3
Lorenzo
24 hours earlier
Tedious. Unbelievably tedious. There was no better way to characterize this night. My companion. This eatery. This wine. Could it possibly become more monotonous? I hadn't consumed enough alcohol to endure this woman's ongoing conversation.
"And I just couldn't help it. I said, no, Daddy, I'm going to meet Elon Musk." Barbara tossed back her artificially blonde hair. "So that was how I convinced him to buy me a first-class ticket to the rocket launch."
Her name, of course, had to be Barbie. She embodied the stereotype, albeit an excessively exaggerated version. Her silicone-enhanced breasts were two sizes too large, her plastic surgery evident, and her dress a size too tight.
When I didn't respond, she reached for her wine and took a hefty gulp—her third glass and the last of the bottle. Why did I spend $4,500 on a bottle of wine that this woman was monopolizing? As our server passed by, I raised a finger.
"Whiskey, neat."
She kept talking, her high-pitched voice grating like nails on a chalkboard.
"Have you ever been—”
Our server was about to leave. "Make it a double."
Barbie chuckled awkwardly. If she was irritated, she wouldn't let me know. None of these women did. "Have you ever been to a rocket launch, Lorenzo?"
I downed the only glass of wine I had sipped. "No."
Of course not, because Elon didn't sell first-class tickets to his launches. It was free to watch from the beach, and the only people who watched with him were SpaceX employees.
But, of course, Barbie didn't know that because her story was fabricated—just like her. It was a probing question, like everything else she'd said tonight.
It didn't take a rocket scientist to read the tabloids and see that Elon and I had been on a business deal in Spain last month. She would know that. Like she would know every other superficial thing about me—practically everything except my social security number.
Not many people knew much more than that.
And Lord knew that if she had my social security number, she wouldn't be here.
It wasn't me she wanted. It was access to the dollar sign practically stamped on my forehead.
The server arrived with my whiskey, and I took a large gulp.
Barbie leaned across the table, squeezing her arms together so her cleavage became more enhanced. I looked because it was what she wanted.
Maybe I'd sleep with her. Probably not.
At thirty-one, I had moved past the era of one-night stands. Amid the gold diggers vying for my attention, most encounters offered mediocre experiences at best. This was the consequence of beautiful women relying solely on their looks, growing up without the need to develop a genuine personality.
Women like Barbie viewed me as an anomaly. Accustomed to men adoring them, my lack of interest only fueled her determination.
She moistened her plump lips and played with her hair. "I'm really glad Jenny set us up tonight. How do you know her?"
It was a pointless question, and I saw no reason to respond. Jenny was my publicist, and Barbie was well aware of it.
As the awkward silence lingered, the server brought my steak, a five-hundred-dollar delicacy and the finest in town. Barbie had ordered a Caesar salad, destined to remain untouched. With my mouth full, she finally had a pretext to cease her relentless questioning, though I wouldn't have answered even without the food.
A part of me enjoyed watching her struggle. It was one of the few aspects that made these dates bearable—observing women like her flounder for conversation as they grappled with the realization that I couldn't care less about pursuing a romantic encounter with them.
Of course, it wasn't the sole reason for my participation. Jenny insisted I needed a girlfriend. Optics. Everything boiled down to optics these days.
I was a billionaire. Why in the world did I need a girlfriend?
I recalled our conversation from the previous day.
"Lorenzo, you hired me for a reason. You want to enhance your image. You're aiming for the top contracts in town for your business, and this is the way to achieve it."
I countered, "And what if I were gay? Would you suggest I need a boyfriend?"
Jenny sighed, "Oh, Jesus. If you were gay, this would be so much easier. You're just too damn single. And apparently, too damn white and rich."
She had specifically referred to me as a man-whore. To enhance a reputation that would secure the most reputable contracts, I needed to shake off the image of a man-whore, even though I rarely engaged in casual relationships. Although my cybersecurity company was among the nation's best, it hadn't reached the level I desired.
