by J. Kenner
"It's available immediately," Lisa says. "My client's very eager."
I run my fingertip over the desktop, tempted. I've been on the fence about leasing office space, but now that I'm actually standing in an office that could have my name on the door, I have to admit that it's pretty heady stuff.
I slide my hand into my pocket and run my fingertip over the edge of one of the business cards that Damien presented to me this morning. Nikki L. Fairchild, CEO, Fairchild Development. I'd laughed when I opened the box, but there had been tears, too. Not just because I'm finally, really doing this, but because of the pride I saw in Damien's eyes.
It occurs to me that he must have started much the same way; after all, he hardly sprang fully born from Zeus's head with a tennis racquet in one hand and Stark Tower in the other. No, he started small and worked his way up to gazillionaire status. I smile, oddly comforted by the thought.
"It's a great opportunity," Lisa prompts.
"I know," I say honestly. Because of the circumstances, the terms of the sublease are exceptional. Not only that, but the building has great security--as Damien discovered last night when he made a few calls after the police left. Tenants need a card key to enter the building and clients must be buzzed in by the receptionist who serves as the gatekeeper between the outside world and the building's twelve tenants.
Even better, it's walking distance to the Sherman Oaks Galleria. If I have a bad day at work, I can console myself by going shopping. And if I have a good day at work, I can celebrate by going shopping.
I sway a bit on my heels, trying to decide. No, that's not true. I want this. But it's scary--like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Except that I have a parachute. His name is Damien, and I know that he will always catch me.
"I can just work from home," I say lamely.
"No question," Lisa says. "I have lots of clients who do that. Most start-ups begin in the home."
I eye her with surprise; I wasn't expecting solidarity.
"But what about your roommate?" she asks. "Jamie, right? You said she's an actress? Does she have a steady job? I mean, is she a regular on a show?"
"No, but what does that--oh. Right." Jamie is supportive as hell, but she's also my best friend and a talker. If I'm trying to code and she wants to dish about men or her wardrobe or whether or not to get a tattoo on her ass, then it's going to be hard to focus on work. And the rent on this place really is low.
"I put together a plan for you," Lisa says, pulling a leather folio out of her briefcase. It's monogramed with my initials--NLF--and she moves to stand by my side as I flip it open, a little bit awed by everything she's done for me.
Inside, I find a plan for networking that focuses on women in tech and entertainment. "There are at least two dozen organizations in town focusing on women in tech-related fields," she explains. "You can't ask for a better way to meet potential business partners or clients. As for the entertainment contacts, it's a bit of a stretch, but you're on the radar now, like it or not. Might as well use it."
I'm not sure I want to trade on my rather unwelcome celebrity status, but I can't help but agree with her assessment.
She flips a few pages in the portfolio and shows me a rough profit and loss statement that factors in the cost of the office space along with income projections based on her research into the app market. I'm happy to see that the few apps I already have on the market are beating the averages.
"That's conservative," she says. "But as you can see, I expect you to be very solidly in the black within six months, and any start-up capital that you pull from your savings will be fully recouped."
I continue to flip pages, a little in awe. "Lisa, this is great. But it must have taken you forever to pull together, and I--"
I hesitate. I want to say that I'm not a client, but it sounds a little harsh.
Lisa must understand what I'm getting at because she laughs. "I'm happy to help a friend," she says. "Even one I barely know because we got off to such a crazy start."
I can't help but grin. She's right. Objectively, we hardly know each other. But she's one of those people that seems to fit, and I'm grateful that she started chatting me up back when I worked for Bruce, and that she didn't get scared away when he fired me and the paparazzi shit hit the fan.
"Not that I'm totally altruistic," she adds, with a gleam in her eye. "I expect some awesome referrals." Her phone rings, and she holds up a finger as she looks at the display. "I need to take this," she says. "Take a look at the rest of that and give me a sec."
