2
LONG
WAY HOME
“We’ve
watched the footage four times. Didn’t you even get a glimpse of her in it,
sir?” Dre asks.
“I
have carefully checked everything on the footage. Nothing. As if she
disappeared into thin air like will of the wisp.”
“Did
you thoroughly check the dock, the yacht? Were you able to get a passenger
list?” I bombard Dre with questions.
“We
ran out to the deck together, sir. After you gave her description to the German
security officer, no one seemed to have seen or recognized her description. I
have checked everywhere including the ladies bathroom,” he says somberly. She
just disappeared.
“I’m
having the French security team check it discreetly to see if any other
security footage turns up from another building in the vicinity, or if pictures
were taken and posted online, but so far, there’s nothing. It is not unexpected
of course. There were a lot of partygoers and revelry happening during the
evening, and many more people arrived for the after party at the yacht causing
an overflow of people on the dock.
“I
want you to leave no stone unturned. Anything discovered, however
insignificant, I need to know.”
“Always,
sir. I’m trying to persuade the German security detail to provide the plus one
information of all the guests. They’re on the discreet list.” That of course is
an impossible manner to garner information from that list because men like me
are on it. But, I can already have him eliminate the men. I just need to find
out about the women fitting Aphrodite’s description.
“Keep
me abreast of any news,” I say before dismissing Dre out of my cabin. He’s the
only one who knows about her, a need to know basis only.
I
take out the lone earring from a small box I placed it in, examining it
carefully, trying to find a marking, some sort of symbol that would direct me
towards a name, a person. Her. I can’t find it. I put it back in its safe
place.
‘Who
are you Aphrodite? Where did you go?’ I ask to no one in particular in my now
empty cabin in the dark before sinking into my pillow, and fall into a sleep
listening to the soft hum of the jet engine.
I’m
on the deck of the ship sipping champagne. I feel her gaze on me before I see
her. I slowly turn my head to lock eyes with hers. I can’t distinguish the
color of them, but she is Aphrodite. My breath hitches with the sight of her.
No woman has ever managed to have that effect on me before. She is absolutely
breathtaking. Her backless white dress gives the illusion that she’s wearing
the sea’s foam, poured on her, stopping right above her knees. Her high heeled
Louboutins are only accentuating her mile long legs. The breeze lifts her hair
up, showcasing and caressing her beautiful long neck. The natural beauty of her
face is both innocent and that of a seductress, a source of both pleasure and
danger. I’m helplessly under her spell. My subconscious reminds me to breathe.
I find my feet walking towards her as if I have no other choice. I stop before
her and proffer my hand; without a word, she takes it. Both of our breathing is
shallow, in sync.
“I’ve
been looking for you,” I whisper, unable to recognize my own voice or the
complexity of the feelings conveyed. She speaks, but the noises surrounding us drowns
out her voice. She turns her face somber, her hands start shaking like leaves.
“Is
something the matter?” I ask with concern. “You’re shaking… Aphrodite,” I say
without knowing her name; all the while my eyes are examining her, trying to
decipher her expression. She doesn’t respond or correct me.
“Come,”
I try to take her hand, “let’s sit.” She shakes her head ‘no’ as her eyes are
fixed on the door waiting for him to
come out.
“Is
he your lover?” I ask. No response. When we hear a set of footsteps, she starts
walking away briskly.
“Wait!
Please! Don’t go! I can protect you! Who are you? Tell me. Please!” I find
myself pleading with this young woman running away from whatever frightened
her. I can’t let her go! I don’t even know her name! I won’t! What the hell is
wrong with me?
“Let
me at least walk you to your car.” I plead again. She walks faster, shaking her
head no. “Can I call a taxi for you? Let me do something! Please.” Then, he’s
there, in the dark waiting for her to get there. He grabs her, kisses her
against her struggles. She is seemingly receptive of his amorous attack, then
she pushes him away. He attacks her for her rejection and I jump at him. She
runs.
