CHAPTER SIX
Tristan
The minute Daisy walked in, I knew something was different. She was beautiful of course, completely appropriate with her brown curls swept up, smooth and sleek in a blouse and skirt. But the air around her was humming somehow, crackling even, and her eyes sparkled, teasing me as soon as she entered the room.
“Daisy, welcome,” I said smoothly, drawing out a chair for her. My desk is enormous, nothing more than a giant pane of glass, big enough to serve as a conference table if needed. And the brunette smiled warmly at me.
“Tristan, thanks for making time for us,” she replied, “This is John Ranger, my English teacher.”
I smiled courteously, indicating the chair next to Daisy. Daisy was so magnetic that I’d barely noticed the man at her side, my senses on high around the teenage girl. But now I turned to the opposition. The motherfucker was good-looking, I had to give him that. This Lone Ranger dude was athletic, muscled-up in a bodybuilder kind of way, like a pitbull on steroids. And his voice boomed immediately, seeking control.
“Thank you for having us Mr. Marks, I’ve heard so much about you,” he boomed sonorously, practically squeezing off my hand during the shake.
But I wasn’t having any of that.
“Always happy to help,” I said smoothly. If this guy thought he could rattle me, he was dead wrong. I was the czar of billion dollar deals, what was one suburban English teacher here to ask for money?
And as if on cue, the man began babbling, revealing his nervousness.
“Yeah, we’ve talked about you in teacher conferences, you know the District is always sussing out potential donors and your name has come up multiple times,” he confessed. “I wanted to meet you personally because there’s a bonus for the person who finally lands you, we get a thousand dollar prize for bringing you into the fold so to say.”
I was stunned but didn’t show it. This mofo was beyond ballsy, he was plain-out rude and out-of-touch. What happened to tact, subtlety, and nuance in fundraising? Instead, this dude was blabbering about money first thing, without the niceties of small talk. The first rule of development is to go slow, get to know the client first. No one wants to feel like they’re being hit up, even if the motive’s clear, so I shook my head and glanced at Daisy.
And the girl was just as embarrassed for her English teacher. Her face flamed and she crossed her legs nervously.
“What Mr. Ranger is saying,” she interjected, “is that Central Prep needs a little more this year because of that big library they’re building out back and thought you might like to contribute to the effort.”
I nodded slowly. Even my eighteen year-old ward was better at client development than this lug, what was the school district thinking?
But I gave nothing away.
“I see,” I said slowly, steepling my hands under my chin. I’ve been approached for donations many times and often open my wallet, but not without some kind of long-term plan. “Tell me more about the library,” I rumbled.
And despite Daisy’s efforts to keep Mr. Ranger in line, he was a bumbling fool, babbling on and on and on.
“You could put your name on top for a cool hundred million,” he said, “you know ‘The Tristan Marks Museum,’” he giggled.
“You mean ‘The Tristan Marks Library,’” I corrected. Personally, I hate having my name on stuff, preferring to make donations anonymously but this guy was so off his rocker that it was becoming comical, I wanted to bait him just to see how far I could get.
“Oh right!” he giggled, “it’s a library, sorry forgot that detail,” he said, winking. But I was fast losing patience.
“Do you have blueprints, a proposal, a white paper?” I asked. These were the basics of fundraising, surely he’d come armed with a package.
And the dude scrambled to unzip his backpack, pulling out a tatty folder.
“The District’s put together a brochure,” he said, pulling out a sad cardboard brochure folded into thirds. It wasn’t even in color, a grainy black and white thing from a dot-matrix printer.
“Thanks,” I ground out, taking it in hand. “I’ll take a look. Now if you don’t mind, I have another meeting in a few minutes.”
“Oh sure,” he mumbled, stuffing his things back into his knapsack. “Daisy and I, we just wanted to make sure we hit all our big donors, didn’t we?” he said, throwing my little girl a wink.
And the brunette just smiled faintly back before turning to me once again.
“Thanks for seeing us Tristan,” she mumbled, face flaming. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed, but I could see that she was mortified on John Ranger’s behalf.
“No problem,” I rumbled, showing them out. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
And with a small smile, she was out the door, the big slab of wood shutting softly behind her.
Except as the brunette passed, a drift of air trailed in her wake and my nostrils flared, big body on alert. Was that … holy shit, was that pussy cream I smelled? Oh yeah, my delicious little ward had been getting it on right before she came into my office, frigging her cunt, the aroma unmistakable, my male hackles immediately on high. Daisy had come right before entering my office … and it drove me over the edge.