2. Drake
Drake
I wake in the morning to a dozen emails and text messages from Amara in my firm's marketing department.
Without opening any of them, I know what they are regarding.
Last night, when Rita, whose name I only recently learned, kicked me out of her apartment in nothing but a towel, and I had quite the adventure getting home.
A lesser man would consider legal action for the impact it had on my public image, but I'm no stranger to bad publicity.
So now, there are pictures of me climbing out of an Uber driver’s Prius in a towel and running toward the gate of my villa with headlines like “Playboy Drake Vance Streaks Through Mulholland Drive.”
Rita gave me my phone so I could call an Uber, but she didn't give me the house keys from my pocket, so I had to climb a fence and let myself in with the spare key.
A part of me finds the entire situation funny. Amara, on the other hand, is less than pleased. She and the rest of the marketing division work hard to make my investment firm look incredible.
They've curated an image that paints us as responsible and selective with the projects we take on.
According to the countless emails she’s sent, my recent actions will have an impact on that.
I reply to some of the messages, apologizing and telling her it wasn't anticipated before climbing out of bed and getting ready for the day.
Replaying last night's events in my head, my only regret is not getting the phone number of the baker next door. She was cute and awkward in an endearing way that I enjoyed.
Seeing me in my towel obviously flustered her.
Would it be inappropriate to reach out to Rita and ask about it? Undoubtedly. Am I above that? That's to be determined.
Her nervous smile and baby blue eyes are ingrained in my mind as I walk through the office this morning. Her blonde hair had been tied back in a braid last night, and I wonder what it’s like free.
I imagine loose waves cascading down her back and swallowing her small frame. My mind wanders more from there when I imagine running my fingers through it.
People in the office are obviously talking about me when I walk in, and they make no effort to hide it.
All my employees look at me and smile, and I force a smile to try and seem humble about it.
Getting caught being kicked out of a lover's house in nothing but a towel is not a good look, but being angry about it only makes it worse.
“I'm not used to seeing you clothed,” Tyler, my CFO, says as he strides alongside me toward my office. “I’d appreciate it if you try to grab a sheet instead of a towel next time. My wife is suddenly very interested in the Christmas party this year. Show some modesty, Drake. If not for you, then for my marriage.”
“I don't go to the gym five times a week to hide my body,” I joke, strolling into my office.
I wave at some employees along the way and say good morning. My company is small enough to have personal relationships with all of them. That was important to me when I founded it.
My vision for the company is an open space that feels like home for the employees. I offer generous salaries and benefits packages with the best health care, paid maternity and paternity leave, and on-site daycare, so coming to work every day is a joy for my employees.
The office boasts an impressive relaxation room filled with various games, a pool table, and even designated quiet spaces.
There's a full bar that we hire bartenders to staff for our weekly company happy hour on Friday, and today, I'm interviewing for a private chef to cook for them.
Tyler and I walk into my office, closing the glass door behind us as we take a seat at my desk. Behind me is a beautiful view of the Los Angeles skyline that I stop to admire for a moment.
Tyler takes a seat across from me at the desk and crosses his legs casually.
“How's the presentation for my dad going?” I ask when I turn to him.
“All finished. He's going to want to see what we're investing in, so I've put together a portfolio of the companies you've worked with, short-listing the most promising ones,” Tyler says, plopping a folder on the desk for me to review.
I pick it up and flip through, nodding as I admire how detailed and concise the information is.
“This is perfect,” I say, looking at him approvingly. Tyler smiles and nods, leaning back in the chair. “He's due any minute now, and there’s no way he rejects our offer.”
“I’m thinking sushi to celebrate?” Tyler asks excitedly.
I shake my head and sigh. The idea of raw fish in rice has never appealed to me. “Get whatever you and the rest of the staff want. I'll just have a salad.”
He laughs, and I know what's on his mind. While most people with wealth and status like me have diverse appetites and prefer the finer things like caviar and wild scallops, I can't stomach them.
Why should I spend ten times the money on food I don't like?
I'm more than fine eating a chicken Caesar salad than a trendy kale grain bowl filled with vegetables I hate.
“Hopefully this chef interview goes well, and I can convince them to sneak some greens into your food,” Tyler jokes, looking at his watch.
I spot my dad walking toward the office through the glass walls and lose track of the thought. Tyler and I stand and walk toward the door to meet him halfway.