“Let
go of me, you fucker! She’s my woman!”
he shouts. I punch the dick and run after her, worried, exasperated and upset.
“Fuck
you, asshole! She is mine!” he shouts after me. “I know how to find her and you
don’t!”
“Fuuuuck!”
She’s gone. Disappeared into the night.
My own voice wakes me up, left me breathing
heavily. Shit! I need to find her.
The
Elysium Club. If you let the name trick you into believing that you’re entering
into some heavenly club where all your wishes come true, you’re fucked. You’re
actually entering into the devil’s playpen in the heart of Los Angeles where
you will be flirting under the influence of The Elite. Extreme power controlled
by each member is soaked in prestige, exclusivity, royalty, dominion and the
deepest pockets in the world. The members who are not of royal blood like me
have other fortuitous qualifications.
When
Dre drives into the underground garage, the S-Guard’s interior barely illuminates
the change with the dimming of the bright California sun through its heavily
tinted windows. Dre, head of my close security detail brings the vehicle to a
full stop for the club’s high tech security system to scan the vehicle. My
car’s details are already registered here, but it also receives Dre’s
biometrics from the windshield.
“Metrics
complete for Andre Aragon Bennett the Second. Welcome to the Elysium Club,”
greets a pleasant female voice. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have mistaken
the computer for a real human. Dre’s face slightly flinches, hearing his full
name like a prince in succession to the throne. The corner of my mouth flinches
in a suppressed smile at his reaction.
“Metrics
complete for Ronan David Gibson. Welcome to the Elysium Club.” The double doors
slide open as in an elevator to give a glimpse of an enclosed space several
feet before us.
“Mr.
Bennett, please proceed forward. When the flashing sign instructs you in
exactly thirty-eight feet, put your vehicle into park,” she pleasantly directs.
When Dre proceeds forward, my five-thousand pound armored Benz gets secured
automatically, lifted and moved on the platform first vertically then
horizontally, finally coming to a full stop to deposit the vehicle into my
permanent space within a few minutes. Not having the control of movement makes
him nervous and extra cautious. Dre opens his door and exits the vehicle then
gives a full cursory glance around even though this is practically the most
secure building in the entire city. He then quickly buttons his suit jacket and
opens my door; his vigilant eyes never stop scanning. He’s nervous because he
didn’t get to do a sweep first and that is just impossible to do at the Elysium
Club. That’s why he insisted on taking the S Guard for the drive here.
We
proceed towards the common room receiving greetings from many of the patrons
smoking their cigars and sipping their brandy, discussing the brass tacks of
the world economics. We are greeted by one of the butlers who services me when
I’m here.
“Mr.
Gibson. It’s an honor to see you here again sir. Your guests are already
waiting in a meeting room. Please follow me,” he says.
I
have a particular room I prefer to use at the Elysium Club. But this room
belongs to my best friend and right hand man Stephane Winthrop. He inherited
the Elysium Club from his grandfather which had been in their family for a
number of generations.
When
the butler opens the door, I momentarily assess the room. The room is quite
large, reminding me of the old cigar rooms with dark mahogany and cream colors
predominant on the walls and the decor. But the art works on the walls are
exquisite paintings of various historical figures Stephane admires from
Alexander the Great to Alexander Hamilton, all posed in positions of power. Yet
the seating is arranged in such a way that no one person situated in the room
would be in a power position. The walls are high and ornate. You would only
have to turn around to see the classic look flow into modernity with floor to
ceiling glass walls overlooking the city of Los Angeles. You finally get a
sense of how high above the ground you really are.
