“What? Why?”
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I tell her, “Because it was a one-night stand. It was never meant to be anything else. I can’t manage a guy with everything else going on right now.”
“But having regular amazing sex would be a bonus to your crazy schedule.”
She’s right, but I know that there is no such thing as just sex for me. “We didn’t exchange anything other than our first names.”
“You know where he lives.”
“In a zip code well above my budget.”
“He’s rich too?” If I let her get too into this, she’ll be convinced he’s some Prince Charming, and she’ll forget I have no way to get ahold of him.
“Maybe. You never know. Some people spend money they don’t have. But he had nice stuff and a kitchen to die for.”
“Listen to you. Are you going to hang out at The Church in hopes of meeting him again?”
“Nope. I have a full day of work today. I need to finish grading the papers I didn’t get to last night, write a quiz for my undergrads for Monday, and finalize the proposal for another potential investor.” I change the subject so she doesn’t get too caught up in my stuff. “How did it go last night for you?”
“I danced with a few guys. No one really stands out to me. Marianne made sure I got home.”
I cringe. I adore Marianne, and I’m grateful she was there, but I fell down on my one job last night. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t a very good best friend last night.”
“I’m glad you found someone to break your celibacy streak.”
“It wasn’t a record.” Well, it might be, but I’m not going to admit to how long it’s been since I’ve been naked with anyone.
Her voice softens. “Thanks for coming out with me last night and making my birthday special.”
“I had fun, and it sounds like you did too.”
“Let’s go out to celebrate over lunch next Saturday—just the two of us.”
“Sounds perfect. Love you!”
“Love you too.”
I glare at my computer screen, the blinking cursor only accentuating the tension headache behind my eyes. I have so much to do, so I’ve come in to work super early to make sure I can answer any questions. I’m not sure when the investor is coming, and I don’t want to ask and give Dr. Johnson another reason to gripe at me.
“Ms. Vargas, we’re here to work, not to daydream,” Dr. Johnson grumbles, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“Sorry.” I give him a lame excuse. “I was going through some possible alternative therapies to regenerate brain cells we may not have thought of.”
“Ms. Vargas, that isn’t why you are here. Stick to your job.”
Asshole. “Yes, sir.”
I roll my eyes internally and concentrate. This company was my idea, driven by my dissertation. I regularly regret that I contacted Dr. Johnson to help because of his name and his procedure on drug delivery. But if I can help to find a cure for Parkinson’s, in the end, that is all that will matter. Glancing at the clock on my computer screen, I see it’s already after eight and I’ve been here for four hours. I have an hour to get over to Berkeley and be ready for my nine o’clock class.
I begin to pack up.
“Ms. Vargas, where are you going?”
“It’s Monday. I teach Monday mornings. I will review the latest data that the techs are pulling and put it together for you and the potential investors this evening and have it for you tomorrow. When is the prospective investor coming in? I’ll need a little bit of notice so I can get my class covered. Do you want to make time to go over the information tomorrow? I can be here at your convenience.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh and mutters, “This is not acceptable. I don’t know why you’re wasting your time. You are not focused enough to pull this over the finish line.”
“Dr. Johnson, that isn’t true. I’m doing my required work for my studies, and I’m giving this company, which I founded, more than fifty hours a week.”
“Yes, that ‘founded’ thing. We may have to revisit that.”
My heart beats faster. There is no way he is going to snake this company out from under me. No fucking way. “There is nothing to discuss. We have a contract. If you want out, we can discuss that. But I have to leave, or I’ll be late for my class.” With that, I finish packing up my things and head out the door.
I don’t trust the man. He’s made a few comments that put me on edge. I came to him with the idea, and if the investor thinks he can work around me, or take me out, then I’ll go apeshit all over them. No. This is my idea.
I realize I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly my fingers begin to cramp. Shaking them out, I take a few deep breaths and try to not let him get to me. We hired a good attorney to draft our agreement.
Drudging along in the slow traffic on the Bay Bridge and crossing into the East Bay before heading north into Berkeley does nothing for my stress levels. I circle the parking garage and can’t find a parking space. Why does this happen when I need to be on time? This is ridiculous. I finally pull into a spot between two large trash dumpsters. It’s most likely not a legal spot. I’m going to roll the dice and hope that I don’t get a ticket.
I race into class just on time. “Good morning, everyone. Over the weekend you were supposed to review chapters twenty-three through thirty-five.”
Two-hour lectures always wipe me out. So after spending a good thirty minutes following class talking to my anxious students, I wander back to my car. There’s an empty space where I left it. It isn’t there. Shit. No one would steal a ten-year-old Honda Civic.
I look up at the ceiling in the parking garage and spot a partially covered sign behind the lid of one of the dumpsters saying it’s a tow-away zone. I fight back the tears and anxiety that creep over me. I have an enormous amount of data to go through, a dozen emails from students to answer, and I need to find my fucking car. I’m mad at myself, and I’m blaming Dr. Johnson. He got me so upset I didn’t see the stupid tow-away zone sign. Damn.
