Fake It For Me, page 5
“Okay, but when do I pitch this amazing plan of yours? Will you be there to guide and assist if I get lost in the tripwires of publicity stunts?”
“You seriously think I’m going to miss out on this? Don’t worry about when. I will try to organize the perfect situation. And I will be there every juicy second of the proposal. But now you have to get ready for work or rather I have to get into the shower. Ciao, Sandy.”
With that, the line went dead, and once again, I didn’t get a chance to say bye to her. I quickly jumped into the shower, brushed my teeth, and got dressed. I didn’t want to be late for the appointment at Mr. McConnery’s. He’d provided me with a steady stream of work, and although he has crazy deadlines, he paid on time, that made him a worthy customer.
The traffic was well-behaved this morning, and I was able to park my car on the side of the road in front of the tall building. I was about fifteen minutes early, and this gave me some time to check my make-up and make sure I had everything I needed with me. With my checklist completed, I got out of the car, just as a woman ran past me and almost fell over as my door slightly bumped her.
I followed the direction where she was running towards, and I noted she had a Dictaphone in her outstretched hand. The mad dash was towards a black SUV with tinted windows, as the door opened none other than Nicholas McConnery climbed out. The reporter joined three others as they all wanted to know what happened between him and Cassy?
I wonder what Mr. Playboy is doing at the office this early, his Daddy probably cut back some of his allowances, and now he has to behave. I just rolled my eyes and started walking towards the entrance of the building without a second glance back.
I was sure I’d heard my name, but even if someone was calling me, I was about to enter a meeting, no time for me to have a chit-chat. So, I ignored it and stepped into the rolling doors, as soon as the door rotated the outside noise disappeared, and the lobby music was playing softly in the background. As I reached the elevators, I pressed the number twelve, as if the lift was waiting for me, it opened, and I had the lift entirely to myself. I really do prefer being alone for the most part; I always found it calming. There was no one to make unwanted inquiries or stupid remarks, no one to feel awkward with the intense silence that I carry around me when I’m in confined spaces.
As I exit the lift, the secretary greets me and tells me the meeting is in the usual conference room. As I enter, I see the seat by the window was still available, and I placed my notebook and pens on the spot. I went to pour myself a cup of tea and came back to take my seat. I liked that spot, it was nice and cozy with the sun shining through the tinted windows.
Chapter Six
Nick
There she was. I saw her. I always see her, and I always notice her, and it’s always in a big way. Sandy.
She looked good, and even better than she normally does, although that seemed impossible. Dressed in a clean, white shirt, a black pencil skirt, sheer pantyhose, and two-inch black high heels. More than that, she looked…all businesslike. Quite different from how I remembered her from high school. But make no mistake, she was just as gorgeous as ever. Now, let me be perfectly candid here, there are a lot of women in my life. Let me reiterate that real quick. I said a lot of women in my life.
There are ones that have wanted me, and, unfortunately for them, I didn’t give them the time of day (which, ironically, only made them want me more, the female species are an enigma and don’t let anyone ever tell you any different).
Conversely, there are also ones who I’ve wanted who didn’t, at first, give me the time of day. Not to blow my own trumpet, but those ones were few and far between because once you learn the trade secrets of wooing women, it’s like riding a bike. It’s a skill that never really goes away. I was fortunate enough to learn from a younger age, and as a result, I grew up with more confidence than most.
Next, there are the chicks who I barely had to make an effort to get wrapped around my finger (these make up the vast majority), and there are even ones who I had to try extremely hard to get.
But Sandy was special. She was unique in that she was not like any of those women that I just mentioned. It still intrigued me (and yes, it even annoyed me a tiny little bit) how every infinitesimal, seemingly insignificant detail about her appearance had a tendency to stay with me, buried into my brain whether I wanted it to or not.
