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Another ten.
Another.
And then a text arrives from Jay, asking me about lunch because he intends to sleep through breakfast. Annoyed, I tell him to order room service whenever he wants.
The response from Gus comes after a whopping forty minutes, when I’m halfway through the bottle and have shed my robe to sit naked in the jacuzzi. I glare at my phone and blow a stray lock of hair that spills from my messy bun out of my face. At this point, I’m tipsy enough to be angry, but not tipsy enough to do anything rash.
I read it.
His response only makes my mood worse.
Gus: We’re not done.
I barely know this man, but I can picture him saying it to my face. I can practically hear the words, heavy with innuendo and with a dash of assholery. Well, more than a dash—a tablespoon. We’re not done, Julia.
Normally, my MO would be to make him wait at least twelve hours for my response, but something compels me to answer now: Okay…so when should I put you on my calendar?
Another message. I’m taken aback when he responds so quickly—and even more surprised when I read his response.
Gus: Today. Now.
“Entitled asshole,” I murmur, thumbs now going into overdrive so I can type and delete several expletive-laced rejections.
But while I’m deleting the third iteration of an insult, I come to my senses and remember this is business. A deal. Davis is counting on me, and so are a hell of a lot of people—myself included—who stand to profit when our share price soars.
Calmly, I delete the current version of my response (Fuck your own face, Winter. I’m not a dog you can call when you want me), and type something succinct and to the point:
Me: Can’t. I’m traveling.
Gus: You’ll find a way.
Me: I really won’t.
Gus: Then the deal is off.
Gus: More importantly, you won’t get the pleasure of a night with me.
Me: Well, I’m traveling. Looks like we’re at an impasse.
A minute passes.
Gus: Where are you?
I survey the pool and the Pompeian murals surrounding me. The colors are bold and discordant, and the arched ceiling bears the busy design work of a traditional villa. The sounds of Milanese traffic are everywhere: car horns and vendors and motorcycle engines. Chaos muted, but present, nonetheless.
Like hell would I leave this marvelous place for him.
“If you want me, you can prove it,” I utter aloud, speaking to a man who isn’t here.
After another aggressive drink straight from the bottle, I hold my phone out in front of me and snap a selfie, careful to include as much of the distinctive murals in the shot as I can—and to cut the bottom of the image right above my nipples.
Me: Come and get me, August.
Sent.
***
No less than fourteen hours later, I’m leaning against the metal edge of a glass barrier, looking at the ground floor of the club. Below me, bodies pulse in modern-day bacchanalia befitting Milan. Music surrounds me from all sides, making my heart thump and my ears ring.