When
I enter in to the room, Stephane’s eyes glint at me, reflecting the content
mood. He’s assessed our opposition. We have learned quite a lot about him
during our trip to Cannes. The German investor has quite the reputation of
being a tough, picky and at times downright cantankerous ogre. I need to know
if this is a man I can do business with in the future and invest a large sum of
money for this movie project right now. The rest of the meeting participants
situated on the leather armed chairs around the coffee table follow his gaze to
look up at me. Good. Arriving only one minute after everyone else and
subconsciously I have established dominance. I assume my public persona:
confident, arrogant, powerful, commanding: the alpha among alphas. Some people
attempt to wear this as a second skin, a mimicked persona. I, however become an
entirely different entity, not donning a secondary skin you wear like a suit.
That’s the face I show to the whole world where I keep most everyone distant,
in their place. My gaze is scorching as I take in the occupants of the room.
Stephane
stands up. Even though he’s my best friend, at this place, in this particular
setting, he is in his assumed business persona I expect him to utilize when he
is representing me and my company. One can easily recognize him to be a
powerful man, especially if you are an alpha male. But, in my presence, he’s my
beta; not a rival, but an ally and a rare friend. Two of the men in the room
appear to be in their late thirties. In fact they couldn’t be older than forty.
A third young man looks more like my age of 31.
As
I walk towards the sitting group, Stephane takes decisive steps over to greet
me.
“Welcome
Mr. Gibson,” shaking my hand, then leads me towards the assembled group. “May I
introduce you to Mr. Friedrich Reinhardt of Reinhardt Global Industries,” he
says in a clear tone.
The
older gentleman by the well chiseled lines of his face and his impeccably
groomed silver hair looks to be around sixty years old. When I get near him, I
notice that he’s about my height of six feet three inches. He’s got high
cheekbones and the clearest sharp blue eyes I’ve seen in a while with a gaze
that has only known power and affluence; he boldly assesses me as one would a
rival. Nothing he is wearing is off the rack but custom made by only the best
tailors with not a stitch out of place, showcasing his muscular stature
unexpected of a man with his years. He extends his hand and I take it, shaking
it twice and firmly. He reciprocates with equal strength. With a thick German
accent, “I finally meet the man who runs a big portion of the American economic
world,” he states in French. He doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak German
but he’s well informed with the knowledge that I speak French. His discerning
eyes tell me that he has done his homework well, down to the part where he knows
the languages I speak, and he is prepared to match wits with me to let me know
that he can be an ally or a rival. At the moment, he doesn’t care which.
“Over
exaggeration Herr Reinhardt,” I smile. I never show all my hands.
“On
the contrary, I disagree,” he says in a thick baritone voice. “It’s a
disgraceful understatement. Frankly, I was curious to see just what kind of man
amasses such a fortune on his own at such a young age.”
Aha!
He doesn’t sugar coat anything. Somehow I like him. He’s a straight shooter. I
admire that in a businessman. There is a carefully hidden curiosity in his
seemingly self-possessed demeanor. At first glance, we both exude almost the
same magnitude of tangible, incessant, electrifying power which takes command
of any given group of people. But only one can be the alpha. I never leave that
spot to someone else. Then I see the chink in the armor. The senior is an aging
lion; he’s going to hand over the castle keys to the next generation for some
reason and one look at the junior who hasn’t moved from his seat since I walked
in tells me that he’s worthless. From my peripheral vision, I can see that
Stephane agrees with that assessment.
“Alarick,”
Reinhardt calls the thirtyish man who is still sitting with his right leg crossed
on his left knee. The old patriarch’s voice resonates making the seemingly
aloof Alarick jump from his seat. He takes the path towards us with short
strides.
“Alarick
Reinhardt, the sixth,” he says emphasizing his thoroughbred tree with
undisguised disdain directed towards the lack of mine. The bastard thinks he’s
actually better than I am!
A
smirk lifts up the corner of my lips.
“Ronan
David Gibson… The first.” With a forbidden glance received from his father,
he reluctantly extends his hand.
“I
was under the assumption that pedigree was a prerequisite to this,” he sneers
as he pulls his hand to indicate around the room, “what is supposed to be the
most exclusive club in the world. I believe they lost their touch when they
started admitting the new money, new colors to give way to this trend of
American style diversity without a single question about their pedigree as
these clubs were initially intended,” he says with a smile on his lips in
English. But the meaning behind the intonation isn’t lost to the senior who
doesn’t speak English.