Everything about her just…just stayed with me. Everything from the way her hair smelled - the unmistakable scent of vegan Violet and Chamomile cruelty-free shampoo by Umberto Giannini. Or at least that’s what she washed her hair within high school. I found myself hoping, for her sake, that she’d gained a tad more perspective in that department. Seriously, like, who buys vegan shampoo? I was never really into all that think about the pandas, don’t eat the animals, save the world crap.
I mean, sure, if I could press a button and save the entire planet from, say, global warming, then, of course, I’d do that, what kind of asshole wouldn’t? But I don’t care enough to actually put the effort in, it’s not like the world is going to be destroyed tomorrow. It’ll probably be in like five hundred years when I’m long dead.
I mean, yeah, everyone wants to be a vegan now, when it’s cool and trendy. Like when you turn up at a rave, like Oh yeah, I’m a vegan, I only eat what Mother Earth provides or whatever, acting all in-tune with nature, but then when someone you know has a barbecue and you think Ah, one hot dog won’t hurt. Me, personally? I enjoy eggs and milk and cheese and pizza way, way, way too much to even consider being a vegan. Call me an asshole all you want, I say Mother Earth provided the cows and chickens and sheep, that counts in my opinion.
I winced as my mind flashed back to a similar debate we’d had in high school, back when I’d been on the debate team. Oh yeah, I was on the debate team. Believe it. I’ve always enjoyed arguing, and inflicting my will upon others, so it seemed like a logical choice when I was choosing an extracurricular event to sign up for. Besides, it was either the debate team or chess club or - god in heaven forbid - the choir. You will never catch me singing, dead or alive, and I couldn’t tell you what half of the pieces on a chessboard do. Dad tried to teach me as a kid, so I refused to learn to spite him.
Most of the debates we had were boring, or tedious topics, such as our standings on political parties. But once in a while, we got a goldmine that I could really invest myself in. One of them was veganism and vegetarianism, and whether or not it’s the way forward. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I know a lot of feelings were hurt that day. But not Sandy’s. That’s another thing I noticed about her, she seldom got upset or lost her temper. She was calm, cool, collected, measured. In control.
Just one more thing I remembered about her.
I even remembered the moisturizer she used to put, specifically because the first time I’d held her hand, I realized how dry my hands actually were. I mean, who can blame me! I was a college kid! We guys don’t use moisturizer, of all things, that’s like asking to get your head kicked in.
Sandy never got bullied, though. I mean, it seemed strange at first, but then after you got to know her, you realized that of course she didn’t get bullied. Anyone who’d known her for more than two seconds would understand how dumb even the idea was. There are people who are nobodies, especially in high school, there are people who are liked by a few and hated by a lot (specifically me, but I tend to prefer the term ‘envied’ to ‘hated’. Nobody hates me, but you can bet your black-and-blue booties that a lot of people wish they were me), and then there are a few, special people among us.
People who are just well-liked and loved by…everyone.
I even remembered the god-awful turkey and apricot stuffing-scented candles that she used to arrange around her dorm. I was a pretty tolerant guy, even back then in those days when I was a horny teenager, and everything pissed me off, but I even stated, in no uncertain terms, that turkey-and-stuffing-scented candles were on the very short list of things I simply would not stand for.
I vaguely heard someone’s voice, speaking to me. I was vaguely, subconsciously aware of the nagging voice in the background, but I was hardly paying attention. I’m a billionaire, ignoring people is an important part of what I do, much more important than people would think, in fact. Suddenly, something flashed in my face. Annoyed, I was brought sharply back down to Earth.
Like I said, I’m a billionaire. Whenever I go somewhere in public, I give it about ten-to-fifteen seconds before I get swarmed by journalists and photographers. I know, right, people think paparazzi are only for Hollywood stars. How wrong they are. I might not have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but it hardly means that I’m not famous. It’s just a different kind of fame. Well, different in some ways, not so much in others.
The difference is in me, or rather in the people that the paparazzi hound on a day-to-day basis. Actors and stars are well-known for starring in movies, or in music videos with Jay-Z and Beyonce. But for me? I’m well-known for being my father’s son. High Riser is a big name - scratch that, it’s a huge name in the world of Corporate America, and that makes me a huge name in the world of Corporate America.
