Sweet Karma

by Amara Kent

  “Are you sure you want to do the job, because seriously I would be more than happy to take your place,” Kerri gushes.

  I shake my head at her dreamy eyed stare at his picture. “Yes, I’m fine. Honestly, I don’t know if you would be able to stop staring at him long enough to actually complete the job,” I comment with a light chuckle.

  She ignores the slight jib and continues on scrolling through photos. Some of him shirtless and coming out of the water at the beach, some of him running through Central Park. Others have him entering and exiting a plain black car or waving to the camera at various events.

  I smirk as I look on.

  Oh, Mr. Lukas. You are going to wish you were never born once I’m through with you.

  I bring the beautiful nectar of all things holy to my lips and take a sip. The comforting and invigorating warm liquid flows down my throat, awakening my entire body. I moan my satisfaction. I’m rather convinced that were coffee to not exist in this world, the human race would cease too, because we would have slaughtered each other by now. My eyes are glued to the building across from me. Lukas Marketing & PR. From Skylah’s details about Dean, he likes to arrive at work earlier than everybody else. While the staff start at eight in the morning, he starts at seven. I got here at six fifteen. Just in case. Not that he does anything when he gets here, I just like to get a little feel for who I’m dealing with, and that means ensuring I’m watching them from the start of their morning.

  I look the part, choosing to forgo my usual casual attire for something a little classier, something that will allow me to fit in with the crowd of suits that are slowly starting to greet this wonderful establishment with the best coffee in New York. Yeah, I said it. I’ll fight anybody who dares to disagree with me. I take a quick glance at my watch, 6:57 a.m. He’ll be here soon.

  Just as advised, a sleek—Pft, of course, he owns a Rolls Royce. Ladies and gentlemen, introducing pretention at its finest. Usually, the only people you would find owning a car with a price tag in the vicinity of half a million dollars, would be geriatrics who are putting on a parade of their wealth so they can still be perceived as being worth something, or men who have been cursed with a pin-dick, and think that owning an absurdly expensive car was going to help their small issue. Granted, there are money hungry women out there that would jump at the opportunity for a very comfortable life and wed them and their miniature self, but it’s still asinine.

  His car disappears into the underground parking lot and that’s the last I see of it, and I’m back to sitting on the barstool, looking out to the building and sipping the only thing that helps me function in the morning and remain a decent person.

  It’s been hours and nothing has happened. I glance at my watch, 1:02 p.m. This is the downside to conducting a reconnaissance mission. For the most part, you sit in your car or a restaurant or cafe until there’s the slightest sign of the person you are trying to get a glimpse of to come into view. Unfortunately, it needs to be done. There are some things you just can’t attain from Internet searches or a description in a file. You know, the boring shit. Work schedule, where he gets his coffee, where he goes to lunch, so on and so forth. Blah, blah, blah. It’s also the moment where you want to snap your neck so you don’t have to suffer through the laborious task. Finally, after what seems like eternities have passed, I spot him, looking damn fine and as if it were the start of the day, not the middle of it—which, I need to ask: how is that even possible? Makes me hate the son of a bitch even more. I watch as he saunters with a level of confidence that tells you what he’s all about, and that he is a man who’s not to be messed with.

  Everyone that passes him stares as he moves toward an awaiting sedan. He unbuttons his suit jacket before getting in the car; I don’t miss the wink he throws at a very attractive, very leggy blonde. Ugh, so damn fucking typical. What’s with men and blondes? Is it the whole, they’re blond so they must be stupid and therefore gullible enough to swallow whatever word vomit you’re spewing, like a baby bird? Are they easier? Is there some direct correlation between the two I’m just not getting? The said blonde whose legs just don’t seem to stop, looking more like a giant stick insect than a person, giggles. Okay, I think I finally see it. Blond girls equal stupid. Because seriously, who giggles like that anymore? Hon, you aren’t doing any favors for the rest of the female blond population, nor our gender. We have a damn reputation to uphold.

  I watch the car pull away from the curb, and I discretely make my move. Making sure not to appear as if I’m following. Not that I think anybody would notice. This is New York, where traffic is piled up bumper to bumper, but you can never be too careful. I can’t be so close that I’m seen. That would be bad for me, that would be very bad.

  We arrive in front of a swanky restaurant and I park just down from it—Laurents. It’s a highly popular restaurant amongst the elite and powerful. Anybody who has money frequents there, mostly to make business deals. I walk up to the front desk, and noting where Dean is, I ask to be seated behind him. Luckily, it’s the tail end of the lunch crowd so I’m able to get a table for one. I’m close enough so I can hear him, but not enough for him to see me.

  “Can I get you a drink to start off with, miss?” the waitress asks.

  “Ice water, still. A slice of lemon please,” I respond.

  I fit right into the environment. I have some rules when it comes to going on reconnaissance. Well, I have some rules in general when it comes to this job.

  Rule Number Three: When on reconnaissance, always ensure that you are wearing appropriate clothing for the man you are watching.

