by Alice Ward
“I don’t know how you can sleep to that, Gran,” I whispered in her ear as I tried to rouse her.
“Hmmm,” she said in a sleep-glazed grog.
“You have to go to bed,” I told her more loudly.
“Right, right. Just making sure you got home okay.” She stood up and headed to her bedroom down the hall. “You have a good night, kiddo?” she asked as an afterthought.
“Better than most. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”
“Night, dear heart.”
I was too wired to sleep. Ironically, I understood why the star of My Fair Lady sang about wanting to dance all night. I shouldn’t have been feeling the way I did about my Professor Higgins because he was nothing more than a moneyed bully. Well, to be fair to ol’ Eliza Doolittle, her Professor Higgins wasn’t too different than mine. He was simply a rich player who liked to toy with people. Despite this fact, everyone at the diner tonight night went home with a tiny piece of happiness.
Michael, the thirty-five-year-old dishwasher with five kids, burst into tears when we told him the news. I got a hug from Linda, and even more shocking, from Ma as well. It felt amazing. So, in addition to his virtuosity as a flirt and an indecent proposer, the rich dude tonight made magic. And despite my wanting to hate him for everything he stood for, I found myself fascinated too. Why me? As I stared at the TV, all I could think of was that man. I didn’t even know who he was. I remembered how soft and subtle his lips looked but didn’t even bother to find out his name.
I remembered his signature. KP. Just two initials. Who could possibly be rich enough to be only known by two letters? Like the ultimate researcher, I googled “KP and millionaire” to see what that dredged up. I was fully aware of how lame I was being, but it was oh-my-god o’clock, who cared? Two significant hits came up as top search results. A rapper named KP Million and Kembrough Preston, head of production and owner of Lakeshore Pictures. After looking at my search results, I was pretty sure… like one hundred percent sure that KP from Ma’s Diner was not a rapper. No way. I clicked on Kembrough Preston. The named oozed pretense, this had to be my man.
Boom! There he was, one of the most successful movie producers in New York. My first thought was, why not Hollywood? New York for movies was like pork being “the other white meat.” Maybe he was a hack with family money and his film biz was a side gig. A quick IMBD search shut me up. The man was a god. Well, my mind rambled, there was always bacon. Pork was bacon anyway. Okay, dammit, now I wanted the bastard. I didn’t think I would take him up on his offer, but in my head, I revisited our exchange at the diner.
“You know what, Kembrough Preston,” — paused to cough at such a ridiculously pretentious name — “I think I’ll take you up on that fuck after all.”
Go to bed, Caitlyn Marie Ashcroft. You’re starting to sound like a wanton, money-grubbing wanna be.
I liked teasing myself, cause I was teetering on the edge of sanity, and I needed to keep myself grounded. While I slightly regretted that I would never see KP, the dashingly inappropriate and sadly named billionaire, at least I had my moment. It would be a fine name-dropping moment in years to come — when I was lonely and poor, still working at the diner with Linda, for the rest of my life.
Remember that time when KP, the famous billionaire, wanted to fuck you? And you turned him down.
CHAPTER FOUR
KP
Tuesday morning, I was restless after my evening with Rachel. While I had always enjoyed our time together, I felt unusually uninspired by our sexual exchange and considered calling the whole thing off. Everything I attempted to do felt listless and boring compared to the electrical thoughts Caitlyn ignited within me. I was being a child, I knew. There was no such thing as love at first sight, but hyper-charged, raging lust, definitely!
I wasn’t sure what my next move was going to be. I felt restless and disappointed in myself for not coming up with some kind of brilliant plan immediately. I couldn’t just stalk her, that would be criminal. The catfish was certainly no reason to return. I had to find a way to snare her, if only for another opportunity to talk.
I decided to revisit my Google search of the elusive Caitlyn Ashcroft to see if I’d missed something. Specifically, I wanted to discover anything that would give me an insight into how to reach her. As I searched through the few files that came up under her name, I found that she recently had a showing at a small gallery in New Haven.
