Chapter Two #2
She laughed at him again. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t get ax-murdered, at least. Better luck next time, eh?”
As if on cue, his phone beeped with a notification—the sugar-baby app, someone else wanting to set up a meeting. “Speaking of next time, it looks like I have another date.” He paused. “Should I change the pants, or—”
“It pains me to say this, but if you got it, flaunt it.”
Because life could never cut him a break, Jem’s next date was in Silver Lake, which would’ve been fine if the previous one hadn’t been halfway to Malibu. He followed the directions to a nondescript commercial building off Sunset and hoped he wasn’t about to die horribly.
But the inside of the building was clean and bright, tastefully decorated in neutrals with aqua accents.
Aside from the person at the reception desk, there was one other person in the lobby, a man with a surf-bro haircut and a face that looked vaguely familiar.
Jem ignored him and walked up to the desk.
“Hi… Deb.”
Behind the desk, Deb raised her eyes and flashed him a smile. “Welcome to Seventh Circle Management. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yeah, uh, my name is Jem Anderson. I’m here to see Amanda Moore?”
“Oh, you’re her three o’clock.” Deb smiled and stood from the desk. “Follow me, please. She’s reserved the conference room on the second floor.”
God, Jem hoped this wasn’t a panel interview. He’d thought the last one seemed overwhelming. “Sure.”
He followed Deb down a hall lined with framed pictures, records, magazine covers, and articles—athletes, actors, musicians, even screenwriters. He wondered which one Amanda Moore was. Writer, probably, since the name didn’t ring any bells.
Upstairs, Deb deposited him in a cozy room with a handful of chairs and a low coffee table, a mini fridge, and a Nespresso machine. “I’ll let Amanda know you’re here,” she promised, and then, with a cute little smile, she was gone.
“Sure, yeah,” Jem said out loud to the empty room. “I’ll just make myself at home.” He opened the mini fridge. Jesus, there were little cocktail cans in there. Apparently the people Seventh Circle managed included raging alcoholics.
Well, this was LA. That tracked.
Jem snagged a bottle of Perrier, twisted the cap off, and took a deep sip. The bottle gave him something to do with his hands while he waited.
At least he’d made it here on time. The conference room was empty, and Deb had only mentioned Amanda, so—
A moment later the door opened and a blond woman about Jem’s age poked her head in.
She wore her hair in a cute ponytail, and rather than the power suit Jem expected, she was sporting jeans and a tank top, white sneakers, and an unbuttoned flannel that stretched across surprisingly broad shoulders.
Definitely not a California native. East Coast, probably, maybe New England.
He stood when she entered, and she wasted no time shaking his hand. “Jem? Hi, I’m Amanda. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“No problem.” Her handshake was firm, no-nonsense, no trace of anything apart from business. Jem had a weird moment where he wondered, insanely, whether his father had discovered his plan to become a sugar baby and sent this woman here to spy.
She bounced down into the chair kitty-corner from where he’d been sitting. “So, before we begin, I should probably explain that I’m not looking for a companion for myself.”
Some of the tension in Jem’s belly uncoiled. “Ah. That explains a lot, actually.” Then his eyes widened as he realized how that sounded. “Uh, not that—I mean—”
Amanda dimpled at him. “What, you don’t think I look like I could afford you?”
“You look like you definitely wouldn’t need to,” Jem said honestly. “But, I mean, wasn’t Steve Jobs famous for wearing the same thing every day even though he was richer than God?”
“Touché.”
“I do like the whole look, though.” He was babbling now, like that could make up for the way he’d put his foot in his mouth.
“Very disarming.” The dots connected. “That’s, uh, the point, right?
To be underestimated?” If she worked here, that meant she managed clients with high profiles while looking like she could be a high-school cheerleader.
“Well, that and it’s comfortable and I hate picking up the dry-cleaning.”
Jem nodded. “Traffic.”
“Traffic,” Amanda agreed. She set her tablet down on the coffee table.
“Jem, I’m a busy woman, so I’m going to lay my cards on the table.
This is a preliminary interview. We’re just chatting.
If I think you seem like the right guy for the job, at the end of the interview, I’ll offer you an NDA.
There’s a number attached for getting that far. ”
Jem’s heart leapt into his throat. He was going to get paid just for making it to round two? Whoever Amanda worked for, they must be a pretty big deal. He rubbed suddenly damp palms on his pants. “That sounds fair. Do you have, like, a list of questions or responsibilities or…?”
She shook her head. “Honestly? It’s mostly a vibe check. You said on your profile you’re pansexual, which I’m assuming means you’re fine working with another man.”
“That’s right.”
“You also mentioned you’re comfortable in situations where you’re interacting with people who are wealthy, famous, or both. Can you tell me a little bit more about that? Your experiences?”
“Sure, yeah.” Could he do it without sounding bitter, was the question.
“Uh, my father owns one of the top golf courses in the country.” I just didn’t know that until I was seventeen and my best friend, who turned out to be my half brother, needed a kidney.
“So… I grew up surrounded by people who have money.” Andrew had always wanted Jem to tag along—vacations, golf lessons, ski trips—and Andrew’s father had never flinched.
Now Jem knew why. “Elaborate Christmas parties, private schools, that sort of stuff. When I was twelve I started competing in golf tournaments, and I was always expected to attend the appropriate course functions and represent the business in a positive light.” Even if no one, including me, knew I was the owner’s kid.
Now for the uncomfortable follow-up. Amanda tilted her head. “But you don’t have access to his money anymore.”