You ever heard of Forbes? Bloomsburg Businessweek? Wired? Entrepreneur? The Wall Street Journal? I’ve had features in all of those magazines, and I was on the cover of at least two at some point last month, not that I can remember which one.
But, like I said, paparazzi are all the same, even if you’re not. I have no earthly idea how they surround me so quickly or how they always seem to know where I am, but I worked out a long time ago that it takes about twelve seconds (never less than ten, but never more than fifteen) for paparazzi to surround me from the moment I set foot outside my car. And on this day, they didn’t disappoint.
Out of nowhere, I was suddenly surrounded by a sea of people, all talking at the same time. That’s always intrigued me. Why do they all talk all over each other? I mean, I get that they want a scoop, but nobody can hear anybody because everybody’s talking. Someone flashed their camera at me for the second time, and my scowl deepened. You couldn’t just take pictures of people nowadays, could you?
I vaguely remembered hearing something about taking pictures without consent was like, an act of violence these days. I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d read that, probably some magazine called Offended SJW Monthly, or words to that effect.
I dodged, ducked, bobbed and weaved, up and down, from left to right, trying to spy a gap through the rapidly-thickening crowd of over-excited paparazzi, but it was no good. Photographers and journalists have a secret superpower, as any famous person will be happy to inform you. You would never notice it so much in small numbers, but when they get together, that’s when you really see it.
They seem to subconsciously form some kind of blockade, designed to keep the famous person(s) trapped on the inside, unable to escape or stem the ever-flowing stream of tedious questions with my departure. And it’s never interesting questions, either, it’s always the same old drivel.
“Mr. McConnery, is there any truth to the rumor that you’re next in line to become President of High Risers?”
I frowned at this. Where had they heard that? “Uh, I’ve no clue,” I said instinctively, then cursed myself for answers. Once you replied, you were on the hook. I had to wrap it up quickly. “That’s really my father’s decision. Let’s just see what we see.”
“Mr. McConnery, would you say you get special treatment for being the son of the President of High Risers?”
“Special treatment?” I mused, slightly amused. “I wouldn’t say so, no. I’m an intern, aren’t I?”
“But it is true that you make a ten-figure salary, don’t you, Mr. McConnery?” someone asked shrewdly.
“Well-”
“Do you plan to stay an intern forever, Nick? May I call you Nick, Mr. McConnery?”
You can call me Buffalo Bill for all I care, I’m about to blow this taco stand! I thought to myself.
“Sure thing,” I quipped, shooting the journalist who’d asked the question with a finger-gun. “Sorry, excuse me, I’ve just seen a friend of mine.”
I ducked three more journalists shoving iPhone X’s in my face, then sidestepped a photographer and darted past him so fast that when he hurriedly took a picture, I was the only blur in an otherwise completely clear photo, making it appear as though I was meddling with the time continuum.
Using my shoulder and upper arm as a makeshift battering ram, I pushed my way out of the crowd of paparazzi and quickly speed-walked across the street. Jay-walking, I know, but what can I say? Laws are for poor people.
“Sandy!” I called, on instinct, as I reached the other side of the street.
She appeared to not have heard me and continued walking. Upon closer inspection, I saw that she was absorbed by whatever was on her phone screen.
“Sandy,” I called again, softer this time, but no luck. She disappeared beyond the revolving doors into her firm’s lobby, and I was left standing on the side walk with my dick in my hand, for want of a better term.
The paparazzi had followed in my wake from my car to the other side of the street, and I was surprised at how readily they all committed the civil violation to chase after me, flashing cameras and throwing out questions again. Most of the questions were still centered around the corporate world, concerning High Risers and my position there. However, one lone question, thrown out by someone at the back of the crowd, kind of a Hail Mary question, cut through the thicket of requests for information being thrown at me.
“Mr. McConnery, who was that woman?”