« Français, s'il vous plait, Alaric ! » He
orders. I look this asshole straight in the eye and I never blink first. Watch
his stance, that’s it just like The Incredible Shrinking Man. Back down,
motherfucker, I control this room.
Stephane
states, “May I remind you Mr. Reinhardt, Junior,” he says looking straight
into the reddening Alarick’s face, “that you are a guest of Mr. Gibson here and
as far as the hospitality rules of this club are concerned, we are going to
accommodate you as long as Mr. Gibson permits your presence in order to attend
this meeting. But the Elysium Club will not tolerate your behavior towards a
generational member. This club’s past goes so far back in history that your
sixth generation non-reigning nobility title doesn’t even compare to a single
line of her distinguished background. The Elysium’s membership is only by
invitation and only those deemed worthy are candidates who have proven their
merits, then they are invited to be considered by the other generational
members. You sir, have neither merit nor accomplishment. Your present glory
belongs to your father, and only by
that extension, are you even allowed to be present in this meeting. Now, if you
are quite through, can we get back to business here please?” he says in perfect
fluent French.
The
two producers look dumbstruck and worried with the tone of the flaming
conversation they’re not a part of and cannot understand.
“I
apologize for my son’s crude behavior. It was unconsciously done. The Elysium
Club does not need to remove him from the premises. If he repeats his demeanor,
I will dismiss him myself,” the father says with burning eyes.
“Your
word is sufficient for me,” I nod once.
“However,
could we hold for a few minutes more…” Reinhardt Sr. says in his German laced
French looking at his watch. “My assistant and my translator are not here.” I
acquiesce.
“Mr.
Gibson, I’m Andrew Whitman and this is George Brewer. It’s a pleasure to meet
you, sir,” says one of the producers, buttoning his jacket. He extends his
hand. I take it, and then shake George’s eager out stretched hand.
There’s
an anxious knock at the door. The sigh of relief on Reinhardt’s face turns to
annoyance and anger. He looks both exasperated and offended by the inexcusable
tardiness.
The
butler opens the door.
Quick
clicking heels disclose the latecomer’s gender.
“Miss
Kayla Brigitte Adlersflügel.” Only one person’s name is announced.
I’m
a big supporter of gender equality in the workplace, but a total lack of
punctuality from an assistant without proper notification in advance to a very
important meeting where millions are at stake would be the cause of his or her
dismissal. From Reinhardt’s look, she did not provide an excuse at all; just
showed up late. As I get ready to strongly express my displeased opinion to the
tardy participant who can wait out the meeting in the hallway, the heel clicks
slow to a controlled, fashionable pace and in they carry a young woman with
long wavy strawberry blonde hair cascading and curving down towards her ample
breasts hidden underneath her burgundy silk blouse, touching atop her navy blue
pencil skirt. Her neck is lined with strands of a dull silver color chain. The V-neck
of the shirt stops right atop her cleavage. The shirt’s sleeves are long, and
cuffed at her wrists further stating the elegance of her arms. Fuck me! Is that
the goddess that vanished from the yacht the other night in Cannes?
She
walks forward towards our group. As she approaches, I see her swallow nervously
and compose herself, lifting her head up for courage. Her strides toward our
group showing a semblance of confidence.
“Fräulein
Adlersflügel,” starts the elder Reinhardt. From the reproachful tone of his
voice and his towering demeanor over this young woman whom I guessed to be five
foot seven, he’s demanding her to explain herself. You have to give her credit.