Pulling out my cell phone, I see the battery is at one bar. Can this day get any worse? Why is it that I can’t get everything going right in the same direction? I call the tow company listed on the sign.
“Ah, you’re the Honda Civic?”
“Yes.” I breathe in and out of my nose, trying to calm myself.
“Well, your car’s been sent to our lot in Walnut Creek.”
“Walnut Creek?” That’s two hours in the opposite direction of where I live.
“That’s right. Your plates are expired, so it went into our impound lot. The cost is $2,300 cash to get your car out.”
“First, my plates don’t expire until the end of the month. Second, the stickers are in the glove box. Third, my car isn’t even worth $2,300.” I disconnect the call. I’m so angry I can’t see straight.
“Professor Vargas?”
I turn and try to put a smile on my face. “Hi, Melanie. How are you?”
“I think I may be doing better than you.”
“Probably. My car was towed. My fault. I was running behind and parked it here.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere? I’m happy to help.”
“That’s very nice of you. I think they can keep the car at this point.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I’ll probably come to my senses in a few days, but I’ve got too much to do to worry about it now. Thank you for the ride offer. I’m going to go work in the Main Library, and I’ll take a rideshare or BART back into the City.”
“Okay. Do you want my number in case you change your mind?”
“That’s very sweet of you, Melanie. I’ll be okay.”
She turns and leaves, and I glare one more time at the partially hidden sign. Hitching my backpack onto my shoulder, I hike across campus. In the Main Library, I find a quiet table and log on to the school Wi-Fi and begin the compilation of my evaluation. If nothing else, I can’t let Dr. Vance Johnson ha
ve a reason to take my idea from me.
When my stomach growls, begging for sustenance, I look at the clock. It’s after nine. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’m starved. I pull a granola bar from my bag and munch on it. Now that I need to pay to get back into San Francisco, I can’t waste any money, and I have food in my fridge at home. I set the alarm on my phone to remind me to not miss the last train back into town, and then I get back to work.
The last train is at midnight. It’ll take me an hour to get into San Francisco, and then I’ll need a ride to my apartment. If I leave the Main Library by eleven-thirty, I’ll make the last train. Now that I have a plan, I can concentrate on my students’ emails, analyze all the data, and keep myself from getting too far behind.
My alarm goes off, but I snooze it twice squeezing out as much time as I can. I just barely make the platform and find a spot on the crowded train. Most of the people are drunk, and it’s another lesson in patience. I fight the sleep on the train which ends up being easier as I eavesdrop on the drunk conversation going on behind me. They’re debating what is the best peanut butter brand. Their back-and-forth is really entertaining, and I come close to telling them that it’s Jif Peanut Butter, but instead I listen and laugh. When I arrive at Union Station, I exit and see the large group of people waiting at the bus stop and decide, rather than take MUNI across town to my place, I’ll call up a rideshare.
It’s 1:30 a.m. by the time I walk into my apartment. I head straight to the kitchen and open a can of vegetable soup. While it heats, I do several squats and a few jumping jacks to get my blood pumping to fight fatigue and sleep. I have a lot to get accomplished and still a few hours of work to get through before I have to be at the lab.
When I finally enter the last bit of information into the proposal, I look at the clock and see that it’s after four. I can sleep for three hours. My body relaxes knowing that sleep is imminent. Three hours of sleep isn’t perfect or nearly enough, but at least it’s something. I don’t even take the time to change. I just crawl into bed and throw my covers over me. I think I’m asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
When the alarm goes off just a short while later, I feel more tired than I was before the nap, and I have another long day ahead of me. I give myself a pep-talk and remind myself, I can do this. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I can always sleep later.
Chapter six
Christopher
It’s been three days since I fucked Bella, and I can’t get the memory of her pussy out of my mind. I’ve picked up the phone several times, tempted to reach out to her, but then I remember I don’t have her information. She left before we could exchange it. I’m mad at myself for not thinking rationally and getting her digits. It’s ridiculous.
I’ve not had that much sex in a long time. I can’t believe I brought her back to my place. I never bring women home. Usually, I’ll grab a room and leave after I’m done. With Bella, it seemed natural to bring her back to my condo.
When I woke that morning, I was sporting my morning wood and ready to take her again, but when I reached for her, the bed was cool to the touch. I rolled over, and she had gone. No note. Nothing.
I’m more than disappointed. It’s usually me who runs out. I can’t decide if I’m mad because she left me without saying goodbye, or if it was because I didn’t get to kick her out—which I never would have done, but she made the decision to leave without consulting me.
Normally, after I fuck a woman so hard, she can barely walk, and I can’t get away from her fast enough. Why is she different?
The challenge. It’s been a while since I’ve had one.
Growing more irritated with every passing second, I know I'm not rational. I toss my cell phone in the top drawer of my desk and bury myself in work.
Cynthia peeks into my office. “Hey, you up for joining Mason, Dillon, and me for lunch today?”
“Sure. What’s the occasion?”
“We’ll be talking about what’s in our pipelines for budgeting purposes.”