The question caught me off-guard, and they noticed my expression changed. Someone followed up with another question. “Yeah, is she your girlfriend?”
I smirked smugly to myself. How I wished I could say yes to that question. Alas, Sandy had hardly noticed me as she’d walked past me in the street. But no matter. I’m Nick McConnery, and everyone notices me. I’m Action Man in that regard. It was just a matter of time, but I would make her notice me.
Chapter Seven
Sandy
By the time I got into the conference room on floor 45, Mr. McConnery was already waiting there. He was dressed as snappily as he usually was, today in a stone-grey, three-piece Tom Ford suit and matching a tie with what appeared to be diamond cufflinks that I spied when I accepted his offer of a handshake.
Not for the first time, I was struck by how much Nick resembled his father. They weren’t exactly the spitting image of one another, Nick was more tanned, and his hair was jet-black whereas Mr. McConnery’s (or Lord McConnery as I called him when his back was turned), was mostly a dark brown on top, but with some streaks of grey in there.
But they had the exact same taut jawline, the same boyish, smug smirk whenever they thought that they were getting their own way, and they both tended to get stroppy and extremely tantrum-prone at the first sign that they weren’t. Back in high school, I’d thought that Nick was a moody little princess, but I’d had no idea what I was dealing with.
And Nick had been no mere walk in the park back then. He had the tendency to be possessive and jealous, which I thought was hugely unfair given that whenever we were together, Nick always ended up surrounded by a large ring of giggling, drooling, lust-filled girls. Often prettier than me, though I didn’t like to admit it. And still, even though I accepted this and seldom ever brought it up, Nick would roughly ask who I was talking to, or who I was with, if I ever laughed at my phone screen, or get home late.
Stupid me, I’d actually taken pity on the idiot. I thought he’d been in a previous, abusive relationship, possibly involving a promiscuous gold digger who was with him just for his money. It wasn’t a wild leap, billionaires were rich and powerful and perfect target marks for those who were only infatuated with material wealth. That would certainly explain Nick’s insecurity.
I’ll just talk to him, I’d thought at the time. And I was serious, I was. But Nick kept pushing my buttons, made it hard for me to give a damn about what I was showing. One night, his persistent checking up on my whereabouts made it way, way too hard for me to keep caring and I snapped at him. He returned serve, then I fired back, and before you know it, wed descended into the one place we’d sworn never to go. Purgatory.
But it was too late to bring us back from the brink now.
We’d had a huge fight that night, and broken up for the first time. But weeks later, the raw attraction had drawn us back together and we’d ended up fucking inside the shed inside my parents’ garden. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe what a risk it was. If my Dad had caught us, he’d have skinned us both alive. A few weeks, however, the novelty wore off again, and another fight broke us up. And then, the same cycle went over and over.
And that’s where we stayed. In that sweet spot. The eye of the storm. Not quite dating, but groping and grabbing at each other at pretty much every chance we got. When we’d eventually graduated from high school, however, we’d agreed to go our separate ways, although part of me suspected that Nick hadn’t had his whole heart in that decision. I’d gone off to study interior decorating at college, and eventually joined Elegance Refined, and the first time I’d seen Nick’s father’s surname on a document, my heart skipped a beat.
But if I had thought that Nick was a stroppy drama queen while we were at school, then I’d been out of my depth. In fact, there were no ‘ifs’, I definitely was out of my depth.
Nick’s mother, whoever she was, must have been an extremely level-headed woman to balance out their marriage, I reasoned. What’s more, is that Nick seemed like a reasonable diplomat compared to his Dad, so his Dad’s stroppiness must have been…what’s the word? Diluted. It must have been diluted somehow.
Lord McConnery got annoyed and pissed off at every single twist and turn. Every time he was outbid on a property, he threw a tantrum. Every time a deal fell through, everybody at his office had a bad day. According to his personal secretary, Liza, he was known to throw things around his office and flip tables in frustration when things didn’t work out.