Even another powerful man would wither under that stare and admonishment. She
listens to him and when given a chance to speak, she rapid fires her answers
with some dignity. Somewhere in there I catch the words 405 freeway and Mount
Sinai Hospital. He is utterly displeased. This is a man who likes to be in
control of events, circumstances and people around him. The micro expressions
exuding from his face tells me that he’s giving her a warning. Her eyes widen,
her pupils dilate and her cheeks flame up to a rosy hue as she attempts to gain
control. Reinhardt not only intimidated her but also took his anger out on her
for the errors of his son and the misstep taken earlier. He wanted to impress
the group and establish his dominance. Yet, his companions have miserably
failed him. She nods once acknowledging his fury wordlessly. Then the tardy
blonde beauty turns towards the group and is faced with men looking at her as
if she’s something delectable to eat. I feel like going around and closing
every gaping maw.
“Please
forgive me and accept my apologies for delaying the meeting. I am fully aware
that your time is extremely valuable Mr. Winthrop, Mr.…” she’s about to turn to
me but Stephane’s interruption catches her off guard as she is trying to
express her apologies in perfect English for committing the unforgivable sin of
being late and holding up the meeting.
“Miss
Adlersflügel?” Stephane asks.
“Yes,
sir, or,” she clears her throat to correct him, “Kayla Adler for short,” she
adds anxiously. Stephane holds up a finger to indicate for her to stop a
moment. He then turns to Reinhardt with raised eyebrows in questioning. At this
establishment, Stephane plays the host, yet that seemingly assumed position is
only granted under my authority in order to make others feel a semblance of
control because he is a lot less intimidating than I am. That’s the best way of
taking full charge in specific situations, especially for new acquisitions or
certain prospective business partnerships; I never show my hand and always keep
them guessing.
“Forgive
me for asking Herr Reinhardt, but we are very particular about our meetings and
the last minute changes raises concern, not only per the security requirements
of the Elysium Club but also as the Chief Financial Officer of GTI and a full
participant of this meeting. Your meeting companions were listed as your
assistant Mr. Klaus Diedrich, and your translator Conrad Heiden,” he asks
quizzically. I notice that Dre is closer to me and on alert. Even his military
cut hair is standing on attention with the knowledge of unexpected company.
Reinhardt isn’t used to scrutiny and he makes that known as he takes a step
towards Stephane invading his personal space. To Stephane’s credit, he doesn’t
move and looks straight into Reinhardt’s eyes.
“Are
you accusing me of something?” Reinhardt’s voice is acrid, furious even. You
don’t irritate an alpha male and not get bit by the snarling teeth. I take two
steps lifting my hands up as in a peace offering, indicating for Stephane to
back down and also to calm the older Reinhardt. The producers are confused with
the showdown going before them. This is not going how they wished it would.
“Neither
of us believes that it’s Mr. Winthrop’s intent, Herr Reinhardt,” I placate in a
calm, soothing yet fully commanding resonance.
“I’m
certain that only a man of your status can understand the safety measures we
place to judiciously guard our privacies as well as our business interests. We
both know that attractive young women have been used to further ulterior goals
and even undermine one’s footing in our exclusive world in the past and they
will be used in the future again,” I say as I catch first an appalled, then
furious glare from Miss Adler. Her eyes are blue blazes reflecting the inferno
within her caused by the shock of my statement and maybe she remembers me from
the ship as well. If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the floor. I pleasantly
make a mental note that, Miss Adler has fire in her; she is feisty.
How
hot would it be to tame that wildfire, channel it for pure unadulterated
pleasure! I shake my head mentally. I don’t know where that stray thought came
from, but it somehow gives me satisfaction. I hide a smile and continue, “I
would expect nothing less if the tables were turned, and would fully understand
your position. This is why you have your security, do you not?” I indicate with
a glance and a slight nod of my head in the direction of the two bodyguards
standing near Dre.
“Fräulein
Adlersflügel,” he says nodding his head giving her permission to offer her
explanation. She gives me another glare with absolute fury, and then looks at
each participant in the eye standing by their chairs which they vacated
earlier, yet avoiding the junior Reinhardt who reminds me of a sneering hyena
as his eyes follow her every move, managing to earn my revulsion even more.
