by Jess Bentley
Yesterday, I thought my life was fine. I thought it was all set. I thought I had followed through on a rare bout of discipline and self-determination and pushed through my writing challenges to get to the Promised Land. The land of creative liberty and respect from my peers. Serious Writer Land.
But no. I'm not. I'm still going to be writing puff pieces and makeup reviews and lifestyle BS. I'm not going to be a serious writer. Every fantasy that I've had of all the serious journalism — the eat-pray-love of my generation — has just evaporated in a puff of smoke.
So what I'm doing now is wallowing. I feel like I'm breaking up with a nice future boyfriend who never even really existed. I had a vision of myself so clear in my mind, and now it's gone. This is it.
Just how many more articles can I write about frickin’ mascara?? I want to scream.
My cell phone rings and I flip it over to squint at the face. Another 800 number. I swipe left to refuse the call.
See, that's the other thing. I've got bills to pay. And getting paid per click is just about doing it. I am almost able to pay my bills. Every month there’s a moment of panic — like, three days or so of wondering if the sky is really falling this time — then miraculously I have just enough. Maybe $100 extra if life is good.
It’s expensive to live in Chicago.
I need a book deal. Well, some might say first I need to write an actual book. But I should be able to take the work that I've already done and the prestige that Hannah was supposed to gift upon me like a queen offering me a duchy or something, and repackage all that jazz into a book deal. Like, get an agent and have her negotiate with Powers That Be. With an advance. Oh man, yes. That’s the life.
There are still some parts of the publishing industry that work, even in our brand-new economy and our brand-new media landscape. Authors still get advances, which they blow in spectacular fashion until they realize the deadline has reached critical levels and actual words need to get down on actual fucking pieces of paper, like immediately.
That’s the way the system has always worked, and it's a good system. I believe in it.
That collection call is followed promptly by another 888 number. What, do these guys call each other to know when to start the phone tree? Tag teams?
I swipe left on that one too and, with a groan, haul my lazy ass off the sofa. I need to get dressed. The car’s coming to get me at seven-thirty. It’s almost five-thirty now.
I've got two hours. Is that enough time? To shower, shave, and blowout my hair? Not really. This deadline, like so many others before it, is just coming up way too fast. If I was any kind of respectable woman, I would have washed my hair yesterday and put it in curlers overnight. Yeah, because that's what real women do. They plan ahead.
Well, tough. “Tough titty said the kitty when the milk ran dry,” that's another thing grandma said. She was really gifted with words. I guess she’s who I got my potty-mouth from.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room, chewing on my bottom lip with my head cocked to the side like a spaniel. Two hours? Dammit. My mind races back over the last thirty-odd hours… what exactly have I been doing? Moping? Feeling sorry for myself? Waving bye-bye to my imaginary future?
Dang. Sometimes I really gross myself out.
So, this hair… what are we gonna do about this? I start mumbling crazily to myself as I push my fingers into the big brown rat’s nest on top of my head. Should I go bo-ho? Maybe some kind of weirdly complicated and messy up-do? Do I have time to watch about thirty Youtube tutorials on messy up-dos?
“Focus, Bella,” I command my mirror image. My eyes are serious, my eyebrows arched.
No, I will not go watch a bunch of beauty videos. That's a good way to make sure I’m still my underwear when the car gets here.
Instead, I push my fingers a little further into my hair to see just how jacked up it really is. After some strategic tousling and a jaunty swoosh to the opposite side, I realize I could do a teased bombshell thing without too much effort. I mean, starting with dirty hair is pretty much on trend, right? I'm very fashion forward.
I put on a plastic shower cap, tucking the wandering strands under the elastic while I wait for the shower to heat up. I can at least wash my body, maybe slide a razor over the stubblier parts of my legs. I just had a wax so everything is pretty much okay right now, if you’re far enough away.
It's not like I'm going to fuck him, anyway. He probably won't be inspecting my bikini line for grooming faults, right?
“You are not that kind of girl,” I say aloud, reminding myself.