I leaned across my desk far enough to see my assistant hard at work logging the daily files into production folders on her computer. A tedious daily duty, and one I was happy not to be doing. Sandra was a good assistant, very diligent, but she wasn’t a tiger. She would probably be an assistant all her life. Only those who really grabbed the industry by the balls actually made it past the cube in front of someone’s office.
“Sandra, call the City Gallery in New Haven and have them hold all of their Ashcroft pieces for me. I’ll be there around nine-thirty, give or take.”
“Sure thing.” She was always chipper; it kept me from raging at her.
I had a reputation, quite a villainous one, that had most of the trade publications depicting me as a screamer. They weren’t wrong, but with Sandra, I barely raised my voice. She was capable enough not to make me insane. I knew she would be able to get me an appointment, and I started to feel exhilarated knowing I was heading for a clandestine voyage into Caitlyn’s world. It was stalking, but in its acceptable form.
I felt a pique of amusement while watching the director’s cut of one of our films. Beau Brandegauet’s cuts were usually entertaining because the director took his little horror franchise so seriously. He treated each installment as if it was the next Shining, but it was drivel. However, despite its light artistic value, it was a box office maverick. I agreed to his cut in the contract but already had our editors sifting through the footage and creating the real masterpiece. A slasher hit with lots of spooks and bumps, some tight shots on gratuitous fornication, and we would have another blockbuster on our hands. I settled in with my latte and a good sense of humor as I watched the slow-mo fucking scenes before our killer knifed the brainless beauty in the eye. Such pretense. People didn’t like slow-mo these days. They wanted it hard, fast, and bloody. I was writing my notes when Sandra interrupted my work.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Preston, but the gallery manager won’t be able to accommodate your request for nine-thirty this evening.” She looked like she was going to pass out, as she rarely was unable to secure whatever I demanded.
“Is he on the phone now?”
“Yes, sir, he would like to know if you want to schedule for another day?”
“Tell him, no. I’ll be there tonight. Thank you.” With a wave of my hand, I dismissed her.
Yes, I was a complete asshole, but I always got my way, and I was too agitated to be accommodating.
While Sandra was on the phone making profuse apologies — whatever it took, I didn’t care — to the gallery manager, Lucas waltzed into my office. He was my best friend. We had known each other from childhood. He became a lawyer and general do-gooder of the people, and I became a nasty, albeit successful, movie producer. But I was in no mood for him today. I was too tense.
“Sparring match is tomorrow night,” I said, not looking up from the abysmal director’s cut of the movie.
“No, it’s not, I have to reschedule.”
I didn’t even look at him. “No.”
Another particularly gruesome death scene was playing out. They had a choice. The lead character could cut off his arm and feed it to his girlfriend before a bomb went off and killed them both. Or, if she ate her own arm, the timer on the bomb would stop. It was a “how much do you love each other” kind of thing. Of course, the director’s cut made it sappy, with too many close shots showing their agonizing decision. Should he cut his own arm off to save them? Should she eat it for the same purpose? It was good, sick shit, but again, it needed to be fast, dirty, and rough. This ooz
ed 1970’s and was like vomit on a loop. Good thing I knew our editor could fix this.
“Shit, that’s fucked up,” Lucas said.
“You know what’s fucked up? This shit makes one hundred mill in the opening weekend,” I snarled back.
“What has you so fired up this morning?” He knew me too well.
“Nothing I want to share. So why are you dumping me?” I was being dramatic.
“I have a date with this amazing woman, Alicia. She works at a funeral home as an embalmer. She has to work every night this week except for tomorrow, so she wins cause she might be it for me.” He was glowing, the bastard.
“An embalmer? Have you lost your mind?” What kind of troll was he planning on dating?
The glow didn’t dim. “If you saw her, you would lose your mind too.”
“I doubt it, what kind of crazy becomes an embalmer?” I was actually very curious.
