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Nothing goes according to plan, which for me is as foreign as Elon Musk being humble. It wasn’t the lunch because I’m used to being stripped down by male eyes. Men think of sex eight times a day on average, but when I walk into a room, I think they fulfill that quota in half the time.
It’s not ego talking, it’s experience. I don’t pretend to be anyone that I’m not. I’ve been groped and kissed without permission, been eye-balled by twelve-year-olds, propositioned, begged, offered money, a job as a mistress and an exotic dancer. I’ve even had a plastic surgeon ask if I would pose for an ‘after’ picture, but that seemed deceitful, since I don’t have breast implants.
My mother tells me to dress down, stop wearing makeup, learn to walk like a man. I’ve never complained about the attention, but she doesn’t like it. She’s my mom, after all. She doesn’t want her daughter sexualized to the degree I am.
But that’s not who I am and frankly, why should I be? I like dressing up in designer clothes, four-inch stilettos and hip-hugging skirts. I like the way men look at me, but I’m not a bitch. I play by the girl-rules. I don’t mess around with boyfriends or husbands, don’t flirt with assholes, and I treat women with respect, but I’m not a pushover. I’m friendly, open, and inviting to other women unless they’re rude, aggressive or try to move in on another woman’s man.
And I like sex, but I don’t overindulge. I’ve been accused of having a sex addition, but that’s the looks, not the reality. I have a sexual past – what woman my age hasn’t? But I’m also selective and not the shy retiring type. I know what I like, and I’m not afraid to ask for it.
Some men get it, some men don’t.
It's why my relationship with my ex, Erik, lasted as long as it did. Most of the day, we hated each other, but he was good in bed. Not great. I’d give him seven on a ten-point scale. But the biker I met at lunch? I get all sorts of shivers when I think of him. I’m glad he left when he did. I’m glad we didn’t exchange information. Okay, not glad, but from a practical point of view, relieved because he’d lead me astray and I don’t need distractions in my life. Not right now anyway.
The problem is that my mind is on him and not on the meeting I so carefully dressed for. As a rule, I don’t use my looks as a weapon, but I’m not a paragon. Sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
The banker brings me back from my fantasy of hot sex with the even hotter biker with his disappointing words.
“I’m sorry,” Barry Franklin says as I sit in a chair in front of his massive desk. I wonder if he’s compensating for something as I cross my legs and straighten my back to show my chest to its full advantage. “You have no collateral.” He glances at my breasts. “The business is speculative and until it can show viability, the bank cannot lend you the money.”
Barry is a tall, handsome, sexy man if a little too lean for my tastes. He’s also charming and comes across as sincere. Not all villains are disgusting ugly unwashed men, but I’ve learned to recognize a snake in disguise and the rattler behind the desk thinks he has the upper hand.
Maybe he does. “Mr. Franklin,” I say with a good measure of supplication. “How am I supposed to show viability when I don’t have the funds to open the doors?” I shift slightly so he can get a side view.
He clears his throat. “I know you think that because I’m a friend of your family’s you should get special consideration, but it would be unfair to other clients if I showed favouritism.” He tilts his head as his eyes take a Sunday stroll over me. “Why are you asking for a loan anyway? You’re Lyle’s little darling. He’d give you anything you asked for.”
First of all, I don’t think anything of the kind. True, I came to him because he’s a friend of my father’s, but I expected him to fall for my charms not my connections.
Second, yes, Lyle Whittaker, my father would give me anything I asked for, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I want him involved in my business venture. He’s exacting, controlling and expects the world to revolve around him.
“He’s using his influence here.” It’s a statement not a question, and my words are so icy they could freeze penguins.
“My clients do not influence my decisions,” Barry lies. “But really, Evanee, your dad’s not asking for much. Set up in Reno instead of Sagebrush. And let him invest. From a monetary viewpoint, it makes sense.”
My rich daddy wants to partner with me, which means he’ll take over. I won’t have a friendly business where I can grow a loyal client-base, not with my throat-cutting father at the helm. I’d get crushed in Reno. Dad rubs elbows with all the important people, and I wouldn’t be able to go to the bathroom without someone reporting back to him.
I stare at Barry until he drops his eyes, then with as much dignity as I can muster, I rise from the chair. “Had you approved the loan, I would have been very grateful.”
I don’t exchange sex for favours, and I think he knows me well enough to know I’m bluffing. Still his face falls at what might have been.
“Evanee,” he stands as well. “This is for your own good. You’re setting yourself up for failure.”
He might be right, but I won’t know if I don’t try. “Good day, Mr. Franklin,” I say sweetly. Inside I’m raging, but if he sees how upset I am, he’ll report back to my father, and that will give dad more ammunition than he already has.
I stroll around the mall to cool my anger. After I’ve indulged in some retail therapy I can’t afford, I settle my bags in the trunk of my sweet little Beamer, then slide into the leather bucket seat. My car was a gift from my parents when I graduated high school, but I’m 26 years old now and my little darling is starting to feel its age. Last month, I had to replace the ignition and that gouged a big chunk of my savings. “Stay healthy,” I say as I start it up. “You and me against the world, girl. You and me.”
The Beamer understands and like Thelma and Louise, we hit the road. Reno is suffocating me, and Sagebrush already feels like home. Thirty minutes, later I pull up to the building that is going to be my future veterinary clinic, Sweet Tidings Animal Hospital. Aside from my father’s meddling, there’s another reason for hanging my shingle in this town. It’s more affordable and less competitive. There’s only one other vet clinic in town and despite the owner being the ex-boyfriend, this place is big enough for the two of us. If it isn’t, we’ll have a show-down and I don’t like to brag, but I’m a pretty fast draw.
I slide my way out of the Beamer, grab the shopping bags, one of which holds my sweet new Valentino Garavani Tan patent leather pumps that I got for the bargain price of $595.00, and stroll inside the little vet shop that already feels like home. There’s still work to do, but it’s starting to look like a warm inviting place where pets and their people will feel welcome.
My three-legged cat, Kona, who’s been lying on the reception counter, stands and stretches like the diva she is and my two dogs, Blackie, a white poodle with a missing ear, and Cujo, the sweetest Rotti I’ve ever encountered, greet me like I’ve been gone six weeks instead of six hours. They’re all rescues which explains the weird names, but dogs and cats don’t like change and abused ones need as much familiarity and love as they can get.
I open one of my bags and hand a ball to Blackie and a stuffie to Cujo. They jump around like it’s Christmas, express their gratitude with their eyes, then run off with their new treasures.
Kona jumps off the counter and lopes over to me, slapping at the bag.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you.” I pull out a small mouse with a bell on it and toss it to her. She forgets to thank me as she pounces.
“There you are.” Wendy Unser bustles from the back and startles me.