He cleared his throat. “We had a falling out when I was seventeen. It’s complicated.
” I was pissed he treated me like a charity case my whole life when it turns out I was his kid, and then he had the nerve to ask for a kidney.
“I got a golf scholarship to college, came out here, did a degree in education.”
“And you teach now?”
He nodded. “Kindergarten.”
Amanda’s eyes widened, and she dimpled again. “Now that’s something I’m sure will serve you well, if we continue this. My client can be a bit of a handful.”
Seeing his opportunity to ask his own questions, Jem said, “Can you describe the sorts of situations I’d need to be prepared for? Or is that something we won’t cover until after the NDA?”
“I can give you some basics. Let’s say my client is…
an attention-seeker. He’s always drawn to the shiniest object in the room, even if it isn’t him, especially if it’s no good for him.
It’s destructive to him professionally as well as emotionally, but people know this about him and they’ll exploit it.
So your main responsibility would be acting as a buffer to keep him away from those people. ”
Jem nodded slowly. “So it’s mostly parties and so on? Public events?”
“And private ones with high-flying guest lists. The point’s not really the publicity, though—we’ll let that trickle out organically. The point is to show he’s there with someone.”
Fair enough. Jem had lived in LA for years. He could be normal about famous people. “All right. I have limited availability on school nights, though.”
She dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “We’ll work around it.” Jem would just make sure that was written into the contract. He might not have gone to business school, but he had plenty of experience reading legalese. “Have you ever been to an awards show?”
“Probably not the kind you mean,” he admitted. “I went to a few NCAA awards banquets, that kind of thing. Otherwise the closest is probably the academic achievement recognition thing we put on for the kids at school.”
“And you’re not in a relationship?”
The questions were coming in faster now; Jem felt like Amanda was testing him. Which—well, she was. “Not a romantic one.” He never really knew how to explain that. He was good-looking, he had a job, he was kind and compassionate.
Tori said that ever since Claudia left him for Germany, he was afraid of intimacy with romantic partners. Jem suspected she was right, and was annoyed about it.
“Have you ever been sexually or romantically involved with someone famous?”
Jem had to think about that one. “Like, famous now or famous when I was with them? And how famous? I dated someone who’s on the LPGA Tour.” Katie was in the top twenty female golfers in the world, but that didn’t exactly make her a household name.
“I’m just going to mark that down as a ‘no, don’t worry about it.’” Amanda shook her head. “Drug habits we should know about?”
“The school I work for tests for weed,” Jem said dryly. “So no.”
Why did he get the feeling that made her want to laugh? “Got it. Okay, so—no drugs. Any other extreme hobbies? Hang-gliding? BASE jumping?”
“I get enough bruises from kindergarteners.” It seemed like someone was running into him or accidentally kicking him or leaving something on the floor for him to trip on every other day.
“I like to cook. I don’t golf too often because it’s expensive, but I joined a beach volleyball league last summer.
And in college I was in a band, though that was mostly me and my friend Tori and our other friend Dave making up songs about how our students traumatized us. We were all education majors.”
This time she did laugh. “Really? Okay, hit me with a few bars.”
“Unaccompanied?” Jem said in mock horror.
“Yeah, okay. Uh, ‘In John Massey School, in classroom 3B, there’s a terrible smell of the highest degree. It hangs on a hook at the back of the room: the malodorous, the putrid backpack of doom. No one dares touch it lest the stink touch them back: the slimy, the oozy, the evil backpack. But what they don’t know in classroom 3B is the horrible backpack once belonged to me.
I thought I had lost it; I thought it was gone.
But that wretched backpack was there all along.
Just sitting, and waiting, fermenting its punch: the smell of the decaying fruit in my lunch.
It’ll probably sit there ’til my senior prom.
I’m not taking that home—just don’t tell my mom. ’”
“Incredible. Maybe if this gig doesn’t work out for you, I can get you a record deal.”
He could tell she was joking, but she was still laughing too, so obviously she appreciated their lyrical genius. “Something tells me the sugar-baby thing would pay better.”
“So do you listen to the same kind of music you make?”
“Dave moved back East, so the band is no more. These days I mostly bring my guitar to class on Fridays because it’s an easy way to keep the kids’ attention when the weekend is coming.
I listen to, like, folk and indie and some of the less intense country stuff, plus Taylor Swift because…
.” He shrugged. Who didn’t like Taylor Swift?
“As far as I know, none of the artists I like have songs about the dangers of eating glue.”
“Obviously an untapped genre.”
Jem tapped the side of his nose. “Just make sure you cut me in if you sell the idea to one of your clients.”
“We’ll see.” She drummed her nails on the arm of her chair and then smiled.
“Let me be straight with you. So to speak.” Jem snorted.
“You’re kind of perfect for this job. You’ve got the right credentials.
You’re quick on your feet and you don’t take yourself too seriously, which are absolute musts because my client is going to put you through it. ”
How bad could it be? Jem thought. He was used to riding herd on a flock of five-year-olds. “But?” he prompted.
“But,” Amanda went on, smiling, “you’re almost too perfect.
I don’t want him to put you in a box thinking he knows everything about you.
So—do you think you can make him work for it?
Don’t tell him too much about you. Keep him guessing.
He’ll be easier to get along with in the beginning if he’s treating you like a puzzle, and that’ll give you time to find your feet. ”
Hell yes. Jem found himself smiling back. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I can do that.”
She held out her hand again. “Then welcome aboard, Jem Anderson. I’ll grab the NDA.”