Miss Kayla Adler starts explaining herself.
“Both
Mr. Diedrich and Heiden are now lying in the emergency room of the Mount Sinai
Hospital, having been struck by a drunk driver en route along the 405 Freeway.
This information has been faxed from the hospital to the Elysium Club. I would
have been here on time, sir,” she says addressing Stephane’s line of
questioning with gritted teeth, then continues, “but as you said the stringent
security of the Elysium Club had to verify that I was in fact on the backup
list as the translator. I just finished my internship at Herr Reinhardt’s
company under the tutelage of his assistant Mr. Diedrich. I assure you that I
am quite capable of interpreting such a business meeting since I’m fluent in
English, German and French and have less than a semester to earn and obtain my
MBA at UCLA,” she responds in French which is as impeccable as her English.
Stephane looks at the butler and he nods in agreement.
Her
identity is now fully confirmed, she quickly glances at my direction to assess
what I might be thinking, but I don my taciturn expression to keep her guessing.
Dre takes a few steps back to the corner of the room to better observe everyone
and all is seemingly normal once again.
“Mr.
Gibson…” she says taking a breath and turning to me to continue her
introductions but her words are cutoff when her gaze meets with mine with full
force. Though she had just showered me with her angry glances, there is also
the presence of a silent acquiescence as well. There’s recognition in her eyes,
confusion too. She’s trying to place me in her memory. The meeting of our eyes
shocks us both as if we just noticed each other’s existence in the room.
Instantly, my focus sharpens and everyone in the room seizes to exist for the
moment. Her face is flushed with her pearlesque skin changing color all the way
into her hairline. She immediately notices the affect I have on her. Closing
her eyes to gain her composure, she’s displeased that I affected her so
profusely and so suddenly. She slightly clears her throat.
“Mr.
Gibson, I’m…” her voice stutters briefly despite her efforts. She extends her
hand as she blushes a darker shade of crimson nearly matching her burgundy
shirt. Her slender fingers touch my palm and the crackling energy between us
shocks us both. What the fuck was that? How could a woman I briefly met across
an ocean have this effect on me? Her heavy lashes lifted, pupils dilated, a
wordless, silent ‘Wow!’ then ‘Oh crap!’ uttered. The tip of her tongue
grazes her full lips as if she’s parched and it’s the only way to get some
moisture to them. I finish her sentence.
“Miss
Adler,” I murmur. But instead a low possessive growl I don’t recognize escapes
my throat as my hand fully receives hers, holding it firmly in mine. While
steadying her elbow with my left hand, I manage to save her from the
embarrassment of sprawling on the floor as her step falters. The loquacious
Miss Adler who silenced my aggressive CFO into an agreeable individual for the
moment is all of a sudden rendered speechless. The only sound that comes out of
her in response is a sharp involuntary intake of breath as if she’s been struck
by a jolt of lightning. Her hand trembles inside mine. Her irises are rimmed
with midnight blue circles and they gradually get more vivid as the azure blue
shade of it shrinks to meet her now growing pupils. But it’s not just the color
of those hauntingly damning eyes that strikes me about her. This woman whom I
have laid eyes on again for the second time, looks past the entire entity that
I present to the public and on occasion even to my best friend, manages to
probe into my hell’s-pit dark soul and cast light into it as if in recognition
of my core being. She beguiles me.
The
sensory overload is astounding. Before I can stop myself, an onslaught of
fantasies rushes through my mind, all involving this rebellious creature: a
dozen different ways to fuck her in sheet clawing, screaming, primal ecstasy. I
have an inexorable urge to get her beneath me, on top of me, against the wall,
on a swing and the pull up bars just to begin with. I alter my gaze to shut her
out, yet we continue to suck each other into an unknown vortex; a powerful
undercurrent. The intensity of the crackling energy between us is inescapable.
