I grew up on songs about fast cars and fast women. I guess most people do. The music might change, but the lyrics pretty much stay the same. I’d always thought that was the dream. To make it rain money. To have super models and starlets throw themselves at your feet. The upgraded American dream, you know?

It wasn’t until I had it all that I began to hear the loneliness behind the lyrics. It had all been a flurry of parties and booze and sex at first, dazzling to my young and naive mind. It didn’t take long for the magic to fade. I was still passionate about my work; the company had grown to be everything I had dreamed of, and more. The first app had been more successful than I could have imagined, and we rode its success to develop more and more.

The fastest rising star in the tech business. I’d never thought I would be at the top of something like that. I had wanted to be, but I used to dream a lot smaller. Now, with business booming at the speed of light and cash pouring in faster than I could count it, I realized that Nathan and I had built something that would last generations.

The only problem was, there were no generations for me, and no prospects to create them. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of girls—lines of them, girls as far as the eye could see—but no wife material among them.

“What do you want to settle down for, Miles? You’re not even thirty yet; what are you even thinking about parenthood for?” Nathan poured himself a drink in the large shared lounge between our offices, and offered me one. I declined.

“It’s not that I want the whole lot right now—wife, kids, dog,” I told him. “But I want more than what I’m finding. I want the potential for a real, lasting relationship with someone compassionate and three-dimensional, someone who’s passionate about something other than fame and money.”

“Oh, you want passion? Have I got the girl for you! She’s a wildcat, man.”

“I’d rather not lick up your leftovers, thanks.”

“Oh, come on. I dated her a year ago; it’s not like you’re diving right in after me. We still keep in touch, and she’s mentioned you more than once. She’s interested, and she hasn’t even met you yet.”

“Which means it’s my wallet she’s interested in,” I sighed.

“Or your good looks. Or the rumors about your skill in bed. I swear, I hear more about you than I ever wanted to know. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

I glanced at the clock. “It’s barely noon.”

“What does it matter? We’re rich, Miles! The normal rules don’t apply. We could be drunk off our asses at nine in the morning, and who’s going to chastise us? Nobody, that’s who. Because we run the show now.”

He walked to the window and looked over the city, gesturing with his martini glass.

“You and me, standing on top of the world, squinting down at all those peasants just dying to catch a glimpse of us. Doesn’t that get you high on life?” His eyes blazed as he turned the question to me, glittering as if he’d breathed in the most intoxicating smoke.

“I don’t know,” I said dismissively. “I miss being able to get lost in a crowd, or have a normal conversation with a woman. Every date I’ve been on lately feels like an interview, with her as the prospective employee.”

“Exactly! That’s the whole point, Miles. You have your pick of the most beautiful, successful, sexy women on the planet. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

I shifted uncomfortably—it was difficult to do, seeing as the chair I was in was arguably the most comfortable chair I had ever sat on—and searched for a way to express what had been tumbling around in my head for months.

“I want that feeling again,” I told him.

“What feeling?”

“That feeling of…completeness. Like I could talk to her for hours and never run out of things to say, or listen to her for hours and never get bored. I miss that subtle chemistry, where you both know what’s up but nobody’s pushing. I want a woman who’s a friend as well as a lover, someone fully developed in her own right who doesn’t need my money to feel complete.”

Nathan smirked. “Good luck, man. I’ve never even met a woman like that. I’m pretty sure they only exist in girl-next-door movies.”

“They exist,” I said confidently, recalling a pair of laughing green eyes peering out from beneath strawberry-blond hair. “I know they do.”

Nathan shook his head with a patronizing smile. “You don’t exactly have time for that. We’re growing at an unprecedented rate; you’re going to need your full attention on your work. That being said, you’re still going to need a date to that thing on Saturday. Give Jasmine a call; she’s dying to hear from you. Take her out tonight for a test drive. Who knows, maybe she’ll turn out to be your unicorn.”

“If you dated her, I very much doubt it.”

“Jump off a bridge,” he said with lazy good humor. “Here’s her number. Call her, or I’ll call her for you, and tell her that you fell in love with her description and are planning to propose the second you see her.”

“You’re an ass.”

“And you’re a wuss. Call her.”

He flicked a business card at me and I caught it. Jasmine Dyme, Fashionista.

“What even is a fashionista?”

“A girl who knows how to package the goods, my man. Trust me on this.”

* * *

Nate wasn’t wrong. When I picked Jasmine up at the front door of her luxury apartment building, it took me a full minute to regain the use of my tongue. She was built like an hourglass and dressed in a glittering red dress. It was slit up to her hip and the neckline dropped under her opposite shoulder, giving the impression that she could be fully exposed in a heartbeat.

“Hi,” she said breathily as she slid into my car. “Oh, you are handsome! I’m Jasmine.”

“Miles. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, you too! I’ve been dying to meet you for months. You’re a hard man to get in touch with, you know. I’m super glad you called; I was about to give up on you.”

I was flattered in spite of myself. “You actually put work into getting this date with me? Don’t tell me you went out with Nathan just to get to me.”

