CHAPTER TEN
EVAN
REBECCA IS STUNNING.
I DON’T think she has a clue. You hear that sort of thing all the time and it’s usually just a line. With her, it’s true. She has fine, smooth features, wide, exotic lips, and hair like something from a shampoo commercial. She’s worn that gorgeous mane in the most casual, thrown-back style — but the I-don’t-give-a-shit way she’s done it only makes it more interesting to me. She’s wearing makeup, but barely. She’s not a woman who’s decided to accentuate the positive. Sadly, I’ll bet she doesn’t see there is positive to accentuate.
The blue dress hugs her figure. Every time she moves, I think about what it would be like to rip it off her. Her sapphire eyes keep straying to the table. It must be an insecure tick, but something in me keeps wanting to see it as an invitation. There’s almost nothing on the wide expanse, save our drinks and a few odds and ends. It’d be a perfect place to hop up and—
“—the web,” she says.
I blink. I don’t think I’ve been looking at her chest, but it’s possible. I’m usually such a nice boy. She deserves better than to have me zoning out while she’s talking, especially since I was the one who got in touch and asked her here.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“I’m all over the web,” she repeats.
I fight for context. Luckily, some part of me has been listening — the same part of me, probably, that’s spent ten minutes failing to articulate what this is all about. I may not have a clue what I want to build with someone like Rebecca, but fortunately, I can put my finger on what she’s said.
“I just want to get to know you. The web isn’t good enough.”
“But that’s what I’m saying. If you want to get to know me, I’m all over. I blab about everything.”
She’s looking right at me. It’s hard to focus. Her eyes are a blue I’ve never seen. Bottomless. No matter how long I’ve fallen, I’ve yet to land.
She goes on: “This is weird.”
“Weird?”
“I’m just being honest. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what you mean.”
She shifts. Her dress …
No, sir — Rebecca Presley is nothing like I imagined. She’s soft where I expected hardness. Quiet when I expected someone brash. Despite her abundant masculine energy online, she’s perfectly feminine a few feet away. I know there’s an explosive, exuberant woman somewhere inside; the world has seen it on her website. But she hides it well beside me.
Or maybe it’s this Rebecca who’s hidden.
“Well, okay. First. Is this an interview? Or is it …” She pauses, and I’d swear she stopped herself from saying a date. She ends with “… something else?”
“It’s not really an interview.” But that sounds lecherous, so I say, “But I think it’s in the same realm as an interview.”
“So, this is about a job?”
“Maybe. Kind of. I’m not sure.”
“Because when we were chatting online, and then on the phone, you didn’t say anything about a job.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be vague. I was rushing both times. Truth be told, I didn’t …”
This time I trail off. I was about to tell her that I didn’t yet know what she looked like, but that feels like a mistake. If Rebecca had any clue how amazing she looks, she could gussy herself up and cause traffic accidents. Beauty like that is rare, and in Rebecca, it’s coming from something inside. In her case, it’s not just skin deep. Something of her personality radiates through her, becomes visible. She wears her heart on her sleeve, for all to see. And this was never, from the start, supposed to be about something as superficial as her looks.
“You didn’t what?”
“I didn’t know much about you, I guess. Even what’s public.”
“You could read up.”
“Do you not want to be here?”
She smiles to disarm what must feel like an interrogation. For a minute, I could see public-Rebecca, about to harpoon me online for some sort of wrongdoing.
“It’s not that. It’s just … like I said. Weird.”
“Weird that I’d want to meet you?”
I flinch. All sorts of men must want to “meet” her. They’re just put off by her venomous tongue.
“Weird that you’d think there was more to know beyond what I post.”
“Isn’t there?” I ask.
She stops. There is. It’s just not something she’s comfortable sharing. She’s not an open book after all.
Two waiters arrive with food. We pause as they set the plates and refill the water.
“What is this?” she asks. The waiter looks confused. He’s not the one who took our order.
I give the waiter a Never mind look and tell Rebecca, “Just try it.”
She does.
Her eyes are delighted. Something inside me leaps to realize that I was responsible for putting it there. “Mussels and chorizo. They cook the mussels with local chorizo, white white, and garlic.”
“It’s wonderful,” she says. “I should eat fancy food more often.”
A few quiet minutes pass. Apparently, she’s accepting what I said, even though I’ve said so little. It’s true that she’s “all over the web” if I care to look. It’s true I was compelled to meet her anyway. It’s true that I sense vast potential here — not just in Rebecca herself, but in any possible partnership. I know it’s strange — that it’s “weird,” as she says. That doesn’t change the fact that I felt it from the moment I read her first word, and that I have a solid record of being right when I follow my gut.
There’s something here; I just know it. Something between us.
“Tell me about your project, then,” she says.
“I already did.”
“Tell me again. I didn’t understand it.”
I laugh a little. “That’s because there’s not much to understand. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure what I want to do — what you might be involved in. But I’m used to following my instincts. I get a feeling, and I move toward it. All I know is that I want to use my resources, leveraging what I’ve done with LiveLyfe to build something new.”
“You’re not happy with just LiveLyfe?”
“It’s my baby. But I’m only 27 years old. It can’t be my final chapter.”
“You can make it bigger. Make it better.”
“That’s going from one to N. I’ve always been more attracted to going from zero to one.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“‘Zero to one’ is creating something new rather than just adapting a thing that’s already been done. Something lateral, that’s never been seen before.”
“Like a phone made of bananas?”
I feel slapped. I must look like an idiot.