My stomach drops. The saying in this business is that “You’re only as good as your last deal,” and I haven’t had one in a while. Cynthia recently had two big wins. I look over what I have going on, and I grow uneasy. We had a deal go sideways with a hacker, and our plans for investing may become curtailed.
“What time?”
She studies me for a moment. “You have nothing to worry about. I asked for the meeting given recent events with Pineapple Technologies and wanted to see how much rope we have to dangle. I’m including William too.”
A small bit of relief crawls through me. I nod. “Great. I’m good with joining you.”
“Perfect. Let’s try for twelve thirty in the lobby. I’ll work on a lunch reservation.”
“See you in a few then.”
I pull a few things together and line up a few files so I’m prepared for lunch.
I walk to the lobby with my leather portfolio and some notes on my pipeline of prospective ventures. The list of possible investments could wrap around San Francisco multiple times, but our goal at SHN is to be a sole investor. We don’t have deep experience in biotech since we just started concentrating on it when I joined, so it’s been a bigger challenge for us to break into than any of us expected. I’ve had some minor wins, but I’d feel more secure with a bigger win. I’m still presented with more opportunities than we could ever fund, and those that really pop have most of our competitors chasing them.
I’m first to arrive in the lobby. Emerson stops by. She oversees the firm’s operations and is married to Dillon, another partner. “Hey, I hear you all are headed to Wetbar for lunch. Very nice.”
Good to know. Nice restaurant. “Should be good.”
“I interviewed someone recently who would make a good person on-site, so I’m hoping you and Cynthia have something coming up so I can hire him.”
Cynthia has walked up during our discussion and joins in. “I hope so too. With Pineapple Technologies tanking after the hackers went to town on them, and our recent investments in two other start-ups, DribbleDrabble and Care, I know we’re both getting some great ideas come across our desks, But I don’t want to overextend us.”
Emerson nods. “I appreciate that. Dillon can be tough to live with when he’s too stressed. His golf game goes in the tank, and it gets too hard to let him win.”
“You never let me win,” Dillon says as he and Mason arrive. Looking carefully at Cynthia and me, he shares, “She could beat any woman on tour, and many of the men, and is entirely too competitive to let anyone beat her.”
“Just trying to share your manliness.” She winks at him and waves as we enter the elevator.
“Don’t worry, I think you're manly,” Mason says with a grin.
“I think it’s totally hot that she can beat the socks off of me. I can run numbers much faster than she can,” Dillon explains.
“There, there, Dillon. I think you’re manly too,” Cynthia insists.
Everyone looks at me. “Okay, I think you’re manly too.”
We are all laughing before we hit the lobby of our building and walk the three blocks to the restaurant.
We are seated facing the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island. Mason is the managing partner, and Dillon oversees our portfolio and, in a traditional sense, is our chief financial officer. William Bettencourt, our newest partner, has been with us a few weeks and is tasked with bringing in financial-based start-ups into our fund.
After we order lunch, Cynthia thanks everyone for coming and says, “I know with the challenges following Pineapple and recently having won two good accounts, I thought we should have a conversation about available funds. An interesting prospectus came across my desk yesterday. It’s a new venture by Tisdale, but they are looking for twenty million right out of the gate. William has some things churning but is too new to have too much.”
William nods.
“Christopher has two strong prospects he’s working on. How much m
oney are they looking for and what’s their timeline?” she inquires.
I’m relieved that she's making sure they hear what I have going on. “I’m meeting with Black Rock Therapeutics this week, and they are looking for an initial ten million, but ultimately they will need roughly three hundred million to go to market.”
Mason interjects, “That’s the Parkinson’s drug with a different delivery system?”
I nod. “If they can get it going, it would be very attractive for some of the bigger pharma companies to buy. Getting it to market on its own would be expensive, but it could flip early if their research is solid.”
“It was founded by the Lasker Award winner, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” I take out a file for another company I’m interested in. “I also like MiscCo. They are doing some aggressive research into the next generation of artificial joints.”
“How much are you projecting they will want?”
“Benchmark is looking at them heavily, and they want between fifteen and twenty million with an eventual spend of two hundred million.”
Dillon whistles. “Wow, that’s big. Benchmark doesn’t have that kind of cash. Where would they get that?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. I know their emerging markets guy and can find out what they are looking at. We’ve never really comingled money with other VC firms. Is that something we would consider?”
“I think that is a good conversation for Sunday night’s partner meeting,” Mason answers.
“So that brings me back to why I wanted this meeting. Dillon, how much investment funds do we have and where are things going forward?” Cynthia asks.
“I think we need to discuss this as a group. I don’t want to get too thin with our cash flow, but if something like Black Rock were to come in and turn quickly, that would be a big deal.”
“I’ll know more by Wednesday,” I assure the group.
When lunch wraps up, I’m not sure we’ve come to any conclusions. Cynthia was hoping to get a green light to talk about how much she has when she interviews start-ups about what they’re looking for. Our previous budgeting had been planned with the income we were expecting to make from Pineapple Technologies before it died, using the profit we made off of them. We’re just happy we got our investment back.
Longing (Billionaire Venture Capitalist #7): A Billionaire Romance Page 3
