A Billionaire Affair

I grimace with irritation at myself in the mirror. Dammit, my hair - it simply won't cooperate, and damn Clara Benson for being unwell and exposing me to this torment. I should be studying for my final exams next week, and here I am, attempting to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this phrase multiple times, I try again to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in annoyance and glance at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too wide for her face gazing back at me and giving up.

My only alternative is to contain my unruly hair in a ponytail and hopes I seem half respectable.

Clara is my roommate, and she has picked today of all days to succumb to the virus.

Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd scheduled to conduct with some mega-industry-alist billionaire I've never heard of for the student newspaper. So I have volunteered. I have final examinations to study for, one essay to do, and I'm meant to be working this afternoon. Still, no - today, I have to travel a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle to see the mysterious CEO of Davis Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an extraordinary entrepreneur and big sponsor of our University, his time is exceedingly valuable - far more precious than mine - yet he has allowed Clara an interview. A tremendous coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.

Clara is snuggled on the sofa in the living room.

"Amber, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to obtain this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't brush this off. Please," Clara begs me in her rasping, hoarse throat voice. How does she do it? Even unwell, she appears gamine and attractive, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes brilliant, albeit now red-rimmed and runny. I suppress my sting of unexpected pity.

"Of course I'll go Clara. You should head back to bed. Would you want some Tea?"

"Tea, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll record it everything."

"I know nothing about him," I whisper, trying and failing to contain my mounting terror.

"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a lengthy drive. I don't want you to be late."

"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I cooked you some soup to heat up later." I gaze at her warmly. Only for you, Clara, would I do this.

"I will. Good luck. And thanks Amber - as always, you're my savior."

Gathering my backpack, I grin wryly at her and proceed out the door to the vehicle. I cannot believe I have let Clara persuade me into this. But then Clara can convince anybody into anything.

She'll make a fantastic journalist. She's eloquent, forceful, persuasive, combative, and attractive- my closest best friend.

As I take out from Vancouver, WA, the roads are clear, toward Portland and the I-5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Clara's loaned me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my vintage VW Beetle, would make the voyage in time. Oh, the Merc is an incredible drive, and the kilometres slide away when I stomp the pedal to the metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr Davis's worldwide firm. It's a massive twenty-story office structure, all curving glass and steel, an architect's functional dream, with Davis House engraved discreetly in steel above the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, delighted that I'm not late as I walk into the massive - and simply scary - glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the strong sandstone desk, a very gorgeous, groomed, blonde young lady grins cheerfully at me. She's sporting the best black suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.

"I'm here to visit Mr. Davis. Amber James for Clara Benson."

"Excuse me one minute, Miss James." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I wish I'd borrowed one of Clara's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and donned my only skirt, practical brown knee-length boots and a blue pullover. For me, this is sensible. I tuck one loose strand of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't terrify me.

"Miss Clara is anticipated. Please sign in here, Miss James. You'll want the final elevator on the right, push for the twentieth floor." She grins warmly at me, amused, no doubt, as I sign in.

She delivers me a security pass that has a VISITOR very strongly marked on the front. I can't help my smirk. Indeed it's evident that I'm only visiting. I don't fit in here at all.

Nothing changes; I internally groan. Thanking her, I go over to the bank of elevators past the two security guys, who are significantly more neatly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth level. The doors glide open, and I'm in another vast foyer - all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm met with another desk of sandstone and another beautiful blonde lady dressed perfectly in black and white who stands to meet me.

"Miss James, could you wait here, please?" She indicates a sat area with white leather seats.

Behind the leather seats are a big glass-walled conference room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty similar chairs surrounding it. Beyond it, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline across the city into the Sound. It's a breathtaking panorama, and the scene briefly transfixes me. Wow.

I sit down, pull the questions from my backpack, and go through them, internally cursing Clara for not supplying me with a short history. I know nothing about this individual I'm going to interview. He may be ninety, or he could be thirty. The ambiguity is annoying, and my anxieties reemerge, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the obscurity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously in the back of the room. To be honest, I like my own company, reading a classic British book, snuggled up on a chair in the college library. I was not sitting twitching anxiously in a colossal glass and stone structure.

My chest is racing. When the elevator stops at the first level, I dash out as soon as the doors open, tripping once but avoiding a sprawl on the spotless sandstone floor. I rush for the large glass doors and escape into Seattle's brisk, purifying, moist air. I raise my face in appreciation for the cold, pleasant rain. I attempt to regain what little of my balance is left by closing my eyes and taking a long, cleansing breath.

Davis Williams has impacted me unlike any other guy, and I'm not sure why.

I don't understand my inexplicable response. Is it his appearance? His demeanor? His wealth and power?