“She wants to restore people’s loved ones as close to their original state as possible so she can give them back to their family and friends before saying goodbye forever. It’s her mission in life.” He seemed sincere, but I had to check.
“You fucking with me, amigo?” I really wasn’t sure.
He was all smiles. “You’re the one watching a man cut off his own arm, how is that worse?”
I waved him away. “I really want to beat the shit out of you. See her next week.”
“I wouldn’t dare. Tomorrow is off, but I’ve come to take you to The Dutch for lunch.” He grabbed the remote and threatened to turn off the TV.
“Wait, just let me watch this last thing,” I said as I held him back.
The scene had moved past the lover’s inability to complete their sacrifice in time. With his hand chopped off, and her unable to eat it, the room exploded. Such good tragedy. But then it continued, the living characters all talk, talk, talk, which was going to translate into cut, cut, cut. I was getting too bored to care, so I took Lucas up on his offer.
During lunch, I asked him how he knew that she was the one. I’d known him long enough to know that, “Hi, I’m Alicia, the embalmer,” wasn’t going to do it for him on its own.
“I met her on a dating website,” he started.
I was authentically shocked. “Shut up, you’re a G.I. Joe. Why do you need the internet?”
I was always jealous of his good looks. I mean, I was handsome, but I always felt like my face was too angular, too chiseled. Lucas had a manly look about him, rugged. That’s why, when we sparred, I always went for the face, just trying to give him a little scar. I wasn’t really — mostly my aim was bad — but sometimes, that deviousness crept in. He knew it though and never faulted me my jealousy. He was the best friend for me because he was completely unaffected by avarice and vanity.
It hit me hard. The little waitress was the same. She even had his brave defiance. She was like Lucas, only she was shockingly beautiful and made my dick hard, something Lucas, thank god, had never done. I was proud of myself and the Freud I had become.
“I need the internet because most of the women I meet are vapid and self-centered. I needed to do a deeper screening. It also gave me a chance to get to know her. Tomorrow will be our first date.”
He hadn’t even met the woman? “Then how the hell do you know she’s it? It’s all just circumspect.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Because she just has it, KP. That indescribable thing that raises your flag and gets your blood pumping. It’s what she says, how she sees the world, her face, her body—”
“Which you haven’t seen.”
He actually blushed. “We’ve Skyped. Skype can’t lie.”
“How would you know, unless you got her naked on Skype?” His blush reddened. “No fucking way, you guys had cybersex?”
“Well, you screw every woman on two legs,” he countered.
“I am exclusively screwing one woman right now, thank you very much, but it’s all probably gonna end soon.” Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that.
His eyebrows went up. “Oh?”
Damn it, I would probably have to confess. I’d just dug myself a hole and jumped right in.
“I just, it’s… fuck.” I couldn’t choke it out.
He leaned forward in his seat. “It’s bad, whatever it is. How did you meet her? Are you two dating?”
“Not yet, but we will.” Hell yes, we will.
“She an actress? Anyone I know?” He could be a curious dickhead.
“Nope, she’s definitely no one you know, and no one I’m ready to talk about.” Was I really desperate enough to ask this next question? Apparently. “If I was going to pursue this opportunity, what do you think the best way to close this kind of deal is? What do women want?”
I thought he would laugh but surprised me when he took the question seriously. “First, you have to show her you care about the things she cares about.”
“So, what did you do? Go to a lot of funerals?” I wanted to laugh, but it felt inappropriate.
He shook his head. “No, when my little brother died, I truly appreciated the people who made him look like he did before cancer ravaged his body.” Crap, he was so real, I had to dial my sarcasm back.
I remembered when Wilhelm died. He was only five. Lucas and I were three years older. I could never get over the shock of seeing his little body in that casket. It felt so final, like it was truly the end, which it was. I looked at my friend. Lucas and I also had that in common, little brothers with terminal illnesses.
“I can see that. He looked just like he was, you know, before…” Fuck, feelings were hard.