I nod, then take the portfolio over to the single window at the side of the room. It's large and lets in enough light that the room feels airy and pleasant. I glance down and realize that it overlooks Ventura Boulevard. I lean forward so that my head is almost touching the glass, but from this angle, I can't see the Galleria. What I do see, however, is the black sedan parked on the street across from the building. It's familiar, and it only takes me a second to remember where I saw it before--on the street in front of my condo just this morning.
Security guys.
I think about the protective bubble that I so desperately crave, but I know that it has already cracked. Or maybe it was only an illusion to begin with. Either way, Damien and I are living in the real world now. And, honestly, I can't deny that after last night, I'm happy to have someone watching my back.
The shrill ring of my phone interrupts my melancholy thoughts. I grab it out of my purse, then freeze when I see the caller ID--Giselle Reynard. Oh, joy.
I consider letting it roll to voice mail. Giselle is not on my favorite people list. Not only did I recently discover that she and Damien dated years ago, but I also learned that she told her husband, Bruce--who happened to be my boss--that I was the girl in the erotic portrait that now dominates one wall of Damien's Malibu house. Still, I can't help but feel sorry for her. I know she and Bruce are in the throes of a contentious divorce. And I know she feels guilty for revealing my secret. As a gallery owner who deals with nude portraits all the time, it simply didn't occur to her that the secret was important to me.
Besides, Damien is one of her best clients. I'm undoubtedly going to continue to see her socially.
So, yeah, I answer the call. "Giselle," I say lightly. "What can I do for you?"
"I was actually hoping I could do something for you." Her voice is light and airy, as if we are chatting over cocktails.
"Oh. Um, okay?"
She laughs. "Sorry. That was rather vague, wasn't it. But Evelyn was just at the gallery, and she mentioned that you're considering getting office space. I thought perhaps I could come take a look. Give you some ideas for sprucing it up. Maybe lend you a few canvases to add color."
I frown, because I'm really not sure why she'd want to do that. "That's incredibly nice of you, but I'll probably just cover the walls with white boards."
"Oh. I see."
Across the room, Lisa has finished her call. It's okay, she mouths. You can redecorate.
"I just wanted to make the offer." Giselle pauses for a moment. "The truth is I know I can never make it up to you for what happened, but I thought this might be a start."
Well, shit.
"Listen," she says, and the airy quality is gone from her voice, replaced by something much more genuine. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. Blaine is a good friend and a client, and he absolutely adores you. It goes without saying that Damien adores you. I feel terrible that my stupidity hurt you."
"I appreciate that," I say. And then, because I really should have one wall that isn't entirely covered with notes and code, "How about this afternoon? Maybe around four?"
She agrees eagerly, and when I hang up, I see Lisa looking at me, her expression somewhere between smug and amused.
"Ah," I say with a grimace. "It is available right now, isn't it?"
She laughs. "We never did get that coffee. Come on. There's a Starbucks on the corner. We can go over paperwork and do the ceremonial latte-based key transfer."
And just like that, I have an office. I'm not Damien Stark yet, but I'm on my way.
Chapter Sixteen
To the CEO of Stark International--
The CEO of Fairchild Development seeks an appointment this evening to discuss a possible merging of our interests.
As Lisa gets our coffees, I reread my text and press send. Almost instantaneously, I get a reply.
To the CEO of Fairchild Development--
I look forward to whatever merger you have in mind.
P.S. Congratulations on the office space.
I grin, and am about to ask him how he knows that I got it when the door to the Starbucks opens and a skinny guy wearing earbuds bounces in carrying a vase full of daisies and other wildflowers. My heart flutters because I am absolutely, positively certain those are for me. I don't know how Damien knew that I took the property any more than he knew where to find me. But this is Damien, and as far as I can tell, he has eyes everywhere.
The delivery guy scans the room, his gaze stopping on me. For that matter, everyone's eyes are now on me. The delivery guy glances down at a piece of paper, then boogies over. "Nikki Fairchild?" he asks, a little too loudly, presumably so he can hear his own voice over whatever he's jamming to.
