by Lauren Rowe
Because I’m a stalker. A sick, perverted, obsessed, panties-on-fire, spent-all-night-scoping-him-out-on-the-Internet stalker. Last night, I researched and researched online and read every bit of information I could find on the guy. Which wasn’t much, really, unless you’re super interested in acquisitions and real estate investment trusts.
Here’s what I know so far: Jonas Faraday is a “well-respected” business up-and-comer with a “shrewd” mind for crunching numbers, who has “unconventional” but almost always “uncanny” investment instincts. He’s a Seattle native, though it seems he travels frequently, often with his twin brother, Josh. He attended Gonzaga undergrad and went on to get an MBA from Berkeley (which makes me think he must be pretty liberal, but I couldn’t find anything about his political affiliations).
Jonas Faraday runs Faraday & Sons with his twin brother, Josh (who lives in Los Angeles but apparently travels the world for business and pleasure even more than Jonas does) and also their uncle, William Faraday (who lives in New York). The company website says his father, Joseph Faraday, the founder of Faraday & Sons, died thirteen years ago (when Jonas and Josh were seventeen). Looks like the uncle stepped in to run Faraday & Sons after Joseph’s death, seeing as how Jonas and Josh were still teens at the time. Countless business and investment-related articles and blogs recount the rise and rise of Faraday & Sons, detailing and analyzing the key acquisitions and investments that have put them on the map in the global investment community.
I devoured everything I could find—all the while feeling like I’d found absolutely nothing of any interest. What I really wanted to read about wasn’t Jonas Faraday the businessman—I wanted to know about Jonas Faraday the man. But I kept coming up with zippo. He’s not engaged in any kind of social media whatsoever—no Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or Pinterest. No pictures of his eggs benedict. No snapshots of him partying with his buddies in Vegas. No “likes” to tell me his favorite books and movies and places to eat. He doesn’t write a blog or otherwise post information about himself, and he doesn’t seem to attend fundraising galas or sit on any boards or date socialites or models or otherwise seek attention of any kind.
Now, if I were researching his brother, Josh, I’d have an endless supply of reading material, since Josh, unlike Jonas, has a penchant for attending parties all over the world with his high-profile-celebrity-athlete friends and girlfriends and tweeting out pictures of his adventures. Seriously, Josh was at Justin Timberlake’s birthday party? What the hell? But not Jonas. Jonas is nowhere to be found on the party scene.
Unpredictably, the most detailed personal information I uncovered about Jonas Faraday, by far, came from a short transcription of an interview for a local middle school’s career day. How the heck that interview came about, I cannot even begin to imagine—Jonas Faraday doesn’t strike me as a charter member of the Big Brothers of America program—but Jonas seemed surprisingly forthcoming in the short interview.
When the boy asked Jonas’ advice about picking a career, he was quoted as saying, “Find what you’re good at, whatever it is, and become excellent at it. Excellence isn’t magic—it’s habit, the by-product of doing something over and over and striving to be the best at it. Simply figure out what your passion is, and resolve to make excellence your habit.”
When asked about his hobbies and interests, Jonas responded, rather curtly, “Climbing,” and I could almost imagine him squirming uncomfortably in his seat as he realized the interview was verging away from career advice and into personal information. But the kid pressed for more information, bless his little heart, and Jonas obliged him. “Rock climbing, mountain climbing. My goal is to climb all ten of the world’s highest peaks during my lifetime.”
“What else do you like to do besides climbing?” the kid asked, apparently uninformed of his subject’s innate distaste for human interaction outside the walls of his bedroom.
“Well,” Jonas was quoted as saying, “I also enjoy reading, particularly books about psychology, philosophy, fitness, and, especially, the mysteries of the human body.” I liked that last topic the best—“books about the mysteries of the human body.” A clever euphemism, I’m sure, for books about the puzzle of the female orgasm. Just the thought of him studying up on female sexuality turned me on more than I care to admit.
