Chapter 3 #2
Because Aunt Kitty is an eccentric person.
She married young, someone much older than her, and when he passed, he left this house to her, along with everything else he owned.
It wasn’t much, but enough for her to invest and not have to ever really work a day in her life.
She lives off her retirement, which is restricted in budget, but it works for her.
She’s spent her days attempting to be the latest and greatest influencer at the ripe age of fifty-six but focusing on an extremely niche topic, her hobby horse training.
She’s told me the reason she has over two thousand followers is that she’s a woman after her own dreams. Curvaceous, unique, with short legs that you would never expect to be able to jump over a hurdle with a stick horse between them—people find her journey inspiring.
Personally, I think people like her blunder videos more than her success, but who am I to judge her for chasing her dreams?
“You know, she tried getting into hobby horse training once,” Aunt Kitty says and then swallows some more margarita.
“She attempted a steeplechase.” She moves her fingers in the air, leaps them over a fake hurdle, and then flattens her hand on her lap.
“Splat, that’s what we called her. Couldn’t make it over one hurdle.
So she hates me because of my raw talent. ”
I nod. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Even though I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think Marjorie hates Aunt Kitty because Aunt Kitty is a loudmouth who doesn’t know when to stay quiet.
“And of course that hate for me transfers to you.”
“Well, technically, it wasn’t Marjorie who made the decision, it was the business society,” I say.
“Trust me, Marjorie had a big part in swaying all those people. Don’t understand how with that tuna breath, but to each their own.
” She heavily sighs. “And you know what? How dare she. You’re not a screwup, you’re this town’s Jackie of all trades.
If it wasn’t for you, Mayor Sheffield would be swimming around in his own fecal matter because his toilet isn’t working.
Dalinda down by the shore would still be traipsing around on that old moldy tile in her kitchen.
And that man-slut of a general store owner, David De-HEN-ders, would still be trying to get women off while his smoke detector bled for a new battery. ”
She paints quite the picture.
“They’re kind of right, though,” I say. “We already messed up by not having the money.” I still can’t believe I listened to Aunt Kitty when she said she had the money.
She lives on a fixed income. What was I thinking?
“And there is no way we can get a loan for it now, so it just seems like we’re living up to their expectations. ”
“To hell we are. We just need twenty thousand dollars.”
“And how do you plan on finding that?”
“Well, there are options,” she says as she taps her chin.
“What kind of options?”
She glances down at my legs, huffing. “Well, if your feet weren’t so…gnarly, we could sell feet pics.”
“My feet aren’t gnarly,” I say, glancing down at them as well.
“Your first four toes are all the same size while your pinky is half the size. It’s oddly unsettling to look at.
” I curl my toes under, because she’s not wrong about that.
“Feet are out.” She slashes her hand through the air.
“Which brings us to the rest of your body. How do you feel about selling it for twenty thousand dollars?”
“Not great!” I yell. “Jesus, Aunt Kitty.”
“Okay, okay, sheesh. Just exploring our options. You know I’d sell my body if it wasn’t for my celebrity personality. I need to stay loyal to my fans and out of trouble. I promised I wouldn’t sell myself out, so I’m unable to help you in a sexual way.”
“Can you not say it like that? We are not doing anything sexual to get money.”
“Shame, there’s some real money in that field. Oh, you know, I’ve been in contact with some men from foreign countries who have sent me DMs asking if I’m looking for a sugar daddy. Want me to write them back?”
“Those are scams.”
“Perhaps one of them is not; we could be ignoring a golden opportunity.”
“No, Aunt Kitty, we are not contacting random thirsty strangers from your DMs.” I slouch further into the couch and let out a defeated sigh. “Just admit it, we failed before we could even try.”
“Oh stop that.” She waves her hand at me in dismissal. “We haven’t failed, we just need…we need someone to give us money.”
“Yeah, and where do you think we will find this person?”
She sways to the side, tipping back the rest of her drink before she reaches for her tablet on the coffee table.
The screen is cracked so badly that it looks like a spider web took up permanent residence.
How she can see on that thing, I will never know, but she refuses to get a new one.
Something about loyalty. I try not to question too much.
“There’s got to be something. What about a financier? Perhaps Mark Cuban is interested?”
“Oh yeah, I read an article the other day about how Mark Cuban was interested in investing in a small-town sweets shop.” I roll my eyes and finish my drink as well, letting the alcohol seep into my brain, making everything fuzzy.
“And where did you see this article? Maybe there is an attached email address where we can inquire.”
My expression falls flat. “I was being sarcastic.”
“I’m not. I’m dead serious. Let’s see here.” She opens up her internet search and starts typing. “Mark Cuban’s email.”
“You are not going to find his email online.”
“Ah-ha!” she sing-songs. “Right here. Mark Cuban at get fucked dot com.” Her nose scrunches up. “Seems a bit crude for a serious businessman. But we can try it.”
“That’s not his real email,” I say, grabbing the tablet from her before she can email a scammer.
“How do you know?”
“Because Mark Cuban is not going to tell his correspondents to get fucked.”