"Thank you," I say as he puts the flowers down and strolls out, shimmying in time to whatever tunes are blaring through his earbuds. Around me, the other customers flash quick smiles, then return to whatever they were doing. One girl, a few years older than me with a pixie face and fabulous auburn curls, mouths nice before turning back to the screenplay that is open on the table in front of her. I totally agree.
"Wow," Lisa says, sliding back into her seat.
"Damien is all about the wow-factor," I say with a grin. I pull out the card, then smile even broader when I read it.
Tonight I'll show you just how much a woman with her own business turns me on. Until then, imagine me, touching you. -D
"So now that I've told half the world I have an office," I say, "I guess we ought to do the paperwork." She and I spend the next hour going over the lease and also over some basic business information that Lisa shares with her clients. She gives me a few recommendations for attorneys who can advise me about incorporation, but also concedes that I might just want to ask Damien.
"Not to be crude," she says. "But you're sleeping with the best business resource around. Take advantage of it."
"Oh, I fully intend to," I say, with just enough of a leer that we both start laughing. Yeah, I think, Lisa and I are going to be friends.
As if to illustrate the point, she tells me that the restaurant two doors down has an amazing happy hour. "Want to check it out next week? You can tell me all about your first few days among the self-employed. Or, hell, drag along your roommate and we'll talk about men. I'm engaged, but that doesn't mean I can't dish."
I laugh. "It's a date."
"Excellent." She stands and hooks her briefcase over her arm. "I've got to go meet a client. You walking back or hanging out?"
"I'm going to finish my coffee and make some notes while all this is fresh on my mind," I say, indicating the folio. I don't tell her that I'm seriously considering a second coffee before I head back to the office. After last night--both the good and the bad--I'm operating on very little sleep.
As soon as she leaves, I scoot my chair over a bit so that the walkway between my table and the next isn't quite so crowded. As I do, I catch the eye of the auburn-haired woman I noticed earlier. Her finger marks a page in her script, and she is looking my way, her brown eyes fixed unabashedly on me. I shift uncomfortably and turn sideways, trying to focus on the folio that is open in front of me.
A moment later I hear the chair across from me scrape the floor and look up to find the woman taking a seat at my table. "I really don't mean to be a huge pest," she says in a voice that is crisp and precise, making me think of the Northeast and prep schools. "But it's driving me crazy. I know you from somewhere and I can't figure it out."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't think so." I don't bother to tell her that I get this a lot. It comes with the whole Golden Girl of the Tabloids thing.
"Are you sure? You look so familiar. I'm Monica, by the way. Monica Karts." She eyes me hopefully, then frowns. "Doesn't ring any bells, huh?"
"Sorry," I say. I start to gather my things, my Polite Nikki smile on my face. My mother may have tormented me through most of my youth, but she also drilled good manners into my head. "I probably just have one of those faces," I say with a smile. "But it was lovely to talk to you."
"Oh, hell," she says. "My agent is always telling me I come on too strong." She pushes the chair back and moves to her table. "Sorry if I bugged you. You don't have to leave. I need to get back to this anyway. Audition's this afternoon."
"You didn't run me off," I lie. "I just need to get back to my office." Just saying that gives me a little trill of pleasure. My office. Seriously, how cool is that? "Good luck with your audition," I add as I gather my things, and am surprised to find that I mean it. She has a bubbly personality that reminds me of Jamie. Besides, I'm in a pretty good mood.
Since I'm carting a flower arrangement, I decide to blow off the second coffee. I'm almost to the door when I hear Monica call out, "Jamie Archer."
I turn. "You know Jamie?"
"Weren't you at The Rooftop bar about a month ago with her? One of Garreth Todd's parties?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Well, so was I!" She says it in the kind of excited tone I'd expect if we'd both just pledged the same sorority.
"So you're a friend of Jamie's?"
She waves her hand in dismissal. "I barely know her. But I was at an audition with her once, and I remember seeing her there. And you, too. But I think I'm mostly remembering you from the newspapers."
"Great," I say dryly.