  In this case, ensuring that I dressed in expensive clothing and wore expensive jewelry. And I know, it may seem excessive, but I don’t like surprises. I don’t like being caught unaware.

  And that’s, Rule Number Four: Always be prepared. It’s better to have it and not need it, then to need it and not have it. I live by this rule, and believe me, there have been times where I have really needed it.

  I’m lucky enough that my line of work can afford me with such luxuries. The ability to have a decent place in New York City without having to room with twenty other people and work five dead-end jobs. I’m sporting a beautiful Chanel suit with a Gucci blouse and some handmade jewelry from an incredibly talented jeweler from just outside New York. It’s not designer, but it looks expensive as hell, and I have not seen any other create such masterpieces like her.

  My water arrives, and I take a sip when a man with salt-and-pepper hair walks in carrying a folder and a business-like expression on his face. One that informs everyone that he is here to get what he wants and will do whatever he needs to in order to get it. So, pretty much, he wears the same mask as every other businessman in the city. It’s all about perception. If you can exude confidence and power like an Oscar winner, then you will most likely get what you want.

  Power attracts power.

  “Dean, so good to see you,” the man greets him. I determine that it’s a very professional greeting, even though his tone reflects that of comfortable familiarity.

  “James, it’s good to see you too. Please, sit.” Dean isn’t as warm and inviting as James, but it’s enough to keep him satiated with the pleasantries.

  “Good afternoon, welcome to Laurents. Can I get you two gentlemen a drink?” the all too familiar and sickly sweet dripping with desperate arousal, gushes from the waitress. I roll my eyes and take another sip of my water. This is just too much to take.

  “Two glasses of your finest vintage red please,” Dean says.

  Cue sultry follow up question in three. Two. One.

  “Anything else?” she asks with a low huskiness that wasn’t there before.

  Oh God, I hate it when I’m right. Go have a cold shower, woman.

  “No thank you,” Dean responds with false politeness.

  “So, should we order first, or get straight down to business?” James asks.

  “I think we should order and then discuss business.”r />
  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Hello, miss. Are you ready to order?”

  I look up at the handsome waiter and smile. “Yes, thank you. I will have the Salade de Poulet Nicoise, please.”

  “Excellent choice.” He takes my menu and leaves me. I’ve always wondered why wait staff in expensive restaurants advise you that you are making an excellent choice. Isn’t everything on the menu excellent, otherwise it wouldn’t be on there. And what isn’t classified as an excellent choice? And if it isn’t, then why does it continue to remain a possible option for patrons?

  “I’m sure you’ve heard what happened with my previous marketing company,” James says, breaking me away from my rambled inner monologue.

  “I’d be stupid and not good at my job if I hadn’t,” Dean drawls.

  “Then you know I want your company to work with mine. You know how much I’ve wanted you on my team.”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me, because it’s something I can’t quite understand. I sought you out five years ago and you turned me away. Why?”

  “You know the reason why, James. I have a close relationship with the owner of the marketing company you just fired. I may want to become king of the marketing and PR world, but I’m not about to tread on toes in order to do it.”

  “You were willing to lose a multi-million dollar contract all to save a friendship?” James asks.

  “No, I was willing to lose a multi-million dollar contract on being the better person. I’m not entirely sure how much research your team has done on me, but you should know that I don’t go screwing over the competition to gain success. People who are willing to do that have no faith in their company or themselves. They take whatever they can to pull themselves up. You were wanting me to do just that in order to get your contract. I don’t accept any business under those conditions. There was no reason for you to remove them back then.”

  Hmm, interesting. So, Mr. Dean Lukas, multi-billionaire and all-round asshole does have a soul after all. Who’d a thunk it. Not I, that’s for sure.

  “What about now?” James asks.

  “Now I’m thinking about it.”

  James chuckles and then there’s a clink of glasses.

  “How was your meal, miss?” the waiter asks.

  “It was delicious, thank you.”

  “Would you like any dessert?”

  “I couldn’t possibly. I’m rather full. Just the check please,” I request.

  “Now that we’ve had a delicious meal, on me of course, and we’ve discussed everything in length, what do you say, Dean? Will you work with me?”

  “I graciously decline, Mr. Carter,” Dean answers.

  There’s no emotion in his response, it’s dry and stoic. He’s met with silence. James is just as flabbergasted as I am. Dean is good. Dean is very good. He had no intention of accepting James’s offer to work with his company, MariMark. James had been hounding and hounding him, it seems, to discuss a potential partnership. He had obviously offered to pay for lunch if he would hear him out. Dean figured he could get a free meal out of him, and if it helped to stop James’s stalking, then so be it. No doubt, James would have advised anybody willing to listen to him that he had set up a meeting with the Dean Lukas of Lukas Marketing & PR, because that’s what men like James do. The success of his business has gone to his head, and now he believes that just because thus far, he has gotten everything he has ever wanted, that he could secure Dean.

