Kiss and Tell 2 (4 page)

After I confirmed that I had received no personal messages, I stayed online for a while. I might not have had any real friends, but according to my favorite social networking site, I had 158 of them (even though some of them were bands, books, and other nonhuman entities), and I scanned their posts in search of any interesting and exciting news or updates.

It’s easy to get lost in that type of activity, and I must have been at it for over two hours when I was interrupted by a knock on my bedroom door.

“Yeah,” I replied, raising my voice but not my eyes. Those were still locked on the words and pictures on my tablet.

“Kirby,” Dad said as he opened my door and peeked through it. His tone was calm, yet slightly imperative, and it was enough to distract me from the cyber world.

I looked at Dad and was a little confused by the expression on his face. I was confused because
he
looked confused. His head was cocked to the side a little, and he looked like a puppy dog who was waiting for someone to pull a stick out of nowhere and toss it.

“What’s up, Dad?” I asked, setting down my tablet.

“You have a phone call,” he replied. I’d been lounging in bed, and Dad’s response made me sit up straighter. I looked around me, in search of my cell phone, but couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it. I figured I must have left it out in the main part of the house somewhere, though I wondered how Dad could’ve had the gull to check it.

Dad was able to perceive what I was doing, and he held out his hand like a crossing guard to stop me. “Not on your phone,” he said. “On
mine
.”

I cocked my head to the side a little, taking on Dad’s former pose. He’d pulled a stick out of nowhere, and now I was just waiting for him to toss it.

“It’s Mr. Swift,” Dad said. My heart started to flutter, and I felt a bit lightheaded.

“He called my phone and asked to talk to you,” Dad explained, even though there really was no need for him to expand upon or combine his former statements.

“Mom said you talked to him last night at the party,” Dad went on. “I guess he’s calling to follow up on that in some way.”

I nodded to confirm at least part of what Dad was saying, but the other part was what left me speechless. I knew exactly why Mr. Swift was calling.

“Mom also said you were a little short with him when you talked,” Dad added. “I hope you’ll be a little more considerate when you talk to him this time. If he’s taking the time to call you on a Sunday evening, it’s obviously about something important.”

Dad had absolutely no idea how important Mr. Swift’s phone call really was, and he was totally oblivious to Mr. Swift’s incentive and objective. I don’t think the thought even crossed his mind that his boss could possibly be calling me for a personal reason. Not even a hair of suspicion had been raised.

Was it entirely beyond Dad’s imagination that Mr. Swift might be calling me the way that a man calls a woman? And if so, why? Was it our age difference, or different statuses in life, or the polarities of our connections to Dad?

Dad was tossing me to the wolves, and he didn’t even know it.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be nice.” I looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to hand me his phone.

“My phone’s downstairs in the kitchen,” he told me, reading my thoughts again. Funny how he was only able to do that when it came to certain things, and unable to do it when it came to others.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing like a crossing guard again. “I put him on hold while I came and got you. I told him you were working on job applications in your room.”

Great
, I thought to myself. Now Anthony was going to think I was even more employment driven than he already thought I was, and he already thought I was way more employment driven than I actually was or ever would be.

I got up from my bed and followed Dad downstairs to the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the table next to Dad’s phone with a huge smile on her face. As soon as I walked into the room, she perched up on her seat, picked up Dad’s phone, and held it out toward me.

Judging from the way that Mom was seated and the way Dad positioned himself by the doorframe, it was clear that I was to have my phone conversation with Mr. Swift in front of them. The mere thought of it terrified me, and I hoped that Anthony would give me something to work with. Instead of coming right out and talking about our situation, or setting up a date to do so, I prayed that he had some type of cover-up story in mind, so that I had something to tell my parents.

I took the phone from Mom’s hand. “Hello?” I said. In response, I heard nothing.

“Hello?” I repeated. I felt nervous, yet relieved. Had Anthony hung up on me?

“It’s on hold,” Dad reminded me from the doorway. “You have to press ‘unhold’ to get back into the call.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. I pulled Dad’s phone away from my ear and did as he’d instructed.

This time, when I went back on the line and said “hello,” Anthony answered.

“Hi, Kirby,” he said. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but we need to talk.”

“You’re not bothering me, Mr. Swift,” I said politely. “Thanks for calling.” My casual tone was my way of being cryptic.