“Anything else?” the kid asked, and I laughed out loud, wishing I could have seen Jonas’ body language at that point.
“I love music,” Jonas answered. “And, of course, going to football and baseball games, as you know.”
“As you know?” That part of his answer intrigued me. Why did the kid know Jonas likes going to football and baseball games? Is Jonas Faraday’s interest in sports a well-known fact in the world at large—like, does his family own a sports team or something?—or was this information known specifically by this kid? And if so, how? Did the pair have a casual chat over juice and cookies before the interview started? Or do the two share some other relationship that led to this interview in the first place? The latter seemed more plausible to me, or else why on earth was Jonas there, but my research uncovered nothing to answer that question or any other. I couldn’t figure out who the kid interviewer was, other than his first name (Trey), and I couldn’t find anything in particular to explain Jonas’ “as you know” comment.
The kid wrapped up his interview with a real humdinger of a question: “Do you have a favorite inspirational quote?” he asked.
“I have many,” Jonas replied, and I could almost feel his intensity leaping off the page. “But one of my all-time favorites is from Plato: ‘For a man to conquer himself is the first and noblest of all victories.’”
And that was the entire interview. Not much, really, and yet that little two-hundred-word interview by a middle-schooler revealed more about Jonas Faraday, and inspired more curiosity and interest in me, than every other business article about him combined. I must have read that little transcript twenty times, parsing and analyzing every word obsessively, feeling more and more attracted to him each time.
And now, here I am, sitting in my car, staring across the street at his building like a lovesick puppy, waiting to catch a glimpse of the hottest physical specimen I’ve ever seen—who also happens to quote Plato and read books about psychology, philosophy, and “the mysteries of the human anatomy.” Be still my beating heart. And other pulsating parts, too.
If I were dealing with any applicant besides the scrumptiously delicious Jonas Faraday, I’d probably just walk into his office lobby and ask the receptionist if Mr. Faraday might answer some questions for my law school newspaper (since, hey, it seems like the guy is open to school-related interviews), and regardless of whether the receptionist were to say yes or no, I’d at least be able to minimally confirm his identity for purposes of my surveillance checklist by snooping around his office lobby and looking at the plaques and pictures on the walls.
And yet, for some reason, when it comes to conducting surveillance on Jonas Faraday, I’m instead sitting in my car, staring across the street at his building, freaking out about whether or not he’s read my email from last night, worrying he’s going to report me to headquarters, and just generally losing control of my mind, impulses, and body in general. For some reason I can’t fully understand, I don’t want to go in there and let him catch a glimpse of me.
Damn! Last night, I was so cocky and sure of myself when I sent that crazy-ass email, drunk on three glasses of cheap wine, listening to loud music, my head swimming from his sexy note to me and those intriguing answers in his career day interview. But today is a different story. Today, I can’t stop worrying that maybe I made an epically huge mistake.
Why was I so damned sure I could trust him not to tattle on me? And what was so important to say to him that it was worth risking my job in order to say it? And why on earth did I tell him the embarrassing truth that I’ve never had an orgasm before? I’ve never told anyone about that. Ever. Not even Kat. Why on earth did I tell him? Ugh. He must
have been, like, “Thanks for the over-share, dearest intake agent, now please get back to processing my application.”
Gah.
What if he feels like I’ve compromised his privacy so egregiously, he withdraws his application and demands his money back? Oh my God, The Club sure as hell won’t take kindly to an applicant demanding a quarter-million-dollar refund because their horny pony of an intake agent couldn’t keep her hands in her pants and hormones in check. Oh man. I screwed up. I never should have sent him that email. I never should have had that third glass of wine. I never should have given in to temptation and touched myself like that—
Oh my God! There he is, racing like a bat out of hell from his parking garage in a sporty BMW. I cover my face with my hands as he flies past my Honda, but a split second is all I need to confirm he’s even more gorgeous in person than in his pictures. Holy crappola, what a beautiful-looking man. Damn.
My heart is racing.