I exhale a huge sigh of relief. I bravely try to calm myself and collect my thoughts as I lean against one of the steel pillars of the structure. What in heaven's name was that all about? I slap my forehead. My heart returns to its usual beat, and I can breathe properly again. Holy stuff. I go toward the automobile.

I feel dumb and ashamed as I leave the city boundaries behind, replaying the interview in my head. I must be overreacting to a fictitious situation. Okay, so he's lovely, self-assured, dominating, and at peace with himself; nevertheless, despite his immaculate manners, he's arrogant and frigid. Well, at first glance.

I can't help but feel a shudder go down my spine. He may seem arrogant, but given everything he has done at such a young age, he has every right to be. I'm again annoyed that Clara didn't give me a short biography. He doesn't take idiots well, but why should he?

I'm driving down the I-5, and my thoughts are still racing. I'm baffled by what motivates someone to strive for success. Some of his responses seemed to have a hidden intent since they were vague. Clara's inquiries are the worst! The adoption and the query about his gender! I tremble. Unbelievable, what I just said. Please eat me up, ground! I'll feel embarrassed in the future whenever I consider the question. Clara , what a jerk!

The speedometer is checked. I am driving more carefully than I usually would. The recollection of two piercing gray eyes staring at me and a harsh voice warning me to drive cautiously is what makes me realize this. I shake my head as I see Williams as more like a guy twice his age.

Amber, forget it, I tell myself. Overall, I know it has been an intriguing experience, but I shouldn't think about it too much. Move that out of the Way. Never again do I have to see him. The idea makes me happy right away. I turn on the MP3 player, crank up the volume, sit back, and accelerate while listening to thrashing indie rock music.

I am aware that I can drive as quickly as I wish as I approach the 1-5.

In, Washington, a short distance from the campus, we reside in a small complex of duplex apartments. I'm fortunate because Clara's parents purchased the house for her, and the rent is cheap. Since four years ago, it has been my home. As I park outside, I can already tell that Clara will demand a detailed report because of her tenacity. She does, however, have the mini-disc. I'm hoping I won't need to go much more into detail than what was expressed during the interview.

Clara is sitting in our living room, surrounded by books, saying, "Amber! You're back." Even though she's still wearing her pink flannel pajamas with the charming tiny bunnies she saves for the aftermath of breakups with partners, various diseases, and general melancholy despair, it's apparent that she's been studying for finals. She sprints over and gives me a tight embrace.

"I anticipated you to return sooner, and I was starting to worry."

I flash the mini-disc recorder at her and say, "Oh, I thought I made decent time given the interview went over."

I know I owe you, Amber, but thank you for doing this. How was it? What was he like? Oh no, the Clara Inquisition has begun.

I had a hard time answering her query. How should I put it?

He was terrifying, you know, so I'm happy it's done, and I don't have to see him again." I shrug. "He's young, very young, and quite concentrated, intense even."

Clara is looking at me innocently. I scowl at her.

Clara puts a hand over her lips and says, "Don't you look so innocent. Why didn't you give me a biography made me feel like an idiot for skimping on basic research.

I'm sorry, Amber, I didn't think. Jeez.

I huff.

He didn't speak like a twenty-something guy and was generally polite, formal, and a little stuffy. How old is he?

I should have informed you, but I was in such a frenzy, so I said, "Twenty-seven. Jeez, Amber, I'm sorry. Let me take the mini-disc, and I'll start transcribing the interview."

I say, eager to shift the topic, "You look better. Did you finish your soup?"

She grins at me, "Yes, and it was amazing as always. I feel much better." I look at my watch.

I can still work my shift at Clayton's, but I have to go.

Amber, you'll be worn out.

"I'll be okay. See you later," she said.

Since I began attending WSU, I have worked at Clayton's. The biggest independent hardware shop in the Portland region is where I work, and in the four years I've been here, I've learned a little bit about almost everything we offer, despite the irony that I'm terrible at DIY. I let my dad handle everything. I like to cuddle up with a book in a cozy chair by the fire. I'm delighted I can make my shift since it offers me something but Davis Williams to think about. We've been busy since summer began, and people are remodeling their houses. It makes Mrs. Clayton happy to see me.

"Amber! I worried you wouldn't make it today," I said.

I can handle a couple of hours since my appointment didn't take as long as I anticipated.

"I'm very happy to see you,"

She sends me to the storage to begin replenishing the shelves, and I quickly get engrossed in the work.

Later, when I get home, Clara uses her laptop while wearing headphones.