Anthony paused for a moment and made some type of sigh-like sound. “Is your dad still there? Is he monitoring your end of the conversation?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. I tossed a fake smile in Mom’s direction. Anthony hadn’t asked if she was there, too, and I had no way to tell him—not that it mattered. Being monitored was being monitored, regardless of the amount of people on watch.

“I’ll keep it quick and simple then,” Anthony responded. “Come to my office at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Tell your parents that I want to talk with you about your career options. After the conversation we had in front of your mom last night, I’m sure they’ll be thrilled by the idea.”

I didn’t know how good Anthony’s excuse would be, but it was better than nothing.

“Okay,” I said, keeping it quicker and simpler.

“Alright,” Anthony said. “I’ll see you then.” I could hear him breathing as he waited for me to say something.

“See you then,” I replied, more than well aware of my audience. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Anthony said, sounding disappointed. He knew about my audience, too. What else did he expect me to say?

I hung up the phone and placed it down on the table. Immediately, Mom stood up, smiled, and put her hand on her hips.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“He wants to meet with me tomorrow,” I said.

That was all I needed to say.

“Oh, honey, that’s great,” Mom cheered.

“Wow,” Dad added.

I stood there like a celebrity amongst groupies.

“See, Judy,” Dad said. “I told you she couldn’t have been
that bad
in front of Mr. Swift. She obviously made a good impression.”

“Obviously,” Mom said, still smiling.

Anthony had given me a thin cover-up story, and I’d feared that it wouldn’t work. But now I didn’t even have to use it. Neither Mom nor Dad asked
why
Mr. Swift wanted to meet with me, but both were extremely pleased that he did. If they’d known the full story, however, or even parts of it, I’m 100 percent certain that they would not have given me their blessing.

“I’m going over to see London,” I said, stopping in at the game room before heading out through the kitchen. It had been about two hours since I ended my phone call with Anthony, and since then I’d showered, gotten changed, and texted my beard boyfriend to see if he wanted to hang out. I’d napped far too long that afternoon, and my nerves were on edge. I needed some type of a distraction to ground me.

Mom looked up at me and grinned like a clown. She and Dad had been watching a movie on the flat screen, but now I was the main attraction. In a single evening, I not only managed to land an appointment with my dad’s billionaire boss, but I was also on my way to a “date” with the beefy rich kid next door. Mom couldn’t have been happier.

If only she knew.

“Have fun,” Mom said, turning her head back toward the television. She still had that huge grin on her face, and I wondered if it was because she really was happy for me.

I smiled back at Mom and nodded my head at Dad, who’d nodded his head at me first. Then I turned and left.

“Come in,” London said when I knocked on the door to the pool house. I’d learned my lesson earlier that day and would do my damnedest never to walk in unannounced again.

Luckily, when I walked into the pool house this time, London was not standing at the counter getting a blow job but was hunkered down on the couch playing a video game. He made a few more moves before pressing a series of buttons to save and end his game, then set his controller down and gestured for me to come sit next to him on the couch.

“Two dates in one day,” he said with a laugh. “Our relationship must be getting pretty serious.”

“I guess so,” I said, giggling. “Either that or the sex is really great.”

The moment I said that last part, I regretted it. I was completely comfortable with the fact that London was gay, and since I found out, I’d grown completely comfortable with him. It was as if his disclosure wiped the slate clean and allowed us to start over. Finally, I was on my way having a real friend.

We’d shared a lot with each other, and we shared a few secrets. We also shared another thing, which I’d nearly forgotten about—until I made that comment.

London and I
had
hooked up a couple weeks earlier. That awkward sexual encounter was something we’d shared, and I’d just said something that at least partially pertained to it.

Gay or not, London had delivered that afternoon and had proved to be a mighty good lover, at least as far as eating pussy is concerned. He’d gotten me off like no other, and the mere memory of his mouth on me was enough to make me quiver and wish that he wasn’t gay.

“I’m sorry about that,” London said, turning his gaze away from me. Our conversation had gone from something playful to something serious in no time, but it wasn’t a smooth transition. There was a palpable uneasiness in the air, and London went on to address it.

“I didn’t mean to lead you on or whatever,” London said, fiddling with his deactivated video game controller. He was having a hard time selecting his words, and I was having a hard time listening to them.

