Bryn
It’s a project that my parents would be proud of; that I’m proud of. I don’t get why nobody else sees the potential. Why the bankers won’t take my calls after a pitch. Or why my friend Jensen is the fifth person I’ve had to beg to get a meeting with the most powerful investor in the city—my last chance to convince someone my idea is good enough to fund.
There have been so many NO’s, that when my phone rings late that evening and I see Jensen’s number blink on my screen, I almost can’t bear to hear it another time.
It takes me a few seconds, and a great pull of breath, to gather the courage to pick up and croak, “Yes?”
“Bryn, baby,” Jensen says.
I hold my breath and clutch my cell a little tighter, my stomach in knots because I dread his most likely next words. That the investor I’m dying to see told Jensen that there is no way in hell he will—
"You got it. Tomorrow. His place at 8 p.m. Don't be late. He doesn’t usually see anyone outside the office but it’s the only time he could squeeze you in."
It takes me a moment to grasp what he is saying. “Ohmigod! Jensen, thank you!"
“No worries, post me,” he says with a little chuckle.
“I will,” I promise before hanging up. I throw my cell phone on the bed, and then I follow, grabbing my pillow and clutching it to my chest as I roll to my back.
Holy shit! It’s on, baby.
I’m not sure my friend Jensen knows how grateful I am, but I would’ve squeezed the breath out of him if we hadn’t been speaking on the phone.
Finally.
I’ve got a meeting. With him.
The legend. The guy with the Midas touch, and the golden eyes to match.
I fall asleep with a bundle of nerves in my stomach, tossing and turning in bed as I wonder what this man will see in me…what he will say about my project.
I spend the entire next day re-writing my pitch to be sure that I get it right. I wish that Sara, my roommate, wasn’t working all day because I have no one to practice with. Talking to myself in the mirror doesn’t have the same punch when I’ve heard the pitch a thousand times in my mind already.
Nerves accompany me as I take the train to the Upper East Side. I check the address Jensen sent me, exhaling as I wait for my stop.
I’m fully aware that this meeting can go one of four ways.
He’ll give me the money.
He’ll give me only part of the money.
He won’t give me the money. And back to point c.), I’ll realize that I have run out of options and I’m supremely royally fucked. I’ll have to realize that I was dreaming and that this project sucks as much as everybody claims it does (everybody but me), or I’ll have to…well, I don’t know how I can get this project off the ground without any money. So, back to being fucked.
It’s not like I can go back to Toasts and Bagels. They made it very clear I was the worst waitress in the world. Always “daydreaming”. Forever fired.
But enough pessimism. I still have option a.) He’ll give me the money. He’s supposed to be a big risk taker and he takes companies no banks will touch, and no sane person would look at, and he explodes them. He takes them to the stratosphere. Okay…I admit I don’t believe it, but I’m desperate. When I heard his name, and recognized it, I decided it wouldn’t hurt. I mean, what other option do I have? The four options I listed involve needing someone to invest in my business, and the bankers don’t want to see my face anymore.
As I ride the train to the address I was given, I’m uncomfortably warm in my jacket. Perspiration clings to my forehead, between my breasts, and pops up on my palms. Relax, Bryn. You won’t cause a good impression sweating and panting.
Checking my texts through my cracked phone screen, I reread my best friend’s message in reply to the text I sent her last night.
I’m completely uninspired without you here
Becka is a starving artist/writer poet. She’s not really really starving but, you know what I mean. She’s waiting for a big break. I suppose we all are.
Miss you too, Becks! I text back. But I’ve got THE appointment!
OMG! Go get your money honey. Dazzle him so he won’t stand a chance, but then you always did dazzle that guy
Totally not true. But I’ll post you.
I hop off the train and walk several walks to his building.
It’s a brownstone in Park Avenue, one of the most elite of the elite spaces in town.
My lungs feel a little bit overworked from awe as I head up the steps to the double doors, grateful that I came dressed to kill in a little black dress, a jacket, and pumps. Simple, but effective.
See, I may be feeling a little awkward, but at least I don’t look it.
I’m greeted by his maid. She’s dressed in black and white, her hair drawn back in a neat bun, her expression stoic and formal as she leads me down the hall to a gorgeous study.
I catch my breath when I notice all the books and shelves.
It’s like a reader’s paradise in here. There’s a sleek chrome bar, a modern mahogany glass-topped desk, and two huge whiskey-colored leather chairs that almost swallow me up when I’m instructed to wait in one.
I drum my fingers, inhaling the scent of leather and wine, remembering a guy I knew with his mechanic navy-blue uniform, black streaks on his jaw, his big nose always the first thing you’d see, which was a pity because he had beautiful eyes and a really sinful pair of lips.
He’s living in luxury now. Wow. Good for him.
I hear footsteps approaching and the little hair on my arms prick at attention. My head turns as a tall, dark figure steps into the room, and the most intimidating guy I’ve ever seen enters and crosses the room toward the desk. He walks like he’s the shit…his strides proud and composed, elegant and powerful.