With only an hour and fifteen left to go, I plop my freshly showered bottom on my vanity chair and begin prepping my face for sultry glam vixen. That sounds like a decent look to go with the hair, right? I smear on few hundred dollars in free moisturizer and primer that I got from NYX and set to work, falling quickly into a sort of trance. I like to focus on the sweep of my brow line, the subtle rosy hue on my cheeks. Painting in the eyeliner wings gives me a kind of thrill, watching my face go from plain oval blandness to high contrast babe.
Not that I'm an actual babe, to be honest. I'm sort of run-of-the-mill. Plain brown hair, brown eyes, moderately clear skin. Standard issue lady face. But, as I have mentioned in at least two of my recent lifestyle articles, make up is a way of telling the world “Hey, lay off. I tried.”
People respond to that kind of confidence. They do. It’s like painting, almost. Or what I imagine artists do when they paint. It's kind of like showing everyone that you took control, at least a little bit.
A curling iron takes care of the swishy ends of my hair, turning it from rat’s nest to nineteen-sixties-inspired tousled hairdo. I like how in the ’sixties, everybody looked like they had sex hair. Like they just got out of bed after being properly jostled against the pillow for twenty minutes or so. Of course, it was the era of free love. Maybe they were all freshly fucked. Their lips are plump and pale. Their eyes are haunted. The ’sixties really were pretty terrific, from a fashion perspective.
This all helps me figure out my outfit too. I think I’ll wear a silk swing dress, the one with that crazy blue and green swirl pattern that I like so much. It looks kind of like the oil slick on the surface of a swimming pool that follows the teenage girl slathered in Bain de Soleil.
I slip it over my head and look in the mirror, swinging back and forth to let the loose fabric swish around me. I guess I’m presentable enough. First date appropriate, that's for darn sure.
First date with a billionaire.
A gorgeous billionaire, actually. He was voted Sexiest Man Alive two years in a row.
He’s been seen near-kissing with everyone from Lorde to Lady Gaga to Madonna, for Pete’s sake.
Ugh. I am going to be sick.
The simple truth is, I do not want to date this man, or any man. I do not want to do all of the typical getting to know you chatter: asking the questions, getting the answers. I do not want to memorize his birthday. I do not want to make a date where we meet each other's college friends in order to extend the diameter of our intimacy boundaries. I don’t want to do any of this crap. Sure it would be nice to have some sex, I think, admittedly a little wistfully, but it’s usually all wrapped up in emotion and that comes with a big price.
I just want to be left alone, planted in the middle of my couch, dictating my stories into my computer. Me and my virginity, by myself and at peace.
Is that really so much to ask?
Apparently yes. Hannah was crystal clear in her threat: do this, make it work, or be unemployed.
Again, I ask the mirror for advice. My flowy dress whooshes out as I turn from side to side. Am I billionaire-date material? No. I am a virgin in a turquoise dress with messy hair.
This won’t work.
Determined, I give it another try, rolling my shoulders back and leaning all my weight so that my hip juts to the side. I raise one eyebrow and suck in my cheeks, trying to think fierce thoughts.
Fierce
. Girl, you’re fierce. Roar.
To my surprise, it sort of works. I can show a little confidence, right? With my whole life on the line?
Come on, Bella, concentrate. Fake it til you make it, she said.
Definitely working. If I narrow my mind to only this goal, I can look the part. I’m smart. Shrewd. Focused. I am whatever I need to be to keep swimming, my head just above water.
Newly determined, I jam a couple of white leather stacked heels onto my feet and wobble back down the stairs to grab my blue beaded handbag that I think is under the dining room table for some reason, maybe the coffee table. I seem to remember half-punting it, last time I saw it.
As I get closer, I realize my phone is buzzing again. Another 800 number. Fucking terrific. I swipe left immediately and drop my phone into my bag.
And then I stop, forcing myself to count to ten.
