Michael, the thirty-five-year-old dishwasher with five kids, burst into tears when we told him the news. I got a hug from Linda, and even more shocking, from Ma as well. It felt amazing. So, in addition to his virtuosity as a flirt and an indecent proposer, the rich dude tonight made magic. And despite my wanting to hate him for everything he stood for, I found myself fascinated too. Why me? As I stared at the TV, all I could think of was that man. I didn’t even know who he was. I remembered how soft and subtle his lips looked but didn’t even bother to find out his name.
I remembered his signature. KP. Just two initials. Who could possibly be rich enough to be only known by two letters? Like the ultimate researcher, I googled “KP and millionaire” to see what that dredged up. I was fully aware of how lame I was being, but it was oh-my-god o’clock, who cared? Two significant hits came up as top search results. A rapper named KP Million and Kembrough Preston, head of production and owner of Lakeshore Pictures. After looking at my search results, I was pretty sure… like one hundred percent sure that KP from Ma’s Diner was not a rapper. No way. I clicked on Kembrough Preston. The named oozed pretense, this had to be my man.
Boom! There he was, one of the most successful movie producers in New York. My first thought was, why not Hollywood? New York for movies was like pork being “the other white meat.” Maybe he was a hack with family money and his film biz was a side gig. A quick IMBD search shut me up. The man was a god. Well, my mind rambled, there was always bacon. Pork was bacon anyway. Okay, dammit, now I wanted the bastard. I didn’t think I would take him up on his offer, but in my head, I revisited our exchange at the diner.
“You know what, Kembrough Preston,” — paused to cough at such a ridiculously pretentious name — “I think I’ll take you up on that fuck after all.”
Go to bed, Caitlyn Marie Ashcroft. You’re starting to sound like a wanton, money-grubbing wanna be.
I liked teasing myself, cause I was teetering on the edge of sanity, and I needed to keep myself grounded. While I slightly regretted that I would never see KP, the dashingly inappropriate and sadly named billionaire, at least I had my moment. It would be a fine name-dropping moment in years to come — when I was lonely and poor, still working at the diner with Linda, for the rest of my life.
Remember that time when KP, the famous billionaire, wanted to fuck you? And you turned him down.
CHAPTER FOUR
KP
Tuesday morning, I was restless after my evening with Rachel. While I had always enjoyed our time together, I felt unusually uninspired by our sexual exchange and considered calling the whole thing off. Everything I attempted to do felt listless and boring compared to the electrical thoughts Caitlyn ignited within me. I was being a child, I knew. There was no such thing as love at first sight, but hyper-charged, raging lust, definitely!
I wasn’t sure what my next move was going to be. I felt restless and disappointed in myself for not coming up with some kind of brilliant plan immediately. I couldn’t just stalk her, that would be criminal. The catfish was certainly no reason to return. I had to find a way to snare her, if only for another opportunity to talk.
I decided to revisit my Google search of the elusive Caitlyn Ashcroft to see if I’d missed something. Specifically, I wanted to discover anything that would give me an insight into how to reach her. As I searched through the few files that came up under her name, I found that she recently had a showing at a small gallery in New Haven.
I leaned across my desk far enough to see my assistant hard at work logging the daily files into production folders on her computer. A tedious daily duty, and one I was happy not to be doing. Sandra was a good assistant, very diligent, but she wasn’t a tiger. She would probably be an assistant all her life. Only those who really grabbed the industry by the balls actually made it past the cube in front of someone’s office.
“Sandra, call the City Gallery in New Haven and have them hold all of their Ashcroft pieces for me. I’ll be there around nine-thirty, give or take.”
“Sure thing.” She was always chipper; it kept me from raging at her.
I had a reputation, quite a villainous one, that had most of the trade publications depicting me as a screamer. They weren’t wrong, but with Sandra, I barely raised my voice. She was capable enough not to make me insane. I knew she would be able to get me an appointment, and I started to feel exhilarated knowing I was heading for a clandestine voyage into Caitlyn’s world. It was stalking, but in its acceptable form.
I felt a pique of amusement while watching the director’s cut of one of our films. Beau Brandegauet’s cuts were usually entertaining because the director took his little horror franchise so seriously. He treated each installment as if it was the next Shining, but it was drivel. However, despite its light artistic value, it was a box office maverick. I agreed to his cut in the contract but already had our editors sifting through the footage and creating the real masterpiece. A slasher hit with lots of spooks and bumps, some tight shots on gratuitous fornication, and we would have another blockbuster on our hands. I settled in with my latte and a good sense of humor as I watched the slow-mo fucking scenes before our killer knifed the brainless beauty in the eye. Such pretense. People didn’t like slow-mo these days. They wanted it hard, fast, and bloody. I was writing my notes when Sandra interrupted my work.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Preston, but the gallery manager won’t be able to accommodate your request for nine-thirty this evening.” She looked like she was going to pass out, as she rarely was unable to secure whatever I demanded.
“Is he on the phone now?”
“Yes, sir, he would like to know if you want to schedule for another day?”
“Tell him, no. I’ll be there tonight. Thank you.” With a wave of my hand, I dismissed her.
Yes, I was a complete asshole, but I always got my way, and I was too agitated to be accommodating.
While Sandra was on the phone making profuse apologies — whatever it took, I didn’t care — to the gallery manager, Lucas waltzed into my office. He was my best friend. We had known each other from childhood. He became a lawyer and general do-gooder of the people, and I became a nasty, albeit successful, movie producer. But I was in no mood for him today. I was too tense.
“Sparring match is tomorrow night,” I said, not looking up from the abysmal director’s cut of the movie.
“No, it’s not, I have to reschedule.”
I didn’t even look at him. “No.”
Another particularly gruesome death scene was playing out. They had a choice. The lead character could cut off his arm and feed it to his girlfriend before a bomb went off and killed them both. Or, if she ate her own arm, the timer on the bomb would stop. It was a “how much do you love each other” kind of thing. Of course, the director’s cut made it sappy, with too many close shots showing their agonizing decision. Should he cut his own arm off to save them? Should she eat it for the same purpose? It was good, sick shit, but again, it needed to be fast, dirty, and rough. This oozed 1970’s and was like vomit on a loop. Good thing I knew our editor could fix this.
“Shit, that’s fucked up,” Lucas said.
“You know what’s fucked up? This shit makes one hundred mill in the opening weekend,” I snarled back.