“So you want to buy a bunch of mosquito nets?”
He smiles. “The first piece of wearable tech I developed was a shirt—the BioShield.”
“Sounds like something Iron Man would wear. What does it do?”
“It monitors the resting electric potential of human skin. The second a mosquito lands, the nanoprocessors in the device feel it. Before the mosquito can bite, an imperceptible electrical impulse is sent along the wearer’s epidermis, just enough to deter the mosquito.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“It is. In testing, the prototype reduced the transmission of mosquito-born diseases by 98%.”
“Have you guys started mass-producing it yet?”
He laughs. “To date, there have been three versions made. Each one cost about a million dollars.”
I’d do a spit-take if my Jack and Coke weren’t empty.
“I guess it’s pretty hard to market in sub-Saharan Africa at that price.”
“Exactly.”
He stares down at his glass.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask, enjoying the fact that he’s talking to me as if I’m an equal, not just some cabana girl.
“I’ve run the numbers, and with enough time and ingenuity, that number can be reduced to about $200 a shirt. So, while it won’t ever be profitable…”
“It would be affordable,” I finish, and he nods. “From a charity perspective. So your watch…it funds that project?”
He taps his glass on the bar twice in the affirmative. “Along with a few of our other mass-market consumer items.”
“You know you could just kick back and buy a yacht or something, right?” I laugh.
“Yeah, but the upkeep on those things is ridiculous. It’s better to rent, even if you have to give up that new yacht smell.”
His slow-rolling smirk catches me off guard.
“Oh, the problems of the rich,” I tease with an exaggerated eye roll.
It’s clear James realizes how fortunate he is—fortunate, and getting more irresistible by the minute, which is a problem for a whole slew of reasons. He’s 11 years older than me, and not once has he intimated that he invited me to sit for reasons beyond a platonic conversation. I should probably get up and leave before I accidentally fall into his bottomless brown eyes.
“Enough about me,” he says, as if reading my mind. “What do you want to do with your life?”
Oh come on, like that’s fair. It feels like I’m back in the third grade about to present my science fair project. Becky Olsen just went into detail about the efficacy and longevity of three popular sunscreen brands. Meanwhile, I’m picking my nose in front of a ragged poster that asks: Are Cocoa Puffs Yummier than Fruity Pebbles?
So, I deflect with humor. “You’re looking at it.”
“What? Working at a country club?”
Of course he sounds surprised, but for all he knows this is my dream job. Maybe I scraped by my entire life getting to this point and he just shit all over it.
“Ohh yeah. I love working at the cabana pool, serving margaritas to old geezers like you.”
He smirks. “That’s fine. I just don’t see someone like you staying at a place like this for long.”
“Someone like me? Because you know me so well?”
“I know of you.”
Now I’m really confused.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re pretty infamous around here.”
I’m shocked. “For what exactly? I’ve only worked here for a few months.”
Rumors travel fast through the club, regardless of whether they’re based in fact or fiction. For all I know, some member has been going around with some story about how I gave him a blowjob down in the wine cellar. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch—Janice did it with Mr. Neal last week. I know because I caught them in the act.
“Nothing bad,” he assures me. “Let’s just say that every male member took notice the day you started working here.”
Oh.
I don’t know what he wants me to do with that information, giggle and fan my face? You mean they like little ol’ me? The knowledge makes my skin itch. I want to deflect the attention away from me.
“Well, that’s interesting considering every female employee is obsessed with you.” I hold up my empty glass. “Cheers to being infamous.”
By my tone, it’s clear I don’t really put much stock in what he’s said. I’ve never wanted to be a woman who derives her self-worth from the opinions of lecherous old men.
He’s quiet, probably confused by my reaction, and instead of pushing away from the bar and offering up some excuse to leave, I gift him with the same knowledge he just gave me: the truth.
“I double-majored at UT, Spanish and French. Ideally, I’d like to find an au pair position where I can tutor a child in those languages one on one.”
“You speak French?”
“Oui,” I say with a wink.
The information seems to interest him more than it should, but I don’t get the chance to enquire as to why before I catch Brian approaching us out of the corner of my eye.
“Mr. Ashwood, how is everything going in here?” he asks with a light and pleasant tone. “The kitchen staff has left for the night”—subtle hint at how late it is—“but I’m happy to get you anything you need”—not-so-subtle hint that James is a VIP member Brian doesn’t want to piss off.
James glances down at his watch. My guess is that it’s probably past midnight.
“I should get going actually.”
My heart deflates like a sad Mylar balloon. I don’t want this encounter to end. I already know it’s not going to happen again. I’ve worked here for three months and have never talked to James; tonight was a rare occurrence to say the least.
He scoots his barstool back and stands. Yup, definitely over 6’0”. And the suit? Absolutely custom.
His eyes meet mine, and I think he knows I was just checking him out. I wonder what he thinks about it.
“Thanks for humoring an old man,” he says, bending low so Brian can’t hear.
I know he’s firing back for my geezer comment from earlier, but it almost feels like flirting. Damn. If I’m this excited by the prospect of him barely flirting with me, what would it feel like to be pursued and seduced by a man like him? My heart probably couldn’t handle it. I’d have to get one of his fancy watches.
“I didn’t mind,” I quip. “Oh yeah—congrats.”
He nods once and then he’s strolling away with his hands in his pockets, taking the scent of rare spices and exotic wood with him.
…
When I make it outside, I’m still floating in a weird, drug-like haze—so much so that I’m surprised to see Ian’s old blue Hyundai Accent sitting beneath the porte cochère. I forgot I asked him to give me a ride home earlier. How long has he been waiting?
I pick up my pace and cringe when I see how angry he is.
“Jesus, I’ve been here forever. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“Sorry, sorry! I had to close and there was a member inside who wouldn’t leave.”
It’s the truth, just not the whole truth.
“I was about to come in, but I’m not exactly dressed for it,” he says, motioning down to his Bob Marley boxers and foam flip-flips.
I buckle up as he puts his car in drive and loops around, back toward the gatehouse. At this time of night, there shouldn’t be any other cars exiting the club, but when we arrive at the fork where the parking lot and the valet entrance merge, we’re met by a sleek black Porsche. Ian presses on the brake. So does the Porsche. I fidget in my seat.
Ian curses under his breath and then waves the car forward.
The Porsche pulls out in front of us and then we chug along behind it, down the winding tree-lined drive. At the entrance, the gate takes a few seconds to open, and I try as hard as I can to see through the tint of the Porsche’s back windows. I can make out the silhouette of a man in the front seat, but no features. Most importantly, I can’t tell if he’s watching me in his rearview mirror. I hope he is.