Chapter 11
It was late afternoon before they woke up again, bathroom breaks notwithstanding. The sun had finally risen, and they stretched comfortably in the cabin. They'd gotten used to the smell sometime during the night, and without it, and with the touch of the sun, it was actually really cozy. Layne laid in bed, looking at the pictures on the walls, a framed leaf plated with gold on a cream mounting board; a motivational phrase embroidered onto a scroll, encouraging everyone to live in the moment and believe the best is possible. She recognized the quote from somewhere but couldn't quite place it anymore. It had been too long since she dared to wander into a library. Most of them had water damaged books, and the smell of mold was too much for her allergies. She might as well have rolled around on a rug made of cat fur.
Finally, she gazed at the perfect sleeping body of Jax. She let her eyes roam in full golden glory what she hadn't been able to see in the dark. It had been the best sex of her life, nothing could possibly compare. His hand was resting on his bare chest, and she touched it, unable to believe that somebody so mysteriously powerful had come into her life. But there he was.
He gripped her hand tightly as he opened his eyes. He looked well-rested for the first time since they met. She realized that he never seemed able to fully relax – he was always on the alert, looking out for danger, watching out at all times so she wouldn't have to. It was nice to see him have a break for a change. It was something that she would like to get used to. He deserved some peace of mind once in a while.
“Good morning,” he said with a smile.
“Morning,” she replied.
She was worried that her breath smelled bad. She had cardamom seeds in her bag. She hoped that once they were planted they could chew on them to improve their oral hygeine. She had a toothbrush but without toothpaste it wasn't exactly breath-refreshing. Most people didn't bother anymore, but she did her best. It was something she and Jax had in common. The people in the tribes were too miserable to care much about their hygeine.
Jax sat up, kissing her on the cheek, and cracked the window by the bed open. They were hit with a smell that Layne found intoxicating, and she had a sudden urge to run outside and play like she would have when she was just a young girl. The fresh air and the trees awakened her.
“Let's go explore!” she exclaimed. “I want to see what it's like here.”
“All right,” he said, laying lazily on the bed, everything tantalizingly exposed but his groin. Each knew what the other was thinking, and he tackled her back onto the bed.
When they were done, they pulled their clothes back on and headed outside with their backpacks.
“I really like it here,” Layne decided. It had a good feeling about it. Good energy, as if it had been inhabited by kind people. After a while of wandering, you got a sense like that about a place. She tried to avoid old homes because the bad feelings were the worst, especially when you were alone.
Jax nodded.
“Look, it gets better!”
They had suddenly come upon a gravel pathway. They glanced at each other excitedly. Each side of the path was littered with edible berry bushes.
“This is quaint,” Jax said, plucking a berry from its stem and popping it into his mouth. Layne laughed. Jax was the kind of person who would say “quaint and mean it.” She followed his lead, picking a handful of berries, and they began walking down the path, unsure of what they would find.
“Why do I feel like this is Hansel and Grettle?” Layne asked as they moved forward cautiously.
“Maybe we all feel like characters in a book when things are too good to be true, because we believe the catch will come at any minute.”
“What if I choose not to believe in a catch this time?” The day had been too perfect.
“We'll find out when we reach the end of the path,” Jax said with a shrug.
They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked, picking berries and eating until finally, they reached a clearing. They stared at the sight in disbelief, clinging to each other's hands tightly.
They were standing in front of a giant solar panel, surrounded by a garden – boxes of raised beds with old, shriveled, plants wilting in them.
“This is unreal,” Jax said, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. If he had glasses he would put them on right now.
“Pinch me,” Layne whispered. Jax pinched her butt and she laughed, pushing him away. “Ass.”
He grinned, turning to her, giddy with pleasure.
“This means running water. They would need a well out here. Layne, you can have this. We can keep it. You can have a home again!”
The threat of the wild dogs seemed like a distant memory. Here was the remains of somebody's dreamland. A place that was already growing its own compost. The animals got into all of the food of course, they would have to be careful, but it was a start. They embraced tightly, and Layne wept tears of joy. Jax held her tightly, kissing the top of her head. She would be safe her, and they would stick together, creating a home, somewhere stable where he could bring his brother to safety.
THE END
What the Billionaire Needs
Natalie Nixon
Copyright ©2015 by Natalie Nixon. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Thank you so much for your interest in my work!
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE: WALL STREET
CHAPTER TWO: THE OFFER
CHAPTER THREE: DAVID
CHAPTER FOUR: THE FIRST LESSON
CHAPTER FIVE: THE OFFERING
CHAPTER SIX: THE SECOND LESSON
CHAPTER SEVEN: A GIFT
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE FINAL LESSON
CHAPTER ONE: WALL STREET
It was another day in the Wall Street boy's club; a term I don't use lightly. The stock world is a testosterone driven arena where men assert their masculinity by driving through deals and collecting commissions. I guess with no more lions to kill or Spartans to battle they've gone from swords to the mobile devices they wave around like old west "shooting irons".