She giggled, and the sound grated on my nerves. Not a deal breaker, I decided firmly. Just one of those things to get used to.

“No, silly! Nathan was number twenty-two.”

“What?”

“Oh, I know this way! You’re taking me to that one restaurant, the one with the girls in the fish tank…”

“Mermaid Cove, yeah. Is that all right?”

“Oh, that’s perfect! I love watching the mermaids. How do they hold their breath for so long? Do you think they’re real mermaids? No, that’s ridiculous, mermaids aren’t real. What kind of music do you like, Miles?”

She turned the radio on without waiting for an answer and clicked through all of my preset stations.

“Punk, indie, hip-hop, oldies…classical?! You’re a music slut!”

“What music do you like?” I asked, swallowing my irritation.

“Country,” she said adamantly. “I see it’s missing from your buttons. That’s all right; I’ll fix it.”

“No!”

She snatched her hand back and looked at me, shocked.

“Please don’t change the presets,” I said more calmly.

“But you don’t have country!”

“I am aware.”

“But why don’t you have country?”

“Because I don’t like country.”

“Oh, that’s silly, you’re a red-blooded American boy; of course you like country.”

She moved her hand toward the radio again and it took everything in me not to slap her wrist like an errant child. Instead, I grabbed her hand and laced my fingers through hers.

“Ooh, romantic! Honestly, I’m surprised it took you so long to touch me. This is my ‘touch me’ dress. You lasted about fifteen minutes longer than most guys.”

“We’ve only been driving for ten.”

“I know!” She cackled at her own twisted bit of humor and I stared blandly out the windscreen. I was going to kill Nathan for this.

We finally made it to the restaurant after another five excruciating minutes. To my dismay, Jasmine ordered an intricate appetizer and a meal which would take forever to cook. If she even thought about getting the soufflé for dessert I was going to swear of dating for the rest of time.

“So, tell me about yourself,” I said, reluctantly sliding into the role of interviewer. “What exactly is a fashionista?”

“I’m a fashion guru. I know what trends are gonna be hot and what’s going out, I know how to dress any body type—that shirt looks terrible on you, by the way; it’s really not your color—and I use my knowledge for the good of mankind.”

“How’s that?”

“I blog! And consult. I make sure that when you men walk around with your ogling eyes all over us women that you like what you see. I totally called the skinny jean craze before it happened, and checkered belts.”

I did some quick calculations and suppressed a dismissive glare. She would have had to be four or five when the checkered belt fad began. Why lie about something that irrelevant?

“What about you—what is it you do?” she asked.

I frowned at her, but smoothed it out quickly.

“I thought you had spent all this time researching me to get a date. Don’t you know?”

“Oh, I know you do something with computers or something. I don’t really pay attention to that stuff.”

“Then what possessed you to want to date me?” I asked, exasperated.

“Forbes!”

“Forbes?”

“Ooh, our food!”

I ate my shrimp cocktail slowly and crunched the tails. She didn’t seem to notice. I wondered just how rude I could be before I frightened her off, but decided against testing it. There was neither need nor desire to stoop that low. All I had to do was never call her again, and she wouldn’t be able to reach me. I was insulated away from annoyances. It was one of the better perks of being a billionaire.

Somewhere in the restaurant, a baby cried. Jasmine wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something terrible and looked around for the offending creature.

“Ugh. Who brings a baby to a place like this? Like, obviously people are here to get away from grubby little disasters. It’s just so rude to inflict your spawn on other people.” She sniffed haughtily and took a bite of her food.

“So, you wouldn’t bring your child to a place like this?” I asked her.

“Child?! Honey, the only way I’m having a baby is if it’s a condition of the prenup, and even then, they’d better put me under and have a plastic surgeon on standby. I did not work this hard to look this good to let some thing mess it all up for me.”

I nodded. I wasn’t surprised at her opinion, though I was a bit shocked at her ownership of it. Most of the women I had dated had skirted such questions, hemming and hawing, unwilling to admit that they felt that way. As much as Jasmine grated on my nerves, at least I could applaud her honesty.

“Oh, God, you want kids, don’t you?” Her eyes widened in a strange combination of fear and mockery. “Good lord, why?”

“Same reason as anybody, I guess. To carry my name. To bless my blood with immortality.”

“That’s what plastic surgery is for.”

“You enjoy plastic surgery, don’t you?”

“Of course! You should have seen me before. Actually no, no you shouldn’t have, nobody should have. Ugh. Point is, in this day and age, with all the troubles in the world, it’s like, morally wrong to bring a child into this cold, cruel world.”

She was utterly transparent and she wore her self-absorption like armor. Some poor guy could spend years chipping away at that facade and never reach the real Jasmine.

More likely, though, was that she would find herself a rich husband who ignored her until it was time to show her off or take her to bed, and they would die a slow death in adjacent bubbles of mutual disinterest. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, but Jasmine almost seemed like she wanted that.

“So,” I said, more to fill the air than anything else. “You mentioned Forbes. I wasn’t aware they had a dating section.”