With a herculean effort, she forces herself to lower her lashes and close her
eyes to turn off the pull. She slightly opens her lips through a precarious,
controlled intake of breath and tries to cleanse her mind of the effect I have
on her. I am also excessively displeased with myself to be intoxicated by her
presence. I don’t like to lose control, and this strawberry blonde siren is
doing just that to me without even fucking trying! She has awakened a primal,
animalistic, edgy side of me that I carefully keep under wraps since I first
laid eyes on her.
The
soft ridges of her lush lips get more pronounced as she slowly tries to exhale
a breath making them into a small o. Yet the breath she tries to exhale quickly
turns into a shuddered inhale, raising her chest. Her long locks first shift
over her breasts then come to rest as they go down with the synchronized
movements of her breasts peaking under her silk shirt. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Who
the hell is she really?
Stephane
clears his throat and breaks our trance. He gives me a confused, ‘what-the-fuck-did-I-just-witness?’ look.
She quickly pulls her hand away from mine as if she’s just been poked and
prodded with a cattle iron.
“Please
to meet you all gentlemen,” she says lowering her eyes in embarrassment.
Junior’s eyes lock on her in curiosity, jealously in fact when he sees how she
reacts towards me. He clearly lusts after her, but she avoids looking at him.
Is she his lover? When his eyes rest on me again, I only see undiluted rage
towards me. Is he the prick from the yacht? Did I interrupt a lover’s quarrel
the other night?
“Mr. Reinhardt prefers to do all business
meetings in German only for ease of understanding for both parties.” Miss
Adler’s voice breaks my reveries. Elder Reinhardt still reeling in from his near
argument with Stephane and the producers are too anxious with their own
concerns over their presentation to take notice of what transpired and passed between
us.
“That
way neither party can state that there was any misunderstanding. I will
interpret for Mr. Reinhardt between English and German as you discuss today’s
topic to reach an agreement,” she says in English then translates her statement
into German with the guise of a serene face until her gaze reaches back to
mine. She tries but fails to look away. Her dilated pupils, occasional rise in
her pitch and her rapidly rising chest though controlled, shallow breaths tell
me that she’s nervous, but hiding it well.
Reinhardt
takes his chair that he had vacated earlier and Miss Adler stands behind the
circle of leather chairs to have a clear view of all the participants so she
can hear and address everyone as needed. When the lights are dimmed for the
presentation, her eyes are locked on the waves of my dark overlong hair and
contours of my face. She remains standing behind the Senior Reinhardt and
everyone moves to take their seats in the comfortable semi-circle of the hand
crafted leather chairs. Stephane walks towards the chair he previously occupied,
but one forbidding look from me, makes him change his pace. I can feel her eyes
following my bold, dominating, confident strides. When I reach the seat, I
unbutton my jacket and turn to my company.
“If
you gentlemen don’t mind,” I say and remove my Brioni navy suit’s jacket with
track stripes and hand it to Dre. When I turn to sit in the chair, I am in her
line of sight. As I lower myself into my seat, the leather of the chair
protests under the bulk of my muscles and submits to adjust to the shape of my
body. The bespoke white shirt contours my torso and emphasizes my pectoral
muscles. Her eyes glide over my torso, then the length of my crossed legs at
the knee.
As
the producers begin their presentation, Miss Adler interprets for Reinhardt in
a low voice but high enough for him to hear her and speaks up when he asks a
question.
The
producers lay out their plan with presentations and financial charts showing
the cost and profit forecast projections in a low and high market for their
upcoming movie. They already have a strong cast with star presence; the script
writer and the director secured under contract have drawn millions of people to
the movie theaters in the past with proven track records. The cost of the project
is capped at one-hundred and forty million dollars. They have secured eighty
million dollars from their own funds. They need sixty million dollars more. If
comic books turned into movies are an indication from recent years, this
venture could yield and top over seven-hundred million dollars, well surpassing
their projected, conservative higher end of four-hundred million dollars target
they have in mind. The twelve minutes of test shot scenes show the beginning of
the story, cast and crew in a very sellable positive light. If I have learned
one thing from my absentee parents who spent most of their lives on movie sets
acting and directing, this project is a winner and even the producers aren’t
aware how great a winner it will be. But I don’t want to appear overly
enthusiastic. I have further goals than just investing in this movie. I want to
establish a firm business relationship with Herr Friedrich Reinhardt.
