Chapter Three - Maya
When I step out of the elevator I’m thrilled to see the women packing their things and heading for the door. Zima is glaring at me like she wants to scalp me. Word travels fast here, and the thought thrills me. They all know it’s me. I got it. How did he tell them? Was it the robot voice saying “It’s over, all of you get out!”
I walk over to Zima and tell her to put me on the books for Monday. Looking like she’s chewing on lemons, she types something into her computer and tries to act as if the world bores you when you are Zima, goddess of the reception desk. As I turn to leave she says, “Hope you last longer than the last one. Or not.”
What the hell did that mean? As if I’m going to ask her.
“I’m sure I’ll do fine. Hey, are you going to be my receptionist as well?”
Zima ignores me with a storm of keystrokes. I show myself out and text my best friend, Angela, who, just as I knew she would, insists that we meet immediately for drinks and gossip. Ten minutes later I sit down at a café down the street and wait for her. After telling the waiter that I’ll be ordering soon, I Google Conrad to see if there are any updates about him and the cop.
Nope. Just more of the same.
“Oh my God I was going to ask you about that!” says Angela, who has just appeared and has apparently been looking over my shoulder. She pulls back her chair and sits. “What did he say about it?”
“Angela. It was a job interview, not a chat. Why would he bring that up?”
“I assumed you would bring it up. I assumed you would want to know.”
“Again, how many job interviews have you had where you walked in and started asking questions about the gorgeous man who was interviewing you?”
“Now you’re talking,” she says. “So he’s gorgeous? I knew it.” Of course, she knew it. We all know it. We’ve all seen his picture. I wonder how many of his pictures are serving as screen savers this very minute.
“Yes. But the pictures don’t do it justice. He’s got a…” I picture him in that office, his gray suit contrasting with the white carpet. His dark tie contrasting with his light blue eyes. The dark stubble on his jaw contrasting with his blond hair. “…a presence. Yeah. That’s it.”
“So what did he ask you? Did he flirt? Did he ask you to join a harem?”
“You know, there wasn’t really any of that. I wound up…I guess I wound up describing what I thought was his ideal type of woman.”
“Whoa! How did that happen?”
That’s when it hits me. I’m not sure how it happened. Worse, I still have no idea what I agreed to. “Oh shit,” I say. “Angela. He hired me and I didn’t even ask what the job was.”
The waiter appears. “She wants two mimosas,” said Angela. “She works for Conrad Storm now and it’s taking a terrible toll on her.”
The waiter is impressed. “Wow. What are you going to be doing for him?” He wiggles his eyebrows salaciously as if I just got back from the casting couch. Oh hell, for all I know, that’s what I did. Who the hell takes a job without the faintest idea of what it is? Yours truly. Not only that, I don’t know what the salary is.
“She’s going to be his executive assistant,” says Angela. “It’s got to be something like that, right? I just know it.” Glad someone knows what’s going on with my life. But she’s probably right. The waiter leaves and I tell Angela that he knew about my dress. That he had seen it on me before in my debate video.
“Oh my God! I bet he’s some insane stalker! But why was he watching your debate video?”
I’m proud to say that a lot of people watch that video. It gets taught in classes. That video led to hundreds more. I really nailed that one, but you’ve got to be careful when you show people what you’re good at. Otherwise, they want more. “I’m not sure,” I say. “But he said he likes…”
Games. He said he liked games. My debate had been about various experiments involving game theory, and how they could be used to exploit others. My point had been that game theory gets misused when people are pursuing romantic relationships. My opponent had said that not every interaction has an incentive. I had disagreed and mopped the floor with him. Was that what Conrad wanted from me? Someone to butt heads with? That video made such a splash that I released a follow up on Youtube, where I talked about how one of my relationships had gone wrong. It got shared. A lot. So did the others. A lot. It didn’t pay much, but it was crazy how people--mostly women--were suddenly listening to what I had to say.
“Likes what? I bet he’s going to like everything about you. Do you think you’ll have to, like pick up his dry cleaning for him? Do you think you’ll get to see his house?”
“I don’t know, Angela. I don’t know anything.”
I carry her questions for another 30 minutes before I head home. When I get to my apartment building, the elevator’s broken. I bet the elevator at Conrad’s office never breaks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a teleporter on site. He could step into it and appear anywhere he wanted. He could be in my bedroom right now, waiting for me. Mmm. There’s a moment when I open my bedroom door that I almost convince myself that he’s in there. But no. It’s just my four walls, my bed—unused for too long for anything but sleep—and a stack of books on a night table. The drinks are kicking in and I’m tired. I fling myself down on the bed, expecting to fall asleep quickly, just short nap. But then I start to dream, and the feeling of Conrad’s hands makes me squirm. I get myself off. It’s been a while. Hmm...what would it be like to have his weight on me, pushing me down into the soft white carpet? What would his back feel like if I was lucky enough to get my hands under that shirt? What would he sound like when he slipped himself between my legs and we started to move together?
After, I take a shower. This weekend is my last chance to back out. Am I getting myself into something crazy? No, no, not at all. He’s just a guy with a lot of money. Sex? No. Of course, that won’t happen. I’m not for sale and he certainly wouldn’t have to pay anyone for sex.
I just want to see what he’s like. I want to see what he means when he talks about games. So I’m not a billionaire, okay, but I know how to play.
And I’m not going to be a piece on anyone’s chess board.