Lucas sat back in his seat and lightened the subject. “So, we had that in common, and we both like the Mets, opera, Cheese Wiz, and Star Wars. That was enough of a start for me.”
It felt good to laugh. “Really, she had you at Cheese Wiz?”
“Perfect cheese food in a can,” he confirmed.
“Well, just don’t serve it at your wedding,” I cautioned.
He laughed. “My only advice is to be real with her. I know that’s hard for you to do, but just be yourself. Show her that good guy you have buried under production deals, blockbuster movies, and a billion dollars, and you’ll be fine.”
I really loved him. He was like a brother to me.
We spent the rest of the meal catching up, talking politics and sports, and updating each other on family. I didn’t have much to say about my family. I’d been estranged from them for many years. He, on the other hand, was still very close to his mom, sister, and brothers. His father left them when they were young. His mother was an heiress, so she was plenty rich enough to maintain a large home in our childhood neighborhood. It was another thing I envied about him; he had a great relationship with his family. I didn’t wish to have the same kind of relationship with mine. My parents were a different breed of people, but watching the love Lucas and his family shared, even as adults, was a little painful at times.
We finished lunch, rescheduled our weekly sparring match for Wednesday, and I finished the heinous director’s cut of a movie that was guaranteed to be a hit.
I thought about what Lucas said in regard to showing interest in things women were passionate about. The trouble was, outside of knowing that Caitlyn was strong, independent, and unafraid of someone with a great deal more money than she, I didn’t know anything about her. I knew I wanted to have sex with her, badly. My cock twitched at the thought of her under me, her beautiful body writhing beneath mine as she begged for more of me inside her. Hopefully, the trip to the art gallery would prove enlightening and help me discover more about the feisty waitress.
When I arrived at the gallery, I found it to be a small, neat building with many eclectic works of art. The manager was irritated but polite when I showed up at nearly ten. Traffic was horrible, so I was a half hour past my appointment, one which he was reluctant to grant in the first place. He guided me to an empty room where Caitlyn’s art had been propped up against the wall.
“I’m sorry the
se aren’t properly mounted, Mr. Preston, Ms. Ashcroft’s exhibit was a week ago. We were just preparing them to be picked up. In order to exhibit them here tonight, we had to unwrap them again,” he said with a note of bitter resentment.
“It’s my pleasure to pay you for your time,” I offered as I put five hundred dollars in his hand.
He seemed a bit happier once he had my money, although he moved to protest. “It’s not necessary to pay me. I’m only suggesting that with the perfect lighting and wall placement, these pieces are much more powerful.” He was backtracking, but not handing the cash back.
“Consider it a donation,” I dismissed as I made my way over to the first painting.
Her art immediately had me interested. She had raw talent, that was evident. It lacked refinement, but the lack of refinement was perfect for the subject matter she chose to paint. She had about ten paintings, all of which showed her gracious heart and reflected her view of a complicated world.
The first piece that caught my attention was a canvas of a small girl standing in a dark alley slick with rain. The darkened skies obliterated a moon that was desperately trying to illuminate its way out of the blackness and shine on the decrepit city below. The girl had no shoes, her dress was in tatters, and her hair knotted. She was a tiny child, dwarfed by the menacing buildings enveloping her. The world around the child looked massive, as if it was swallowing her whole.
I felt the intensity of that painting and knew exactly the emotion she was trying to capture. Those feelings of helplessness and dread that loomed over children, incarcerating them in their own cycle of fear and distrust.
Tears burned the backs of my eyes at seeing such raw emotions captured so well. She had known something dark in her childhood. This painting was not a pitiful cry that begged for mercy. Rather, the piece was an act of defiance. Putting such innocence in peril said, “this small child can survive.” Even in tatters, the tiny girl had her hands defiantly mounted on her hips as she looked up to the sky as if to fight the very night for her own survival. She looked much like Caitlyn the night I met her in the restaurant.