  As it turns out, Mr. Lukas here is not only a multi-billionaire, a playboy, complete dickweed, and sexiest bachelor, he also owns various clubs and bars throughout America, one in London and Tokyo. When it comes to business, he’s someone you definitely want on your side. Sadly, for James, he’s going to have to inform everyone he doltishly bragged to, that he doesn’t have Dean on his payroll.

  “Why did you agree to meet with me if you weren’t going to consider working with me?”

  “I may be a wealthy man, James, but I’m not one for declining a free meal. This seemed the best way to get you out of my way,” Dean explains.

  A man like Dean doesn’t need to provide an explanation, but feels the need to give him something. It’s a somewhat painful bone he’s throwing at James, with a strong underlying current of “contact me again, and I will notify the police.” It was perfect really, and I can now see why he is considered a ruthlessly moral businessman. Too bad the women of New York couldn’t use such sunny words to describe him.

  It’s the end of the day, and I’ve ventured to one of Dean’s bars. He’s here too, having a drink by himself. The busty blonde—goddamn it, this city needs a fresh coat of dye—gracefully walks down to him and stops, leaning forward to show her very ample, although probably very fake, tits. I take notice of his reaction to this particular stick with inflated balloons, which is similar to that of his reaction to the blonde on the street outside his office.

  My phone vibrates against the bar top and I answer it.

  “Hello, Kerri.”

  “Hey, boss. What are you up to? Still on your reconnaissance mission?” she asks.

  “Yes. He’s stopped off at one of his bars. He’s currently flirting with the female bar staff.”

  “Fifty bucks he orders a vodka martini with three olives,” she says.

  “He’s totally a whiskey man,” I disagree.

  “Don’t bet against a pro, Tay. I know suits, they’re my specialty.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t know Dean. He’s definitely a whiskey man.”

  After shamelessly flirting with the bartender, which just seems a little inappropriate considering that technically she’s his employee, I watch him order a drink of… woah, okay. Was not expecting that one.

  “Woah,” I say.

  “What?” Kerri asks.

  “We were both wrong.”

  “What did he order?” she asks more urgently.

  “Tonic. Tonic with two limes.”

  “Who in their right mind chooses to have just tonic and two limes?”

  “There’s only one reason a man like him would choose to drink a tonic instead of hard liquor.”

  “What?”

  “Recovering alcoholic,” I inform her. “He has an addictive personality, good to know. I can work with that.” I smile with the new information I have gathered. “I wonder what made him stop,” I muse.

  “Hmm? Well, I’m assuming that his job is what would have started it all. It can’t be easy being the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company.”

  “Yes, but the stress wouldn’t have eased up. He would still have it. So why give it up? Something made him want to turn away from alcohol.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Nah. There is no way Skylah holds that much influence on him. He dumped her when he found out she was pregnant.”

  “I guess that’s something you’ll have to figure out. Have fun with that.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hang up the phone and watch as a brunette walks up and parks herself next to Dean. They look at each other, both flashing each other their pearly whites with an added pair of dimples from her. One thing that is a must in this line of work. Learning to read between the signs. It’s incredibly important to know the subtle messages people send off to you, without loudly sending it to you. Here we have a beautiful woman taking a seat and ordering a drink in a bar that doesn’t have a lot of patrons. It’s a Monday night and most people are at home with their loved ones. The brunette is dressed a little too fancy, regardless of the fact that this place calls for class. So why would this stranger, who sits right next to Dean, seeming a little too friendly, be dressed this way. If she was waiting on someone, she would find a more quiet place, away from the bar where you are more likely to be approached by unwanted guests, or if you’re going to, at least be alone. There is a familiarity about them, that to the naked eye, would be easy to miss. They know each other, yet they are acting like strangers.

  And then it hits me.

  She’s
a call girl.

  I place a coffee in front of Kerri. She takes it graciously, nodding her head in gratitude and takes a sip.

  “So, call girl, huh?” she asks.

  “Yep.” I take a seat next to her. “It’s surprising. He’s been dubbed as this player, a man who could step out onto the street and have any woman he wants, yet he feels the need to possibly risk his reputation by paying women to sleep with him? Why? I don’t understand. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “If he had a pregnancy scare with Skylah, it stands to reason that he would enlist the services of a call girl. They have strict rules when it comes to sex. Always use a condom and they too are protected with birth control.”

  I nod in agreement. “True, but why go to all that bother when he could just use a condom? Sleeping around with various women—especially for someone with his reputation—isn’t as frowned upon as paid sex. Plus, if he somehow managed to impregnate a call girl, then the consequences are a lot more serious.”

  “Maybe he’s always had a thing for call girls.” Kerri throws her hands up in the air in exasperation.

  I smile at her dramatics and retrieve my phone from my pants pocket. The men I deal with are usually predictable, but somehow Dean is not the person I had initially perceived him to be. Yes, he’s confident. Yes, he is a damn good businessman. Yes, I can see where the descriptors of his personality derive from. Yet, at the same time, he’s not cruel as I expected. It is early days though. He still has time to show just the kind of person he is.

  I dial Skylah’s number. It only takes a couple of rings for her to answer.