"That stuff they said about you was shit," she says earnestly. "Except the part about a reality show. If that's true you should totally take it and make as much money as you can and tell them all to go to hell."
I laugh, because as much as I do not want a reality show, telling them all to go to hell sounds like a grand plan.
My phone rings, and I balance the flowers on top of the condiment bar so that I can retrieve it from my purse.
Monica taps a fingertip on her screenplay. "I better get back to this. But I'm so glad I figured it out. Maybe I'll see you again. I come here all the time."
"Sure," I say, as I answer the call.
"Well, Texas? Are you a proud new business owner?"
"Evelyn! Hang on a sec." I wave goodbye to Monica, then tuck the phone under my chin and pick the flowers back up. I use a hip to push out the door, then start off down the wide sidewalk back toward my office. "Can you believe it?" I ask. "I feel all grown up."
"I'm proud of you," she says. "And I mean that in a totally non-patronizing way."
"In that case, thank you." I actually preen a bit from her words. I fell in love with Evelyn Dodge the moment I met her. She's tough and no-nonsense and says what she thinks. I've pretty much decided I want to be her when I grow up.
"So tell me about the place."
I describe it to her in detail, then mention that Giselle is going to come by later to talk art.
"I probably owe you an apology for that," she says. "I know she's not high on your list these days, but she seemed pretty intent on making it up to you."
"No, no," I say. "It's fine. I've got my jealousy all reined in, and I know she feels bad about what happened." To be honest, I can't help but wonder if she didn't let the truth about the painting slip to someone else who then shot off their mouth to a reporter. I don't mention my theory to Evelyn, though, because I'm afraid she might float the possibility by Giselle. And if it's true, I don't see the point in making her feel worse than she already does.
"So when can I see it?" Evelyn asks.
"It? You mean the office?"
"You're there now, I assume?"
"On my way back f
rom Starbucks."
"Good. Give me the address. I'm in the area. I'll be right over."
She arrives less than twenty minutes later, bursting into my office after being announced by the building's very efficient receptionist. "Not bad," she says, looking around. "Not bad at all."
"You're completely transparent, you know," I say. "There is no way that you were in the area. Sherman Oaks? You? Sorry. Just not buying it."
"Busted," she says with a grin. "No, the truth is I had a meeting with a director friend, and he's doing reshoots all day at Universal. But I would have come to see you, anyway. We have business to discuss, Texas, and I'm damn sure not letting someone else steal my thunder as your very first client."
"In that case," I say as I ease behind my desk, "pull up a chair and let's talk about it."
We end up going down the street to a deli where we spend a full two hours chatting and eating and--at least on Evelyn's side of the table--drinking our way into the afternoon.
"I talked to Charlie today," she says as she stabs at the piece of cheesecake we've ordered to split for dessert. "Couldn't get him to give me the details of why he's still in Munich, but he did mention that Sofia's on the loose again." She shakes her head in exasperation. "I swear, it's a wonder that girl didn't drive Damien out of his head ages ago."
"So she's always been like this?"
"Oh, yeah. Smart as a whip, that one. Reminds me of you in a lot of ways. But she doesn't have your backbone, she's never learned to cope, and she runs instead of fighting."
I'm shaking my head slowly. Backbone? Coping? Who the hell does Evelyn think she's looking at?
"Don't you pull that with me," Evelyn says, eyeing me knowingly. "You're a survivor, Texas, and we both know it. I never played the bullshit card with my clients, and I sure as hell don't do it with my friends. And it's a damn good thing you're a survivor, too. Because no one else could last a week with our boy."
That makes me grin. And, honestly, so do her words. Because the more I think about them, the more I realize how true they are. Yes, I've got some ginormous issues, but I've been tackling them. And for the most part, I've been beating them.
"I can tell you the exact way it'll play out when she finally turns up, too. Damien will head over to London to make sure she's okay and get her admitted to yet another facility. And the press will start speculating that Damien's tossing Sofia aside in favor of you. Or vice versa."