My dad is one of my best friends. I'm still close with my college roommate, Leonard, but my dad is someone I can talk to about anything.
He's worked his entire life to build the empire that I have benefitted from so much.
I want to prove to him that even with the safety net his wealth provides, I can stand on my own.
That's why I wanted to have this meeting, to prove to him that he should invest in the firm because he believes in it, not because of our family ties.
“Son,” he greets me, shaking my hand firmly. There's no mirth in his face, and without asking, I know this has something to do with the articles about last night.
We go back into my office, and I take a seat at the desk, but he doesn't sit right away. He stands at the window and looks out at the city with his arms behind his back, taking a deep breath before turning.
“While I can acknowledge that you've built a strong business, I’m not sure I can invest at this time,” he says before even hearing my pitch.
“Are you sure? Tyler and I have put together a report showing how your investment is expected to increase profits by the fourth quarter this year,” I say, standing to join him at the window. His eyes darken as he watches me. My heart sinks, and I can't bear the way he's staring.
“Are you aware of what the media is saying about you?” His voice is low and emotionless.
He's trying to hide it, but I know he's disappointed.
I've had plenty of one-night stands and tumultuous flings with people in the limelight, so I'm no stranger to this.
If anything, this publicity will bring more eyes to my business to see the good we're doing. But he doesn't see it that way.
“I've seen plenty of articles. They're sensationalized. It was a weird situation, and nothing like that has ever happened. It definitely won't happen again,” I argue. His disappointment in my actions is difficult to swallow.
“You have to understand that I can't take a risk in this company when you're still exhibiting signs of being immature,” my dad says, sighing and looking away.
His words sting more than I would like. “Maybe later down the line if this business seems viable, that can change.
But for now, I'll pass on this opportunity.”
I don't know what bothers me more, the fact that he doesn't trust me as a businessman or the fact that he's talking to me as if I'm a random person asking him to invest. I wanted him to invest in my company because he believes in it. He doesn't, but he doesn't need to act so coldly.
“There's nothing I can do to change your mind, Dad?” I stare at him as he continues to look away.
He shakes his head and looks at me with an apologetic smile, finally showing me some semblance of emotion. “Not right now. I've made up my mind, Drake. By the looks of it, you don't need my money, anyway.”
It's true. My business is doing well and is promising to grow, but his support means more to me than he can imagine.
“Thanks for coming anyway.” I pat him on the back before he makes for the door to leave. We say our goodbyes, and I sit in my chair, turning away from the glass walls so none of my employees see my disappointment.
This is a disaster. If last night hadn’t happened, my father would have invested in my company today. It would have helped the company immensely, and I also would have been able to earn his respect in a way I've been working toward my whole life.
Last night had gone smoothly for me until the baker showed up. Rita and I had an amazing time, and no one would have snapped pictures of me in a towel and sent them to the tabloids if it hadn't been for her interruption.
My blood boils thinking about how one minor inconvenience so easily ruined my plans.
All the warm feelings I had about the woman last night are gone now.
I have half a mind to find her just to let her know how difficult she's made my life, though I'm sure she's already seen pictures of me climbing a fence in a towel.
Tyler knocks on the door after a while, and I fill him in.
Then, I lose myself in all the articles about last night.
Some celebrity and entertainment news anchors theorize what could have happened.
While they're right for the most part—a scorned woman kicked me out of her house—they leave out the important detail that all of this started over raw fucking bagels.
Two light knocks on my door catch my attention and my assistant, Joseph, steps inside and smiles nervously. “Miss Porter is here for her interview.”
I forgot all about the interview. Leonard's daughter recently graduated from culinary school, and she's been looking for work.
When I told him about my business over drinks last week, he suggested I interview her.
The last thing I want to do right now is sit through a job interview, but I promised Leonard, so I have no choice.
“Send her in,” I sigh, closing out of all the tabs of me in the towel and searching my email for her resume. If she can prove she's at least partially competent in a kitchen and not a felon or a lunatic, she's got the job. Hopefully, this will be quick and painless for both of us.
“Right this way,” Joseph says in a chipper, excited voice as he leads the job contestant to my office. I look up from the screen when she walks into the room, and my heart stops beating for a moment. By the look on her face, the same thing happens to her.
“Fuck me,” I say involuntarily. “It's you.”
Standing in front of me, carrying a tray of muffins and bagels that I have no doubt were the ones she cooked last night in Rita's kitchen, is the baker.