Her nose is still pink, but she is focused and typing quickly because she is deeply engaged in a narrative. I've been utterly worn out with the long journey, the trying interview, and being hurried at Clayton's. I slump onto the sofa as I consider the essay I need to do and all the homework I didn't get done today while I was stuck with... him.

I can't believe you didn't take him up on his offer to tour you around; he wanted to spend more time with you. "You've got some great material here, Amber. Well done.

She briefly casts me a perplexed glance.

My heart rate mysteriously rises while I flush. Indeed He merely wanted to show me about so I could see that he was the ruler of whatever he inspected, and that wasn't the reason. Clara won't notice that I'm biting my lip, I hope. She replies, "I know what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?" but she seems engrossed in her transcription.

"No, I didn't," she said.

Good-looking son of a bitch, isn't he? Shame we don't have any original stills, but that's well. I can still write a good piece with this.

I sneeze.

I work hard to seem uninterested, and I believe I succeed when I say, "I guess so."

She raises a beautiful eyebrow at me and says, "Oh come on, Amber, even you can't be immune to his beauty."

Crap! I use flattery to divert her attention, which is a reliable ruse.

"You would have probably learned a lot more from him."

She looks up at me speculatively and says, "I doubt that, Amber. Come on-he virtually gave you a job. Given that I forced this on you at the last minute, you did quite well." I dash into the kitchen and hide.

Damn, she's nosy. "So what did you actually think of him?" Why won't she let this go? Quick, come up with anything.

I add honestly, peering over the door at her, hoping this would end her babbling. "He's highly driven, dominating, arrogant - very dangerous, but incredibly charming," I say.

She snorts, "You, captivated by a man's first.

So that she couldn't see my face, I began to assemble the ingredients for a sandwich.

I grimace at the memories, "Incidentally, it was the most uncomfortable question. I was horrified, and he was angry to be questioned too.

He never has a date whenever he appears on his social pages.

"I'm pleased I'll never have to see him again. It was terrible. The entire affair was awful."

I believe he sounds pretty obsessed with you, Amber, so it can't have been that horrible.

Taken with me, Clara is acting ridiculously right now.

Do you want a sandwich?

"Please."

Much to my relief, we stopped talking about Davis Williams that evening. After dinner, I sit at the table with Clara and finish my essay on Tess of the D'Urbervilles while she finishes hers. Oh no, the lady was in the wrong century at the wrong time and place. When I'm done, it's midnight, and Clara has already gone to sleep. Exhausted but happy that I've done so much for a Monday, I make my way to my room.

My mother's quilt is wrapped around me as I cuddle up on my white iron bed, shut my eyes, and fall asleep immediately. I had a dream that night of pitch-black spaces, gloomy white frigid flooring, and gray eyes.

I dedicate the remainder of the week to my coursework and my position at Clayton's. Clara is likewise very busy, studying for her exams while simultaneously putting together the last issue of her student publication before she has handed it over to the new editor. She is considerably better by Wednesday, and I no longer have to look at her pink pajamas with too many bunnies. I contact my mother in Georgia to see how she is doing and to ask her to wish me luck on my finals. My mother is always starting new businesses, so she continues by telling me about her most recent endeavor in candle manufacturing. She is fundamentally bored and needs something to keep her busy, yet she has a goldfish's attention span. Next week will bring something fresh.

She gives me pause. I hope she didn't mortgage the home to pay for her most recent scam. And now that I'm gone, I hope her considerably older but still relatively new husband Bob is keeping an eye on her. He certainly seems to be much more sensible than Husband No. 3.

"Amber, how are things going?"

I pause for a little while. Mom is entirely focused on me.

I'm all right.

Have you met anybody, Amber? Wow... How does she mAmberge that? Her voice is animated.

"No, Mom, nothing to worry about. If I do, you'll be the first to know."

I was hoping you could go out more, Amber because you concern me.

As always, the best course of action is a diversion. "Mom, I'm great. How about Bob?"

That evening, I make a call to Ray, my stepfather, Mom's second husband, the guy I perceive to be my father and whose name I carry. It's a quick exchange of ideas. It's more of a series of one-sided grunts in response to my gently prodding than a discussion. Ray doesn't say much. But he's still alive, and when he's not manufacturing furniture, bowling, fly-fishing, or watching soccer on TV. Because of Ray, a talented carpenter, I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. He seemed to be doing okay.

Clara and I are discussing our plans for the evening on Friday because we want to take a break from our studies, jobs, and the student newspapers. Suddenly, the doorbell rings.

My close buddy Ray is waiting for us at the entrance with a bottle of champagne in his hand.

I give him a short embrace and say, "Ray! Great to see you." Come on in.

When I arrived at WSU, looking confused and lonely, Ray was the first person I encountered.