“You don’t know him personally. Maybe he has a dark side to him. All billionaires do.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble. “Can you drop the idea of Mark Cuban? He’s not going to finance the candy store.”
“What about Barbara Corcoran?”
“No one from Shark Tank!” I shout.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and then takes the tablet back. “Then we need to search for a financier.” She purses her lips for a moment and then her eyes light up as she starts typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Going straight to the source. Financier dot com.” She presses search and, lo and behold, a website pops up.
Huh, that almost seems too convenient.
She clicks on it and we are inundated with pictures of men. “Holy moly, look at this.” She turns the tablet toward me and I blink a few times, trying to focus my eyes, the margarita making it more difficult. “Look at all these men looking to invest.”
I take the tablet from her and swipe to the left, scrolling as best as I can through the cracks. “Why does it show their age?”
“Probably to let you know if they’re young and aggressive or older and experienced.
Both positives for a financier.” She takes the tablet back.
“Look at this guy.” She clicks on an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, holding a small dog.
“Looking for commitment, must love dogs, and works in tech. There is big money in tech.”
“Why would a financier be looking for someone who likes dogs?”
Aunt Kitty scoffs. “Please, you’re not going to go into business with someone who doesn’t share the same interests as you.
” She taps the side of her head. “Think, Renley.” She continues to scroll through the onslaught of men.
Goodness, there are a lot of guys looking to invest. Where are all the women entrepreneurs out there?
Surely they should be here. “Ooh, this guy owns his own food truck. I bet he’s looking to expand into different cuisines. He’s a contender.”
“How is he a contender?”
“Candy is a cuisine.”
“I think you’re confusing what the word ‘cuisine’ means.”
Aunt Kitty shakes her head. “No, I’ve never been clearer. Ugh, gross, not this guy. He has a picture of a cat on his shirt.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“No serious investor is going to wear a shirt with a picture of a cat in his profile picture. I bet he’s surfing for good ideas to steal as his own. You’re a no, Sebastian, go poach someone else’s idea.”
I lean my head against the back of the couch and say, “I don’t think this is a very good idea. We don’t know these people; they could be criminals.”
“No, this website conducts background checks. Says in the top corner. These are certified financiers. We just need to find the right match for us.” She spends some time scrolling through, making comments here and there about the different men that are popping up.
“Depressing that they’re all men. Wouldn’t it be nice to see a Lori Greiner on here? ”
“Who is that?”
“From Shark Tank. Honestly, Renley. You claim to know things but it’s as if you were raised in a briar patch—oh…oh, I think I found our man.”
I glance over at the tablet, where there’s a picture of a guy on the fractured screen, wearing a suit while tugging on his curly brown hair.
Long legs, square, broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and a carved jaw peppered in scruff that almost seems illegal to look at.
He looks more like a model than someone looking to invest.
Or it’s a fake profile picture.
“He’s British, which is a plus—”
“Why is that a plus?”
“Because Cadbury was created in the United Kingdom, and if I know anything, I know that Cadbury will capture the attention of any red-blooded tastebud, and we need that kind of experience for our candy store.”
Are tastebuds red-blooded?
“Does it say he works for Cadbury?”
“No, but it does say that he likes sucking on cherries.”
“That’s an odd thing for a financier to say.”
“Not if they’re looking to be in the food business. Oh, and look, says he wants a solid twenty years of commitment, nothing less.” Aunt Kitty nudges me. “Marjorie can take her three months, chew on it, and preferably choke.”
“Twenty years, wow, that’s long.”
“Twenty years of committed business sounds like a winner to me. Not to mention, he loves a long-lasting merger, and this says he can go all night. That’s what you want in an investor, someone who burns the midnight oil.”
“That does sound promising.”
“And it says he’s also looking for someone with a strong hold, someone who can take him deep.”
“Take him deep?” I give her a puzzled look.
Aunt Kitty waves me off. “One of those finance terms.”
“Huh, never heard of it before.”
“That’s because we’re newbies; these guys know all the quick terms. Like this right here, says he’s DTF before commitment.”
“What does that mean?” I ask with a scrunch to my nose.
“Clearly it means he’s down to finance before fully committing. That right there says he can be trustworthy.”
“Wow, yeah, that does seem promising. Does he have any requirements for me? Like is he looking for anything in particular to invest in?”
“Let me see…” She runs her finger over the tablet, reading carefully. “No requirements, just…oh look, an American. That’s you. You’re an American.”
“I am.” I brighten up. “I was born here. I know of America.”
“You were, and you do, therefore, you meet the requirements.”
“Well, that seems…that seems almost too easy, but maybe we apply.”
Aunt Kitty smirks. “I think we shall.” She starts typing away, that evil smirk still on her face. “Marjorie is going to rue the day she messed with us. Just wait until she gets the taste of her own foot bone in her mouth. She’s going to see exactly why she’s so repulsive.”
“Why is she sticking her foot bone in her mouth?” I ask, the alcohol making me feel all kinds of dazed.
“Because…honestly, Renley, because she stuck her foot in her mouth about us screwing up. You know what, dear, just go to sleep, let Aunt Kitty handle this. I got you.”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes. Those margaritas are making me sleepy. Is three too many? “You got me.”