aren’t sending a young, good-looking woman, is because the team doesn’t have one. All dudes, just like the original Ghostbusters. I bet they’re kicking themselves for not letting a girl play, because if they’re anything like the rest of these quacks that we’ve been funding, they’re also assuming that I’ll be more likely to say yes to a woman if I want to sleep with her.
Frankly, it’s insulting. First off, you don’t get where I am in life by letting your johnson do your thinking. I’m a little smarter than to get drawn in by a pretty face and fork over a few hundred million in a moment of post-coital bliss. Second, it’s not like I’m desperate for love or something. I’m not sure if you know this about billionaires, but we have a pretty easy time finding women. Even the ancient ugly ones (billionaires, not women). I definitely don’t need to be set up because if I wanted a wife, I’d have one. I know that sounds cocky, but it’s just reality. I’m rich, I’m in my prime, I keep myself in great shape, and I’m not awful to look at (according to Michael). And if I did want a wife (which I don’t and never will), it certainly won’t be some pretty idiot who believes she can bend spoons with her mind (Savannah Stevens, parapsychologist who specializes in telekinesis).
And it one-hundred-percent won’t be this next woman, Gwendolyn Fox from the SETI team. I open her file and stare at her picture for a moment. Okay, I do have to admit that the SETI people have done the best job of selecting someone attractive. Big, pouty lips, bright green eyes, dark brown hair that falls below her shoulders and has a bouncy look to it. “Too bad she’s a gullible weirdo.”
“What’s that, sir?” Josh, my flight attendant (and master at sneaking up on people) says.
I jump a little. “No, nothing, Josh. Just talking to myself.”
He leans over my shoulder and stares at the page. “Ooh, she’s pretty. Look at those full lips. I think you should give her a chance, even if she is a gullible weirdo. After all, there are worse things than being gullible. Or weird, for that matter.”
“These aren’t dating profiles.”
“Oh, well, that’s good because this woman clearly hates you.”
“What?”
He points to a paragraph near the bottom of the page.
Use extreme caution around Ms. Fox. She is not a friendly. Defaces and posts photos of you onto a dartboard in staff lunch room for team to throw darts at you. Each week, she provides new photos. This week’s had the word “ASSHOLE” written across your forehead.
What the…? Seriously?
“It’s lonely at the top, isn’t it, sir?” Josh asks, patting me gingerly on the shoulder.
I shut the folder and look up at him. “It’s got its perks too. Speaking of perks, I could use another coffee.”
“Certainly,” he says with a nod that verges on a sarcastic bow. I never know with Josh. He might absolutely despise me or he might be my biggest fan.
As soon as he walks away, I reopen Ms. Fox’s folder.
Gwendolyn Fox
Age: 36