When
the presentation is concluded, the lights are back on at a comfortable level.
“Gentlemen,
do you have any questions, concerns?”
“Assuming
you have secured funding, when do you intend to start shooting and when do you
wrap up?” I ask.
Whitman
answers that they start shooting within 30 days and they intend to wrap up
within three months of starting.
“We
would really like you to give your most serious consideration to our proposal,
Mr. Gibson and Mr. Reinhardt,” he concludes. I know they come to us first
because either of us can easily invest the entire amount, but two people
investing can be less of a risk and create an opportunity for a faster
financial commitment. Of course it is much easier to please two investors than
five others or more.
“We
would like to invite you to the Sayers Manor tonight to hear your thoughts and
hopefully your decision,” says Brewer. Sayers Manor is a very exclusive night
club for the Hollywood elite. It’s extremely sophisticated, has a classy
Hollywood lounge with great live music with a décor walking a fine line between
old world charm and seductive yet masculine textures throughout. It’s the crown
jewel of any Hollywood business celebration.
The
meeting is set for 10 p.m. tonight. As we are ready to leave, I hear Whitman,
the younger and the better looking producer corner Miss Adler.
“You
speak English so eloquently, even better than some of our Queen’s English
trained actors. Where did you learn English?” he asks.
She
shrugs. “Santa Barbara. We speak English there.”
“My
apologies. I thought you were German.”
“Only
one quarter German.”
“Would
you like to join us at the Manor?”
She
shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. Mr. Reinhardt’s assistant and translator will
be released this afternoon. They assured me that they will accompany him for
any further meetings he may have.”
“I
meant… as my guest.”
“I’m
sorry, no.”
“Are
you busy?”
“No,”
she shakes her head. “I can’t even afford the cover charge, let alone the
service,” she responds as she packs her papers into her small purse. Sayers
Manor charges one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars in annual membership fees
and those who come in the arms of the patrons usually go back to those patrons’
beds most willingly with hopes of receiving parts in their movies or to be
introduced to another valuable contact. Business as well as a lot of social
climbing is done there on a nightly basis. A willing producer with such a
project could give a beauty like her a lot of opportunities. Yet, she refuses.
Is she extremely stupid or uncommonly principled? What are you after Miss
Adler?
“I
couldn’t even think of a lady paying her own way. You would be my guest. An honored guest,” he croons further with
hopes of enticing her.
“Thank
you Mr. Whitman. I prefer to pay my own way, and if I can’t afford it, I
generally don’t go.” She smiles. Her eyes brighten and her face lights up with
that small smile. Fuck! I really need to know who she is.
“Why?”
“Just
principle, sir… I hope you reach an agreement tonight.” She leaves Whitman
standing dumbfounded at her clear dismissal of his request for a date who must
have taken a lot of women to his bed with just a crook of his finger; he can
hardly believe he’s been rejected. I don’t know why that makes me pleased. Miss
Adler speaks to Reinhardt Senior, then apologizes again for being late then
turns to leave. When she thinks I’m not looking, she gives a quick glance in my
direction.
Yep!
I want her.
I
put my jacket back on, button it, and bid goodbye to my company. Dre opens the
door for me. As we make our way to the parking structure, I turn to him.
“I
want to know who she is and with every background detail going all the way from
who her kindergarten teacher was to who she slept with last night. Leave
nothing out.”
“Yes,
sir.”
Miss
Adler. We’ll meet again. I’ll make sure of it.
Jace Everett - Bad Things