“If I could be with a girl, you’d be at the top of my list,” he said. “I think that’s part of why I went after you so aggressively. I know we have this whole beard thing going on now, but when we hooked up a couple weeks ago, I didn’t do it to try and cover up the fact that I’m gay. I did it to try and change it. I thought that maybe if you and I got together, I could ‘become straight’ for you.”

“But you couldn’t,” I interjected.

“I couldn’t,” London repeated. “And if I couldn’t do it for you, I couldn’t do it for any girl. I’m gay, and I’m sorry for using you to confirm it.”

It was hard to be mad at London when he laid it all out on the table like that. I couldn’t even begin to understand what he was going through and did not envy the struggles he had coming to terms with his sexuality, or the struggles he would face disclosing it to others.

“I don’t feel used, London,” I said. “And I understand…as best as I can, I understand.”

London looked very relieved and smiled at me. “Good,” he said. “Thank you.”

For a moment, it looked like London was going to shed a tear, but just ‘cause he was gay didn’t mean he was going to act like a sissy. He was still very much a macho man, and he shrugged the tear off before it rolled from his eye.

“So what brings you here tonight, anyway?” he asked. I was thankful that he changed the subject. “Are you here just to get away from your parents? Or was there something you actually wanted to talk about?”

“A little of both,” I admitted. I told London about Anthony’s phone call and asked him what he thought about it.

“I don’t really know what I think,” he told me. “Sounds like he didn’t say much to you over the phone, and you’ll have to wait and see what happens in person.”

London was telling me something I already knew and hadn’t provided that great male insight I’d hoped he would. We talked about it for a few more minutes and discussed how I should approach my “meeting” the next day, but in the end, it was all just a lot of idle chitchat. There was no way we could plot or plan anything, or help prepare me for what might or might not happen.

I tossed and turned all night, but still managed to get a few hours of sleep in after leaving London’s pool house. It wasn’t solid, steady sleep, but it was enough to rest my mind and rejuvenate my skin so that I didn’t have puffy eyes in the morning.

My meeting with Anthony was scheduled for 10 a.m., and I’d set my alarm for 7 to give me enough time to ready my body and mind and drive to Parker & Swift headquarters. My prep time seemed to fly by rather quickly, and before I knew it, I was dressed, ready, and in my car, headed toward my date with destiny.

My phone chirped from within my purse as I drove into town. I didn’t bother to pull it out and check it. I was pretty sure it was Mom calling me last minute to wish me luck, but I didn’t really want to talk with her. I was nervous enough already.

By the time I arrived at Stonegate Tower where Parker & Swift was located, I’d completely forgotten about Mom’s call and was concerned only with what was about to go down in the building.

I was dressed in legging capris, a cami, an unbuttoned blazer, and 2-inch heals that coordinated with my oversized purse. I looked hip, sexy, and young, yet very professional, and I felt a little empowered by my outfit.

I walked with my back straight and head held high and made it into Stonegate Tower and up to the 12th floor without so much as a single hit to my swagger. As soon as I walked into the offices of Parker & Swift, I was greeted by a similarly confident receptionist around my age. She was a lot bubblier and perkier than I was, though.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling from behind her earpiece headset. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Kirby Miller,” I replied. “I’m here to see Anthony…Swift.” I caught myself before I forgot to observe formality and say his last name.

The receptionist looked me over a bit. I’m sure she was curious as to why Mr. Swift had taken time out of his schedule to see me, and I wondered again why my parents hadn’t been curious about the same thing.

She clicked a few buttons on her computer screen. “Yes,” she said. “Miss Miller…you’re right here. Please have a seat, and Mr. Swift’s assistant will be out to get you in a moment.”

I sat down in a nearby chair. Most offices have big, comfy chairs, loveseats, or sofas, but the thing I sat down on didn’t fit into any of these categories. It was more a piece of art than anything else, and its form definitely outweighed its function.

Good fortune was on my side, however. I didn’t have to sit on that curvy black curl for very long. Less than a minute after I sat down, I heard my name called, and I looked up to see Anthony standing before me. I stood up and walked over to him, and as I did, he held out his hand.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see the receptionist. She looked shocked. After all, she’d been expecting Mr. Swift’s assistant to come get me, not Mr. Swift, himself, and the fact that the big guy came out of his office probably piqued her curiosity all the more.