For those of us who were born without "Y" Chromosomes things are different. Men who push hard are deemed "tough businessmen", but when we do it we're called "bitches." We couldn't even expect support from the few women who had made it. They were too busy watching their own backs to worry about some lowly junior stockbroker in a skirt.
I was one of those junior brokers, cold calling potential clients, hoping to pull in enough commissions to make the one-year evaluation standards. Fifty percent of us would be cut loose after the first year. Seventy percent of those cut loose would be women.
I didn't deserve to be doing so much time at the lowest rung. I had graduated at the top of my class, with gleaming endorsements from my professors. But there had been one little slip up that continued to haunt me, I'll go into that later.
***
"Have you considered investing in stocks?" I said, using my best selling voice, "Currently we have a tremendous opportunity available…" but he cut me off in mid-sentence.
"Yeah, you can save that crap. I saw that Leonardo DiCaprio movie and I know all these stock calls are just scams. Don't call me again or I'll report you." And with that my latest potential meal ticket hung up.
I pulled my headset off and sat back. I’d been rejected probably fifty times that morning, and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet. One cold call, however, had stayed on the line. But I realized he was more interested in what I was wearing than in what I was selling. Maybe I should start a side business, a 976 number where you can sexually harass a marketer for ninety-nine cents a minute, I thought to myself. It would have meant a raise.
I glanced up in time to see my supervisor Jeff strutting by.
"What's up Stewart, you taking a coffee break? Come on,
time is money," he said and continued on to torment the other junior brokers.
I graduated at the top of my class… and this is what it got me.
At the eight-hour mark I headed home. Some of the juniors would stay on, cold calling during the dreaded "dinner hours" when customers were at their most resentful. I just didn't have it in me tonight.
I stepped out of the building and walked through the now empty financial district. It always amazed me how quickly Wall Street went from a swarming beehive in the morning to post-apocalyptic after six o'clock. Most of the boy's club had adjourned to the districts bars where they'd boast about their deal-making prowess and do bumps of coke in the men's room. Did you know most insider trading is just cocaine induced babbling by brokers? Sad but true.
I was coming up on the Fulton Street station when I spied a limousine cruising behind me. My first guess was a couple of drunken brokers out heckling women. The perfect end to a perfect day. The limo pulled ahead of me and stopped. The driver climbed out and stood waiting as I approached.
"Ms. Stewart?" He asked politely.
I took a moment to appraise the situation. There are two kinds of limo drivers. There are the frumpy rental limo guys struggling to appear classy in cheap ill-fitting suits. They usually have an accent from either Eastern Europe or the depths of Queens. This was the other kind, pressed, well-tailored and immaculate, someone who worked for only one discerning client. This guy stood straight and tall like a US Marine, which he probably had been at some point in the not too distant past.
"Yes I'm Rebecca Stewart. Can I help you?"
"My employer asked me to pick you up. He would like a meeting with you."
"And who is your employer?"
"Mr. Peter Drake, I believe you’re familiar with him."
"Peter Drake?" I replied in disbelief. Drake was probably the most successful businessman in America. He'd made billions, primarily as a "corporate raider", buying up businesses and then gutting them for their assets. Drake had diversified into electronics, aerospace and a myriad of other high-risk sectors, always earning a profit where others failed. I had written my college thesis about Drake, exploring the psychology that drove him to success. It was equal parts clinical analysis and schoolgirl crush. "Why would Peter Drake want to meet with me?"
The driver reached into his jacket and handed me a bound document. I stared at it for a moment in disbelief… it was my college thesis.
Without another word the driver opened the door and politely gestured for me to climb in.
CHAPTER TWO: THE OFFER
Twenty minutes later we arrived at Drake International's headquarters, a fifty story building on the Brooklyn side of the bridge. Some claimed Drake chose the location to take advantage of the burgeoning Brooklyn real estate market. Others say he just liked the view of Manhattan.
The driver escorted me through the still bustling lobby. Drake's various enterprises didn't keep to any traditional schedule.
We walked to a private elevator. The driver entered a key-code and stepped back.
"This will take you directly to Mr. Drake's private offices. I'll be waiting down here to drive you home."
My mind raced as I rode up to the fiftieth floor. Drake's private offices were legendary… in that so few had ever seen them. I've heard rumors that even heads of state were denied access.
The door opened, and I stepped into Drake's private domain. I'm not an art lover, but I instantly recognized works by Dali and Picasso decorating the foyer. Handmade bookshelves lined the walls. I studied the shelves as I passed, surprised to find priceless first editions alongside battered Raymond Chandler paperbacks. Obviously Mr. Drake's books weren't just window dressing.
The view through the full-length windows was stunning, showcasing the priceless beauty of the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. Beyond it lay Manhattan in all its glory. I wondered how often Drake stood here looking out… master of all he surveyed.