As if on cue, Jonathan Calamari appeared on my phone screen, prompting me to excuse myself from the dull conversation. Her curious eyes followed my departure, and she speculated, "Is that the mayor calling?"
Impressed by her perceptiveness, I flashed a charming smile and handed my card to the server before reaching the front door to answer the call. Desperate to collaborate with Jonathan, I greeted him, "Jonathan, how goes it, bud?"
His laughter echoed through the phone. "Lorenzo Kensington, I was hoping you'd answer without me having to leave a message."
"Well, I'll never send you to voicemail, Jonathan. I reserve that for the mayor of New York," I quipped, aiming to make him feel important.
His laughter, though hearty, held a tinge of artificiality—the kind politicians perfected in private. I could sense his curiosity about my purported connection with the mayor of New York, and I reveled in having him right where I wanted.
"This is why I like you, Lorenzo," he responded.
"The feeling's mutual, Jonathan. What can I do for you tonight, my friend?"
Venturing into the Boston night, I retrieved my valet ticket from my pocket and handed it to the young attendant at the booth. A moment of silence passed on the call with Jonathan, and I silently hoped he would broach the subject of the contract. "You know, Lorenzo, I've been pondering the contract you proposed."
Anticipation surged within me. This was a crucial moment. "Oh, have you now?"
"I have," Jonathan continued. "I respect the security system your company created. Hell, I don't think my home computers have ever been so safe...but I'm just not sure how they'll fare at the major banks in the state."
Confusion and frustration welled up. If my system could secure the mayor's residence, why question its effectiveness in major banks? I carefully responded, "Is that right?"
The valet pulled up in my Ferrari, the engine revving like any typical twenty-year-old would. Immersed in the conversation with Jonathan, I let the engine noise slide; arguing about it would only reduce the valet's tip.
Jonathan took a deep breath on the other end. "I'm thinking bigger."
My hand, inside my coat pocket, gripped my wallet. "Bigger? What does that mean?"
"I have another idea, one I think you might prefer."
Impatient, I sighed. "Get to the point already. What's that idea?"
"Three words."
Was he really going to make me guess? "Fine, spill it, Jess."
"It's a significant white house."
Five words, but who was counting? The White House? Well, I'll be damned. So, the rumors were accurate.
I could almost sense Jonathan grinning. "You're among the first to know, Lorenzo. I'm announcing my candidacy for president next month. Your boy is officially in the big game!"
And so was this guy. There was only one reason Jonathan was calling me. He wanted to continue this business relationship. It meant that when he got elected as President—which, as the polls implied, he undoubtedly would—my cybersecurity company would be the first private sector to be locked into a contract with the Department of Defense. Talk about respect. Talk about power. This was shattering the glass ceiling.
"Congrats, Jess, that's amazing."
"It's big news for sure. Listen, how about we meet for an early lunch tomorrow, say eleven, Amelio's?"
My heart was racing. "I'll be there."
I hung up with a grin, barely able to contain the adrenaline pumping through me.
"Your keys, sir."
Flipping open my wallet, I yanked out a Benjamin, the one hundred dollar bill crisp in my hand as I flattened it against the valet's chest. "Keep the change."
I revved the engine the entire way home.
My water slid down my throat, making me choke. There's no way I heard that right.
Jonathan cackled, slapping his hand against my back. Amelio's was deserted—not because no one wanted to eat here but because Jonathan was here. He always got the private dining room when he arrived, his bodyguards standing by every exit.
"I get it," Jonathan sighed. "It's a big ask."
"A big ask. That's one way to describe it." I cleared my throat and took another sip of water. "Excuse me, Jess...I'm just going to need you to repeat that for me again?"
Jonathan leaned back, his hands linking over his suit. He was in his mid-forties and the kind of politician people ate up. Handsome, a fatter George Clooney but with a similar vibe, confident but modest, charming but honest. "As it stands, I'm looking for the long run here, Lorenzo. I need someone good by my side, someone that makes me appear progressive but not too left, if you catch my drift. Someone to balance me out. That's where you come in. If all goes well, I want you to be my VP."