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“Oh,” seems to be the only appropriate response here.
“Pay is a thousand a week,” he says, as if it’s of no consequence.
But then he puts two pudgy, hairy elbows on the table and leans over. When he opens his mouth, he blasts me with Listerine breath that doesn’t seem to go with his yellowed Stongehenge-esque teeth. “And what about Nolan Storm?”
I blink.
Yep, this would qualify as my weirdest interview ever—even beating out the one Dunkin’ Donuts guy who started crying about his dead beta fish and the man from TGI Fridays who berated me for not ‘having more fun’ in my life for refusing to accompany him on an impromptu weekend trip to Lollapalooza.
“You do know him,” he insists. “Right?”
“Yes,” I say.
He nods. “You’re working for him. I read your article. It was good.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
He sweeps his arm across the table. “I don’t want anything like that.”
“OK…”
Another sip of his fruity drink that turns into a slurp—he must be at the end of it. “Nolan Storm is a…” His mouth contorts and the word he settles on doesn’t seem like the one he was going to say: “Enigma. He doesn’t give interviews to anyone. Unlike his brothers, he hasn’t given a single one in four years. I want you to do a story on him. I’ll give you three months to do it.”
I gape at him, while in my head I do the math. One thousand a week, times three months is… holy shit.
Twelve thousand dollars?!?
“I really don’t need that much time—” I begin. I almost feel bad, taking that much money for an article that probably won’t take more than a couple of weeks, tops.
But the man just shakes his beret-hatted head stubbornly, as if I’m asking for a raise. “That’s the price I’m offering. The question is, will you do it?”
I’ve never been one to set a huge amount of store in the whole ‘gut feeling’ thing. After all, it was my mom’s gut feeling that got her with my ass of a dad. As a kid, it was a Peyton fav, with her citing ‘gut feeling’ as the reason why she did such things as smack me for no apparent reason at all, and throw my sparkly snow Polly Pocket down the sewer.
But, right now, I’m having a real gut feeling.
Maybe it’s the cat cafe this man clearly sees as his own personal hell, maybe it’s the money he’s offering me for the story. Maybe I’m just being judgmental.
But something about this guy is way, way off. And it’s not just that ugly pea-green beret.
“I don’t know,” I say.
He rises, waving his hands and sticking out a card. “You don’t have to. Think about it. Give me a call.”
And then he hustles out of there, leaving me standing with his professional-looking card clasped between two fingers like it’s a banana peel or a bomb. I pause, take a look around.
What do you do when you’re left alone in a cat cafe? Why, you get a nice latte and a fat tortoiseshell cat to pet, of course.
**
I’m almost at my door when Nolan calls.
“Guess what,” he says.
“What?” I say.
Part of me’s hoping he’s called the fake engagement off, called my bluff. If it is a bluff, even.
“I’m taking you out tonight.”
So much for him calling it off—although I am still smiling.
“Is that a good silence, or a bad silence?” he asks.
“Why can’t it be both?” I reply.
“Why, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine. Picnic tonight under the stars?”
“And if I have plans?”
“Invite them along—they’ll have a blast.”
I can’t help it—I crack up. “You really are incorrigible, you know that?”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Yeah, well I still haven’t said yes yet,” I point out.
“You haven’t said no either.”
I sigh. “Fine. What time?”
“Don’t get too excited now.”
I make my tone sugar-sweet. “I can still say no, you know.”
“You. You’ll be the death of me.”
Damn it, I can’t stop laughing. “What time, Nolan?”
“Why not now, Sierra?”
“You are not coming over right now.”
“And if I were?”
“Then you’d have to wait outside while I get ready.”
“Outside, as in outside your room?”
“Outside, as in outside in your car.”
“You’re a tough one, I’ll say that much,” he finally says.
“And you’re unbelievable! What if I had said no?”
“Then I would’ve headed over to the very quality pizza joint beside your place, bought myself a pity pizza and gone on home.”
“You can still do that, you know. Don’t let me stop you.”
Now he’s the one laughing. “See you at nine then?”
“Nine works,” I say, and I find I’m smiling.
That’s the thing about Nolan Storm: love him or hate him, he sure knows how to make me smile.
**
Nine o’clock doesn’t seem to come fast at all, at least not at seven, when I’m cleaning my room. But then my clock skips clean over eight, and before I know it, I’m racing outside to his Porsche.