"Weaker men meditate on the complexities of terms like moral, ethical and legal. But the true conqueror whether in business or government does not allow these terms to impede his actions. To him these are issues to be sorted out later."
I turned; shocked to hear my own words being quoted. Peter Drake stood fifteen feet away, hands folded behind his back, his blue eyes studying me.
"Your own words I believe?" He added, "I hope I didn't misquote them."
"No," I replied, trying to sound calm, "I think you got it exactly right, actually."
"Very insightful for such a young woman," He said, approaching me, "And quite unfashionable in the politically correct world of academia. Most people frown on my tactics, but you understand and embrace them."
Up close his eyes were even more clear and penetrating. There were flecks of gray creeping into his tousled brown hair, but from his strong features it would be impossible to guess his exact age. His suit was immaculate, carefully tailored to his lean body.
"Sadly I haven't had the chance to act on them given my job," I said. I instantly regretted mentioning my mere peasant status.
"True, your talents are being wasted in your current position."
I was nervous, not only was I meeting someone I idolized professionally, but I also found Drake incredibly attractive. I'm not ashamed to admit that after long days of researching him I had occasionally let my libido take charge after dark.
"You stated that to succeed in the world of business a person had to make moral sacrifices, and that the ends justified whatever means were required. Do you truly believe that?" His gaze never wavered as he spoke.
"Yes I do," I replied, "The corporations of today are on the scale of ancient empires, and all empires were built aggressively. Any short term damage done is overshadowed by the growth and prosperity that rises in its wake."
"I've studied you very carefully," He said, turning to the full-length window, "You're a fascinating, intelligent and very attractive young woman."
The attractive part struck me. Was this about sex? I didn't mind because truth be told, I'm a power groupie. For me Peter Drake was pretty much Jagger, Bowie and Morrison rolled into one.
"Thank you Mr. Drake,"
"Please, call me Peter. Rebecca are you uncomfortable about my mentioning how attractive you are?"
"No, not really," God, was he psychic or was I just too easy to read? "But I'd assume a man like you has his choice of hundreds of eager women."
"Yes, that's true, many women approach me offering sex or sex dressed up as love. Of course they all want something in return. They are willing, but have very clear boundaries. And where's the fun in that? It's only challenging when a woman doesn't know how far she's willing to go and is ready to test her limits."
If he wanted to shock me, it wasn't working. The more he spoke of limits, the more fascinated I became.
"Rebecca I've mentored many young women who have gone on to great careers. But to do that I must ensure that they share my passion and willingness. Once they prove that to me, I know they can succeed in the business arena." He turned and approached me again, his face inches from mine. "Do you want to succeed?"
"Yes I do," I replied with absolute certainty. He was so close I could have kissed him, but I suspected that would be too simple. The tension was palatable on both our parts. He leaned forward.
"I want you to take your panties off," He whispered, his lips brushing against my ear.
It may surprise some, but I barely hesitated. I was enthralled. Of course I was still human, and so nervously I raised my skirt up a bit, and lowered my panties to the floor, wishing I'd worn a nicer pair. I stepped out of them, but he showed no interest in picking them up.
He picked something up off a nearby shelf and placed it in my hand. It was a specimen cup.
"I need you to fill the cup, but please don't spill any on the floor. Persian rugs are difficult to clean," He said in a matter of fact tone.
He took a step back. I glanced around hoping he would point me towards a bathroom. No such luck.
If this was a test I didn't intend to fail. I slipped the cup under my skirt, and took a few breaths. I felt a trickle start and was careful not to let it escalate. My hand shook a little. Imagine if my biggest opportunity in life vanished because I peed on the carpet like a scared puppy. After a few seconds I deftly removed the cup without spilling a drop. He held out his hand.
"Don't worry, I have no sexual interest in urine, but you have to be careful about diseases," He said, screwing the cap back on, "I'll have this checked for STD's tonight. Meet me here tomorrow at noon for our first lesson. We will have three lessons before you… graduate."
"I'll call my boss and tell him I'm sick."
Drake pulled a cell phone from his pocket, scrolled through the contacts and pressed dial. I stood there, wondering who he was calling.
"Mr. Becker, this is Peter Drake. Yes, it is actually me."
Becker was the CEO of the firm I worked for. The man didn't even know I existed.
Drake continued, "We met two years ago at the G8 Conference, you had just purchased a fifty foot Viking Yacht and were planning a world cruise. So you do remember? Good. I have one of your employees with me, Ms. Rebecca Stewart. I'll be requiring her consultation services for the next two weeks and would appreciate your cooperation. Does that work for you? Great, thank you very much… and I hope you realize what a tremendous asset she is to your firm. Goodbye." He hung up the phone and smiled, "You are officially excused from work. Even if our agreement doesn't pan out you'll certainly be getting a promotion."
He turned and walked off towards his private living area. " Tomorrow at noon. My driver will pick you up."
He vanished behind a pair of double doors, and, as if on cue, the elevator opened behind me.
CHAPTER THREE: DAVID
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