“What?”
She takes a bite. “That’s never been seen before.”
I’m not sure where to go with that. I don’t know if I should laugh or just keep eating as if she’s said the most logical thing in the world. I can’t stop looking at her, and it’s possible that the sight is clouding my judgment. I don’t want to stare, but the more time passes, the harder it’s becoming harder not to. I want to be respectful, but my thoughts are anything but. A woman like this, she must get creeps leering at her all the time.
I try to remember why she’s here. Before she walked into the room, I only knew her mind. I only knew her style, her thoughts, and the soul she lays bare for anyone who can click. I knew there was potential in what I saw without seeing: the brains that launched not just one company, but several. She’s effortless. A natural. And it’s an unfortunate coincidence that I feel myself so drawn to her now that we’ve met.
Fortunately, Rebecca saves me by speaking first. Despite her quip and how loud she is online, something is making her quiet in here. Uncertainty in her manner. She keeps averting her eyes. I’d swear she’s inches from reaching out to touch me in half a dozen easy ways: a brush of her hand, a touch of her knee to mine. Something tiny. But she’s pulling back at the same time, a flush creeping across the subtle curve of her elegant neck.
Why are you thinking about her “elegant neck”?
“What’s this really about, Mr. Cohen?”
“Evan, please.”
“‘Becca,’ then,” she says, indicating herself. She takes a sip of water. “What’s this really about, Evan?”
“I told you. I don’t know. I just know that I’m ready for my next phase and that I will need good people to help.”
“How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what I’m helping with?”
“I suppose you’d be a consultant.”
“I’ve charged people for consulting before. I’m kind of a fraud at it.”
“How so?”
She laughs. Somehow, it’s beautiful. “I’m just not a consulting type. I mean, look at me.”
I shouldn’t, but I do. I take in more than her face. I follow the dress’s clingy contour as it dives down her back, as it sighs across the swells of her breasts. I’m a tiny lightheaded. And something else I shouldn’t be.
Rebecca seems to understand that she’s said something off. She sees my visual caress and demurs, she wipes at something on her face with the napkin.
“I believe you as a consultant.”
“I just say whatever’s in my head.”
“What’s in your head is exactly what interests me.”
“I’m never on time.”
“For a consultant, there’s no firm schedule.”
“I once accidentally took a consulting call topless because I didn’t know the video was on.”
I really wish she hadn’t said that. I can tell it’s just another thoughtless thing that fell from her lips, but now I’m picturing it. Her dress is elastic enough that it could come straight down, right here, without unzipping. I can’t tell if she’s wearing a bra; decorum prohibits my looking closely enough to look for lines. But in my imagination, she’s got nothing beneath. In my mind’s eye, the top slides down as we sit here. I imagine her flesh emerging. I imagine reaching out to touch her bare breasts. I can practically feel the firm nipple against my palm. I’m glad I’m sitting because my cock has gone hard.
“Look,” I say, trying to gather myself as she blushes, probably realizing what she’s said, what my wandering eyes might have been thinking. “I’d like to make you an offer. Point blank.”
“What kind of offer?”
“A consulting contract, like I said. Try not to take your calls …” I stop the inappropriate thoughts, now at full attention under my napkin. “Well, try to be a touch more professional when the calls come up. Beyond that, it’d be an easy position.”
“I got the impression you wanted me to shut down my website, but I’m not sure I want to.”
“I’m not into censorship. And I’m not into monopolizing your time. I get the feeling you don’t do well with tight restrictions.”
It was an innocent enough thing to say, but now my mind is filthy with things that are “tight.” Becca’s body, for instance. Her warm little pussy.
“I just need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement, meaning you can’t talk about what we do together.”
What we do together. I can picture that, too.
“But if you want to keep talking about Steve, that’s your business.”
She gives me a long, assessing look.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know your work.”
“You don’t know that I can deliver what you seem to want.”
“That’s okay, considering that I don’t yet know what that is.”
Except that I do.
I force myself not to look at her body. I will my hard cock to stand down.
“I’m not for sale.” She says it like a challenge, not like she means it. “This is too weird for me.”
“What would it take? To make up for the weird?”
“A million dollars.”
She laughs. It wasn’t an ask; it was more like an irrepressible exclamation.
“Okay.”
“I was kidding.”
“I want you to be comfortable. LiveLyfe has a large discretionary budget for R&D. A million dollars is nothing for something with this much upside potential.”
“You don’t know the upside potential.”
“That’s right. Because I don’t know what the project is.” I smile at this because that’s already an inside joke between us.
“You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.” And I am, but I’m also making this up as I go along. I always follow my gut, and that’s what all of this is. But is it my gut I’m following?
“It’d be a retainer,” I say, still pulling ideas out of my ass. “You can keep doing what you’re doing, but you have to come when I need you.”
You have to come.
When I need you.
“You’d need to sign NDAs, as I said. Our work would be completely confidential. We’d make it up as we went along.”
“Just me and you.”
“You’re all I need.”
I don’t know why I said that. I also don’t know why I didn’t add, “… for right now.” I wonder if I’m making decisions with my right mind, or if I’m acting like a sugar daddy to a gold-digger who’s not even mining.
“All right. It’s your funeral if you want to pay me but don’t even know what you’re paying me for.”
“Whatever I want you for,” I say. “Whatever I need you to do with me.”
We lock eyes — those fathomless, sapphire eyes.
My heart beats faster, but something inside me realizes the truth:
This is a terrible idea.