“Bella, you’re going to slay this,” I tell myself aloud. “This is your job. Do your job. Write the story. Act like a pro instead of whiny little teenager. Go on the date like a normal human woman. A million other women in Chicago are doing this exact same thing tonight. Hike up your big-girl panties, and let’s go.”
The security buzzer jingles, and I figure the car is here. With another quick glance in the mirror, I get my newly motivated butt through the front hallway and out onto the concrete stoop in record time. Hobbling down the steps, I pick carefully along the flagstone path to the security gate.
The driver looks me over from bottom to top as I approach, and I plaster a confident smile on my face, just trying it out. He smiles back, even looks a little surprised like I caught him off guard.
That's good. That's what I need: a little reassurance that my act is working on someone. This sort of eyes-forward confidence is very appealing to wealthy men, I imagine. Certainly I can fake anything for one night. Or, for three weeks, I suppose. Confident, secure, and in control. That's me! Bella Cage, superwoman.
“Ms. Cage?” he asks me, smiling shyly. I take a moment to look him over, appreciating his light green eyes and the manly stubble growth along his jawline. His thick neck. His broad shoulders.
See? They’re beautiful in their way. They're not all cheaters and liars and child molesters and grifters and…
But, wait. I digress.
“That's me,” I purr, trying out the voice I intend to use for the evening. It works. Nice purr, I congratulate myself.
“Right this way.”
He leads me through the front gate to the waiting car. I don't know what it is. Some incredibly expensive vehicle, I imagine, and it actually seems to be sort of purple in the light. In any case, he opens the door and I slide into the back seat, pulling my cell phone from my bag as I do so.
I only notice his eyes flicker up into the rearview mirror a few times as we drive. I murmur into my recorder, trying to remember everything about how I got ready. The worry, the procrastination, the shower. How I picked my hairdo. How I picked my makeup. Every brand of every cream and color I applied… I’ll need those for advertising tie-ins, I'm sure.
I’ll be happy to leave all that behind, after this final push toward legitimacy.
It actually takes us twenty minutes to get there, and I realize I managed to get twenty minutes of notes into my phone. I haven't even met the guy for a drink yet, and I've already written probably three thousand words about getting my panties on. At this rate, I'll have a novel by the end of next week.
Wait a second… a novel? Hm. Maybe I should…
No, I have my orders. It’s just an article. Hannah would throw a fit if I tried to change that up.
The car door swings open, letting in a blast of summer sunlight. It's golden and rich, filtered through the gilded leaves of Streeterville, only Chicago's most expensive neighborhood for the last hundred fifty years in a row.
“Thank you,” I mumble as I take his hand and rise to the sidewalk. I notice that people are looking at me as I walk into The Copper. It's a very exclusive location. They're probably wondering who I'm there to service.
I see him immediately. He is actually impossible to miss. Handsome and confident, he sits with his elbow on the table, staring into the face of his phone. A half-handful of dark, shiny hair dangles across his unlined brow. His cheekbones are so sharp they cast a shadow. Every few seconds, his broad chest inflates, expanding the width of the opening of his linen shirt. His skin is a tawny glow.
Jesus. He’s gorgeous.
There are a half dozen people around him, swooping back and forth like satellites caught in his gravity. Yes, Mr. Riordan. Certainly, Mr. Riordan, they mewl obsequiously. Everybody is at his beck and call. Just look at him. It kind of turns my stomach to see.
But he looks up like he knows I’m there, grinning broadly when he sees me. Am I late? Or was he early? That seems like a strangely polite thing for billionaire to do, doesn't it?
He rises as I walk forward, holding his hands out as though he is a spokesmodel, and I am the prize he's been hired to described.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice completely sincere. “I like you in blue.”
“Will your companion be having the Japanese whisky?” the waiter asks him (not me), swooping back and forth and staring as he leads me to the chair at the back of the table. I slide into it as he holds it out for me.
I'm totally disarmed. Everything I planned on saying sort of crumbles away like a sand castle under a rising tide.
