2. Cooper
2
COOPER
E xcitement bubbled up in my veins like someone had put an IV full of seltzer in it. This was going to be so fucking prime. Forty-eight hours to pump a billionaire—in more ways than one. For me, I needed this like I needed the next breath.
My baseball career stalled in the dugout. Every team I tried out for, passed on me. One or two minor incidents and I got blacklisted. All right, so maybe one of them wasn’t so minor, but no one wanted to understand what really happened. They were all out for blood. Didn’t matter if they got the particulars wrong or not.
Whatever. Losers.
All I needed were a few contacts to start my career up again. Could I do anything else? Well, yes. I had a college degree, but I’m not one who likes to sit behind a desk or conform to a rigid schedule. I’m more a fly by the seat of my pants guy. Working outside is more my bag. Being under the blue skies, wind blowing on my skin. The feeling that if I do a good job, it’s as close to flying as I can get.
Speaking of flying, being brought in on first-class from L.A. was an experience. All my expenses were paid, and I made the most of the situation. I mean, who wouldn’t? Right? The flight attendants were hot and made me wonder how many times they’d made the mile high club. Did that really happen? Or was it only in movies? One of those urban legends that took on a life of their own. Disappointing if it wasn’t a thing, but then again, I didn’t need any more trouble.
Doesn’t matter, I guess. The attendants were all as respectful as they were professional. They kept the drinks cold and the snacks coming.
I took a nap for part of the trip. We landed in Kuta, in the south of Bali. Since the resort of the rendezvous was on its own private island, I had to take a boat over. Luckily, the resort accommodated its guests and had one waiting for me.
My skin tingled and my eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses. Bali was absolutely breathtaking, and I lifted my phone to take a few pics. Not to share on my Instagram account, or other socials, but to remember the moment as I stood at the dock waiting to board the resort’s boat. To commemorate the turning point of my life. Separate the before and the after.
I had taken other such pics at all the stops along the way. Not of people or myself, but of things. Distant, quiet, nonjudgmental.
A local man, of indeterminate years approached me. “C.T.?”
“Yes.” I picked up my bag and followed him as he led me to the a slip at the dock.
For the weekend, we were forbidden to use names. Everything was done with the height of anonymity. That was fine with me, I would manage a way to wrangle introductions to the contacts I needed to restart my career. Somehow. Some way.
If not, hey, the weekend was at least good for getting laid a few or more times.
Anticipation buzzed through me. Hey, I liked sex. I ranked it right up there with breathing and food. Like most red-blooded men, I enjoyed porn and if the spirit moved me, I’d take matters into my own hands and rub one out.
Still, having a willing woman under me—yeah, there was nothing like it. Considering the woman that waited on me at the resort was a billionaire was a bonus. Didn’t mean I was going to do anything different. If she acted like a snob, or like her pussy was too rich to be eaten, well, then she was going to have a frustrated weekend on her own.
I tried not to let the idea of being her slum dawg for the weekend bum me out. What did I care. I was on Bali, and I was going to get laid by a rich asshole.
Hmm, the app never mentioned how old my date match was. I hoped I wasn’t going to be greeted by someone old enough to be my grandma. That would be a real buzz kill.
The boat cut through the water, sleek and fast. More so than I thought possible for a ferry. Though, ferry was a misnomer. The boat in question was built for speed.
And the views coming around the end of the island and to the resort were some of the most spectacular I had ever seen. People actually lived and worked here. How was that even possible? What kind of lucky star were they born under that they lived in paradise and got to work at a resort for the rich and famous? Granted, most of the guests were probably self-important pricks. But then again, I wanted to be one of those same self-important pricks one day.
Coming here was literally my last chance to get something going. I’d tried one of those self-help seminars once. Mandated by my coach and the owner of the minor league team I played for at the time of my downfall. He told me that it would help get me in touch with my inner self and lessen my chaotic drive.
Mumbo-jumbo.
I thought it was all a bunch of bullshit, but I went to make the man happy and prove I wanted to change and be part of the team.
My first instincts were correct. The Palmer Method—created by one Renée Palmer—was a wasted weekend full of the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard in my life. What did some freaking billionaire know about living on the ground with the rest of us mortals? Sure, she was good to look at, but I could only stomach that stupid fake serenity of hers for about eight hours before I wanted to cut my own throat.
And the other people sitting in that auditorium just ate that shit up. As if she stood on that stage selling them magic pills.
I’ve been around, I know there isn’t any snake oil or holy mantra that will change a life. You play the cards you’re dealt, and if your hand sucks, then you find a way to make it work.
The boat docked at the resort. A grand A-framed lobby was located at the end of the dock. Rooms came off from either side. Across the beachhead were dots of little private huts.
The information that came to my account, stated that I could find my contact in one of those.
I tipped the ferry pilot and jumped out on the dock. What I needed was a legend to tell me what direction to go in. After a sixteen-hour flight and boat ride, waiting in the airport for takeoff, I didn’t feel like walking my happy ass to find the correct hut.
Did I go into the lobby? It wasn’t like I had my own room. I didn’t have a reservation and no one was supposed to know my name.
So, how did I go about finding my contact? I didn’t have her name either. Simply a designation.
R.L. was all I had in my possession. I didn’t even know if that was her real initials or something she made up.
I decided to start walking. If someone stopped me because I looked as if I was casing the joint, then I’d simply tell them I was lost. Not a lie. This place might be exclusive, but it was a lot larger than I had imagined.
I started walking to the right. The rooms were numbered weird. A row of huts were numbered in the twos, but they were first floor rooms. I turned and went the other way. All right these were threes. Getting closer.
Then I found it. A solitary hut at the end of the row. A small set of stairs went up to a deck that jutted out along the hut. As I ascended the steps, my gaze locked on the dark-haired woman seated in one of the lounge chairs.
She turned her head, and even wearing dark sunglasses I knew that face, and my stomach dropped.
If it wasn’t the charlatan herself.
Renée Fucking Palmer.