She giggled that grating laugh and slapped the air at me.

“They don’t, silly! What they have is the thirty under thirty list. I’ve been checking men off of it all year. Glass slippers are outdated, you know. If you want to find your prince, you gotta put in the legwork.”

She smiled smugly at me as if her single-minded gold-digging was a thing to be proud of. I offered a tight smile in return. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“I gotta say, though, you’re the most handsome of the whole bunch. I thought it would be Nathan—he’s very pretty—but you’re on a whole other level. Like, you’re really wasted in tech. You should be in movies.”

“I don’t have the right temperament,” I said dismissively.

“Oh, sure you do! Look at you, all fake humble arrogance and low-key swag. You’re exactly the movie star type.”

“I can’t act.”

“Nobody can, darling; that’s why they pick people to play roles to match their personalities.”

There was only so much cynicism I could take in a single evening. I excused myself to the restroom and dawdled there for a solid ten minutes. When I returned, to my relief, she was nearly finished eating. We skipped dessert in spite of her whiny objections and I took her home. As we pulled up in front of her building, she turned a pair of fine-tuned bedroom eyes on me.

“If you want to come upstairs, the parking lot is right around the corner.”

“I’ll pass tonight, thanks.”

She leaned close to me, her cumbersome, surgically-enhanced breasts nearly falling out of her dress.

“You don’t really want to skip dessert, do you, Miles?”

“I’m full.” My tone was as flat as my expression, and she finally got the message.

Storming out of the car with a huff, she held the door and turned to face me.

“I just want you to really understand what it is you’re passing up on.” With that, she pulled her top down and unleashed her excessive bust to the night air, before indignantly stuffing it all back in. I didn’t allow any reaction to register on my face until she slammed the door and spun away.

“Craziest yet. I’m gonna kill him. I am going to kill him.”

I turned on the radio to blast the night’s events out of my brain. A crooning woman asked where all the good boys have gone, and I snorted a humorless laugh.

“Boys? How about girls? Where the heck are they, Ms. Radio Star?”

Shelley’s wholesomely beautiful face flitted through my mind again. On a wild impulse, I turned the car around and hit the gas. I didn’t know where they were now, but I did know where one used to be. If I was very, very lucky, she might still be there.

* * *

Finnegan’s hadn’t changed a bit in the last two years; at least, not from the outside. Inside, it had received a full remodel. I didn’t see any familiar faces as I walked through the new emerald-green decor, and for the first time in years, I felt exceptionally awkward.

“What can I get for you?” the brusque bartender asked as I approached.

“Um…some information, if you can. I’m looking for a girl.”

“We all are, bro. Got a type in mind?”

“Her name’s Shelley, Shelley Smith. Gorgeous girl, strawberry-blond, green eyes, about this tall? She used to work here.”

The man shook his head. “Not since I’ve been here. You sure you got the right bar?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “How long have you worked here?”

“’Bout two years now. The owner bailed after some kind of scandal; new managers hired all new staff, pretty much. I don’t remember the details; I got everything second-hand anyway.”

“Where is Mr. Finnegan now?”

“Moved to…Tijuana, I think?”

I cursed under my breath, then thanked the guy. As I glanced helplessly around the altered bar, I noticed Jeff, the old janitor, sweeping cigarette butts off of the floor by the door as inconspicuously as possible. He wasn’t easy to notice, but he never intended to be.

“Hey, Jeff.”

“Hey, look who it is! Mr. Bigshot with the all models on his arms. How you been, Miles?”

I shook Jeffrey’s calloused hand, smiling at the recently unfamiliar familiarity.

“Doing pretty good. Yourself?”

“Just workin’, man, same as always.”

“Hey, do you remember Shelley Smith?”

“Do I remember? How could I forget? Those legs, that hair! That figure, know what I’m saying? Yeah, I remember.”

“What happened to her?”

He shrugged, leaning on his broom. “Don’t know, man. She quit about, I don’t know…a month after you did? Maybe a little longer. Before winter, though.”

“And you don’t know where she went?”

“Nah, man. She was real quiet those last few weeks. Cryin’ and stuff. I told her I’d break the face of anybody who broke her heart, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. I don’t know, guess she just got tired of this place.”

“Guess so. Well, thanks anyway, Jeff. Don’t work too hard.”

“Never do,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t make too much money!”

“No such thing,” I said, because he expected me to.

I was beginning to wonder, though. What was the point of having all this money if only the most vapid, materialistic women wanted anything to do with me?

On the long ride home, I replayed every moment of my one, mind-blowing night with Shelley in my head. She’d been the most thrilling, complete, enticing, perfect woman I had ever been with. I suddenly couldn’t remember why I hadn’t pursued her back then.

“Probably better that I didn’t,” I told myself to sooth the empty ache in my core. “Nathan’s right; it’s not like I have time for a full-time relationship right now, anyway. Better to forget her.”

I tried, earnestly and with full intention. But no matter what I did, she remained, flitting around the corners of my mind, peering out me from every pair of green eyes I happened to see.