I start my car and try to wedge immediately into traffic, but a fast-moving stream of cars prevents me from pulling out from the curb. Damn.
I wait. And wait.
When traffic clears after half a minute, he’s long gone from my sight.
Shoot! He could be headed anywhere right now. It’d be a wild goose chase to try to find him. I’m certainly not going to park my car outside his house and stare at him with binoculars like some kind of creeper. It’s one thing to camp out on a busy commercial street and another thing entirely to stalk the man at his house. Wow, that probably would be actual “stalking,” come to think of it, like, technical, legal “stalking” according to statutory definition. I’ll have to research that. But I digress. I’m sure he lives in some fancy mansion behind a gate, anyway, even if I did want to legally stalk him. Which I don’t. Of course not. Because that would be desperate and pathetic. And out of control. And bordering on obsessive behavior.
Gah.
My breathing is shallow. I groan. Good God, I’m desperate and pathetic. And out of control. And completely obsessed. Damn. I didn’t expect him to fly out of his parking garage like that. I wasn’t ready. I’m so bad at this.
I turn off my ignition and sit in my parked car, staring out my windshield at the leafy trees lining the street.
Holy moly, the man is gorgeous. Like, insanely, utterly, undeniably, breathtakingly gorgeous. Like, holy shit on a stick I’ve never seen such a good- looking man in all my life kind of gorgeous. Like please, please, please, for the love of God, please let me have sex with a man as good looking as him once in my entire life kind of gorgeous. Like, God have mercy on my soul I cannot be held accountable for my actions kind of gorgeous. Like, maybe sending him that email wasn’t such a bad idea after all kind of gorgeous. Like, yes, maybe having a one-night stand with a man like that, with no tomorrow, and letting the door hit my ass on the way out, would be just fine with me kind of gorgeous.
I groan and rub my eyes in frustration. Aw, who am I kidding? It’s time to stop the insanity and get real for a second here. I’m exactly the kind of girl he loathes—a hopeless romantic who naively mistakes physical chemistry for emotional connection. I’m his kryptonite.
Even after that drunken one-night stand six months ago, the following morning, I was idiotically hoping the guy would call me and say, “Hey, can we start again? How about I take you to dinner tonight?” Right then, I promised myself I’d never, ever do a “one and done” again. I’m just not cut out for it. I sigh. Or maybe promises to myself are meant to be broken when unforeseen and irresistibly compelling and good-looking circumstances present themselves.
Rain begins to dot my windshield and quickly turns to a steady downpour. Hello, Seattle.
I stare at the rain for a moment.
My first solo review and I’ve already hopelessly messed everything up, and then some. When I conducted surveillance during my training period with supervision, it seemed so easy: Observe the applicant in a public place, note the time and details on my intake log, and file report confirming the guy is who he says he is. Done-zo.
I recline my seat, gazing out my windshield, watching the rain batter my car.
I guess, technically, I’ve already fulfilled my surveillance if I think about it. Jonas Faraday, the same guy in the pictures, just came out of Faraday & Sons, looking the way he claims to look—only way better. So I should be done-zo, right? Not just with the surveillance, but with the application review process in total. I’ve got everything I need to mark him “recommend approve,” don’t I? I could go back home right now, note my successful Jonas Faraday sighting on my intake report, package my findings and research and recommendations together with the “all clear” that just came back from his psychological and medical testing (great news—he’s definitely not a psychopath!), and when I get the go-ahead from headquarters, send out the automated “congratulations!” email to him and overnight his welcome package and instructions.
But goddammit! I don’t want to do that. I don’t want him to become a member of The Club just yet. The mere thought of him going on an epic cunnilingus spree with a long line of nameless women—all of them as depraved and devoid of humanity as he is—just makes me sick. Approving him would be like giving a toddler cotton candy for dinner, when what he needs is a big bowl of grilled fish and kale. He’s a crack addict stumbling desperately into a crack house, when what he needs is a month of rehab. I could scream right now.