“Right this way,” Anthony said, releasing his hand from mine and guiding his arm behind me. He didn’t put his arm around me, mind you, but just held it out behind me, like an usher does when helping a person to his or her seat.

Anthony led me to his office. Once we were inside of it, he shut the door behind me, and I tried not to be overwhelmed by the space I was in—which was difficult. As far as offices go, it was, by far, the biggest and best I’d ever seen. It was very large and incredibly decorated.

The chair in front of Anthony’s desk was a lot more like what you’d expect to find in an office of this caliber. It was nothing like the art piece from the reception area, and as soon as I sat down in it, I felt like I was seated in the lap of comfort.

Anthony walked around to his side of the desk and sat down. He examined me for a moment before leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs—and what followed was silence.

Neither Anthony nor I spoke right off the bat, but instead sat and appraised each other.

“So, Kirby,” Anthony said, leaning forward and scooting his chair toward his desk. “I’ve thought things over, and I’d like…to offer you a job here at Parker & Swift.”

“What?” I shouted—and when I say shouted, I mean SHOUTED.

“I’d like to offer you a job,” Anthony repeated, as if that was the answer to what I’d asked him.

“I heard you,” I said, “but I don’t understand you.” My heart was beating a mile per minute, and I was totally flabbergasted. I was sure Anthony had called me here to talk about our situation and simply couldn’t believe his offer.

“That’s the best thing that can come of this,” he said, drumming his fingers on his desk. “It’s the best I can offer you right now. I’m not willing to bring anything else to the table.”

“What the hell do you mean?” I asked. To the best of my knowledge, there was no one monitoring our conversation, so I couldn’t comprehend why Anthony was being so cryptic. He had no one to hide the truth from—except me and himself.

“If you want money from me, Kirby, you’re going to have to earn it,” he said. For as coolly as he’d talked days before, he was now talking coldly.

“I don’t want any money from you,” I spat back at him.

“Sure you don’t,” Anthony said, placating me.

“Look,” I demanded, “I came here today because I thought you wanted to talk to me about our situation—about what happened between us last week, and about our conversation at my parents’ party.”

“That
was
why I originally wanted to see you,” Anthony replied, “but then I got your little note this morning.”

“What little note?” I asked.

Anthony sprung back in his chair a little. He raised his eyebrows at me, then reached down into one of his desk drawers, pulled out a piece of paper, and tossed it toward me.

“This note,” he said as the paper danced in the air a little. “It arrived by bike messenger this morning.”

I picked up the sheet of paper and glanced at it briefly. It was a short, typed message, and I had to work hard to focus my eyes enough to read it.

“Like I said,” Anthony said as I began reading the thing, “if you want money from me, you’re gonna have to earn it. You’re not going to get it out of me
that
way. If you want a job at Parker & Swift, you can have it, even though you don’t deserve it—and if you don’t want it, well, that’s that. Go ahead, do whatever you will. There’s no proof.”

Anthony was trying to play hardball, and as the message in the note became clearer, I could see why. What I held in my hands—what I was reading—was a blackmail note.

Fathers protect your daughters
, the first line read.
Famous billionaire likes ‘em young, makes move on top exec’s college-aged daughter.

There was a hard return between this headline-like intro and the next paragraph:
Your selfish, perverse indiscretions have finally caught up with you and are going to cost you. $250,000 cash in unmarked bills, to be exact. Pay me or pay the piper.

Another hard return, then this closing statement:
Tell no one. Just get the money and await further instruction.

I read over the message again, just to make sure I’d read everything correctly, then I dropped the paper back down onto the desk.

“You think
I
sent this?” I asked, looking at Anthony intently.

“Of course I do,” Anthony replied. “Who else could have?”

Instead of answering Anthony’s question, I immediately defended myself. “Well, I didn’t send it,” I said loudly. There was more I wanted to say—such as how blackmail wasn’t my thing and how, if it were, I would have been much smarter in my approach and would have asked for much more money—but Anthony cut me off before I could get the words out.

“Who did then?” he asked, speaking even louder. “Surely you weren’t foolish enough to tell anyone about
everything
that happened, were you?”

I wanted to skip over Anthony’s question again, but knew that I couldn’t.