“Well, I’ve really gotten a thrill recently with becoming more active in my investing. It’s part of what has me in trouble right now I know, I tied up everything in long term projects and don’t have enough liquidity when I want it, but I was thinking that if I can keep things up, I’ll have enough passive income from real estate investments that by the time I do step away from modeling, I’ll be set for life, but even more, I can grow more and more. Who knows? Heidi Klum made eighteen million last year with her work, maybe I can top that with my investments.”
“You’ll have better hair than Donald Trump at least,” I said, chuckling before stopping. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make fun of you, Alix. I’m really impressed by everything you’ve been saying. I guess it just surprises me all the more about the need for the money then. I mean, you seem to have your head pretty well screwed on when it comes to your finances.”
Alix nodded, and I could sense she was trying to come up with a lie on the fly again. “I know. I guess everyone just has a moment of craziness. How many twenty-one-year-olds would have acted maturely if they’d been offered a seven figure contract?”
“Seven figures, huh? Yeah, I guess I would have gone a bit crazy then too,” I said, thinking of the strain in her story. Sure, she might not like accessing Dad’s money, but the fact was she always had her own expense account. Dad had started a trust fund for her as soon as he and Layla got engaged. It was under the same conditions as mine, that we got full access at twenty-five, but before then she could access it under certain conditions. Dad wouldn’t have denied her on an issue like this. I let it go, knowing I had to talk to Vince soon.
We reached the end of the pier and watched the ocean for a while. Alix put her elbow on the railing and leaned down, trying to cup her cheek in her hand before pulling back, wincing as the pressure touched her injured cheek. “Damn, forgot about that.”
“I had something similar,” I told her. “One time, during my last year of law school, I had to argue a mock court case with an even bigger shiner.”
She turned to me and grinned, turning her arm so that her side was leaning against the railing. “Oh, I gotta hear this one. Derek never told me about it.”
“Dad doesn’t know,” I replied. “After leaving USC and going to Stanford, I missed the beach. Palo Alto isn’t the same as down here you know, and while some guys go surfing, I found that I just didn’t have the time or the schedule to allow me to be in the surf culture anymore. It left me pretty frustrated because I wanted a way to stay in shape, and just going to the gym and lifting wasn’t enough. So, about halfway through my first year of law school, I got into boxing.”
“You, a boxer?” Alix asked. “I’d never believe it. Your face is far too good looking to risk it in the ring.”
I knew I was blushing, but I couldn’t help myself. Alix was a beautiful woman, and she was calling me handsome. That is something any man likes to hear. “Well, I did. Oh, I spent maybe the first six months, the rest of that year of law school, taking it slowly. I worked the bag, did drills with the mitts, that sort of thing. At first that was all I needed, as it let me work out a lot of stress. Trust me, if you’re ever pissed off at the world, beating the hell out of a heavy bag until your arms are lead is very, very therapeutic. But, I found myself needing more. So, starting my second year, I got into sparring. Light sparring at first, just working with guys and figuring out how to put together everything I’d been working on with the bags and mitts. By my last year in law school, though, I was pretty decent, and I worked with a lot of the high level amateurs in the area in getting them ready for tournaments and stuff.”
“So how’d you get the black eye then?” Alix asked. “Don’t tell me you caught a stiff one while sparring.”
“No, I always wore those headgears with the eye and cheek protectors, because I knew I had to try and keep my face unmarked. It was my downfall in sparring. I carried my hands far too high to adequately defend my body. Some of the guys who could get inside my punches just tore me apart in the body while leaving my head totally unmarked. But I got the black eye because I got goaded into a smoker one time.”
“What’s a smoker?” Alix asked.
“Think of it as a very low-level, pro-rules fight night,” I said. “A lot of the guys are amateurs, and the fights are usually classified as amateur fights, but the rules are more flexible. The event I did was for charity, the only reason I agreed to do it at all. The deal with a smoker is that you and your opponent can get together before the fight and talk it over with the ref as to how hard you’re going to go, headgear, stuff like that. Well, my opponent was a real cocky son of a bitch, and I didn’t know he was a former Golden Gloves champ who wanted to do the smoker more as a comeback tune-up after getting out of prison. He pressured me into ditching the headgear, saying if I kept it he’d duck the fight. The promoter begged me to keep the fight. He’d already lost two fights on the card because of injuries or guys just no-showing the whole damn thing. So, I did it as a favor to the promoter and because I was feeling cocky.”