For such a smart man, he’s so dumb. He may think he wants less human connection in his life, but what he needs, desperately, even if he doesn’t realize it, is more human connection. Idiot. Sex-crazed, egotistical idiot. If only I had a little bit more time to ... To what? What the hell am I thinking? My Lifetime/Hallmark brainwashing is rearing its ugly head again. Man, he sure has me pegged.
What do I really expect to happen here? He didn’t apply for membership so he could diddle the lowly intake agent. And he didn’t apply for Club membership so he could find true love, either. And he certainly didn’t join The Club to learn something new and beautiful about the depths of his fragile heart. Ha! The man explicitly wants unfettered access to women who are just like him, women who are as emotionally disconnected and damaged as he is, women who allegedly want pleasure and nothing else—women so motivated by this elusive pleasure he allegedly provides that they’re willing to pursue it without even hoping for something more, without even leaving the door open the teensiest bit for the mere possibility of something more, of something beautiful. Something real.
Who are these hopeless, cynical, untethered women he hopes to find? What woman could possibly be happy being so hopeless and shutdown and hedonistic and out of touch with her own heart? Even if you know you’re just having a booty call with a hot guy (and I’ve had two of those, mind you, including one I remember, so I’m pretty effing qualified to give my opinion on this subject), isn’t part of the fun the slim possibility that it could lead to an unlikely romance? Or, at least, a fleeting but unforgettable romance in a “We’ll always have Paris” kind of way? (Or, in the case of two of my booty calls, a “We’ll always have the Wild Onion” kind of way?) No matter how cynical we think we are, isn’t the whole point of being alive and interacting with other humans—and especially having sex with other humans—about believing love is possible for even the lowliest and loneliest of fools?
If Jonas Faraday doesn’t understand that, okay. He’s a man. But who the hell are these women in The Club, who don’t understand it, either? And why would any man, including Jonas Faraday, ever want those kinds of women, anyway, if indeed they exist? If that’s what he wants, if that’s what he really wants, then why not just date other men, for Pete’s sake?
And the worst part is I know for a fact that each and every woman in The Club is going to lie like a rug when they see My Brutally Honest (and extremely hot) Mr. Faraday and tell him every ridiculous thing he wants to hear, no matter how far from the truth, because they won’t be able resist the fantasy of taming this unbreakable stallion any more t
han I can.
Wow, I’m really going off on an internal rant here. Kat would laugh her ass off at me right now. I’m so predictable.
I sigh.
I just wish I had access to female membership profiles, so I could see exactly what I’m up against here. But all I’ve ever seen are male applicants—and only those in the greater Seattle area, at that. Why the hell am I so goddamned upset at the thought of all these other women sleeping with My Brutally Honest Jonas Faraday, all the while telling him what he wants to hear? Just the thought hurts my heart, even as my body aches for him.
I’m being an idiot.
I’m imagining something between us that doesn’t exist. He sent that note to me on a lark, sight unseen—and it wasn’t even a message to me. It was a message to some fantasy girl who bears no resemblance to me—a nameless Intake Agent without a romantic bone in her anonymous body. He was just having a bit of pre-approval fun with the idea of me—but not with me, personally.
Certainly, once he reads my response email and realizes the kind of hopeless romantic I am (not to mention the kind of smart-ass I am, too), all the fun of it will be gone for him. Even if by some small chance he likes my reply (which, I know, is a ridiculous thought), where could it lead? Nowhere. He sleeps with swimwear models and glamazons and socialites I’m sure—women who look like Kat—and probably not women who look and talk and act and think like me.
Now don’t get me wrong; my self-esteem is just fine. In any crowd, I can usually count on at least a couple guys being drawn pretty enthusiastically to my vaguely exotic Latina looks like moths to a spicy little flame. But it’s never a sure thing, not like how it is with Kat. What if “vaguely exotic Latina” just isn’t Jonas Faraday’s thing? That’d be a cruel pill for me to swallow.