“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter. My voice sounds dry. Little bits of it break off in the air and float away like sand in the water.
“Is that your favorite color?”
I take a deep breath. So, this is happening. We’re doing the first date questionnaire.
“No,” I admit. “It’s pink.”
His eyebrows go up as a small smirk puckers the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and velvety-looking. I can see why so many women have wanted to get on them.
“That’s a very feminine choice,” he remarks.
“Is a favorite color a choice?” I shrug. “I would have thought it came built-in. Like in your DNA.”
“Yeah, that could be,” he continues.
His gaze is direct and unwavering, and it takes a lot to just sit here and let him look at me like that. Is that supposed to be part of his charm? I feel like I need a blanket or a curtain or something. Like he’s a peeping tom trying to see into my brain.
“Well, so…” I press on, trying to think about what humans might say to each other on dates. “What’s your favorite color?” I ask lamely.
“Money,” he answers promptly. “That’s in my DNA too. So I guess you’re right.”
“Gotcha,” I scoff, unsure if I’m supposed to laugh at that or swoon. I finger the hem of my dress, and then force myself not to fidget.
His eyes are dark but intense, ringed by thick lashes. His hands look strong. I bet he works out. I try not to measure him with my eyes, but make a mental note to do that later, when he’s not looking. I’ll need all these details for the book. I mean, for the article.
“So what is it you do for me, Bella?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh! That explains your wit. And will you be writing about this?”
“I write on assignment for Hannah,” I say, dodging the question. “She has —”
“Can I interest you in our charcuterie, Mr. Riordan?” a different woman asks, cutting me off, smoothing a white napkin over her wrist.
“Not just yet, thank you,” he answers her politely, then redirects his attention to me.
His eyes lock back on mine, his face crinkling into a smile. He has dimples that rise vertically along his cheeks, almost up to his eyes. Serious, emphatic dimples. Dimples that mean something.
“Did I mention how pleased I am that you asked me to come here?” he murmurs, his dimples creasing even further if that's possible.
I nod awkwardly, unsure what else to do. I feel my palms getting wet. My heart starts to race. Why is he
making such a big deal about me asking him? Weren’t we both asked? Why am I not saying anything? Should I be saying something? Suddenly I feel like there was supposed to be an agenda for this, and I have forgotten everything on it. Is it an interview? Should I have questions?
“Still water or sparkling, Mr. Riordan?” yet another server asks. Are you kidding me with this?
I need a plan. I need to do something. What would my storybook character be doing at this point? I can’t just be sitting here, disarmed and stuttering like a terrified child.
Before I know it, I'm leaning toward him. My hand slides around to find the back support of his chair so that I'm not falling, exactly, but definitely tilting forward. It’s happening so quickly, I'm not even sure he's reciprocating. My lips find his lips, slide along them. I hear him suck in his breath, but then realize I'm kissing him and he's kissing me back. His lips are soft, gentle, curious. Then firm, then firmer. His tongue darts playfully under the rim of my upper lip, and he inhales me, sucking the breath out of me.
When we finally separate, I'm breathless, dizzy, totally confused and off-kilter. But at least I made a move. I’m the boss. For now.
But I'm smiling, too. I can feel the tension in my cheeks. His eyes dance with mirth and his lips remain open as though he's about to say something.
“Was that all right?” I ask, finally finding my voice. It's not a purr, but it will have to do.
He nods, dazzling me again with that bright, beautiful smile. “More than all right. Perfect.”
“I just wanted to move past some of the more awkward formalities,” I explain shyly, but with a playful lilt in my voice so he might wonder if I do this sort of thing all the time.
“Brilliant plan,” he grins. “I did not see that coming at all.”
“So, now that we’re past all that… is it all right if I call you Emmet?”
He tips his head to the side, pulling back just a bit.
“Well, I'd sort of rather you didn't,” he confides. “I'm Dillon.”
CHAPTER 6
Dillon
Her expression freezes. I hear the little whoosh of breath that gets caught at the back of her throat.
