Head On (The Head On Trilogy) (2 page)

"Great," I said. "I'll be sure to remember him if I ever need to hire a P.A. of my own."

"Fine," Donna said with a weary sigh. "Whatever. I guess there's no point arguing with you anymore. Just give me a hug."

Relieved that she was finally seeing things from my point of view, I gave her a quick hug. As soon as her arms were around me, however, she squeezed tight and lifted me off the ground, before shuffling a few meters across the sidewalk and putting me back down, and then finally - before I could protest - spinning me around so that I was face to face with Parkin's P.A.

"Go get him, tiger!" Donna whispered behind my back.

Panicking, I opened my mouth to say something, but as the P.A. looked up from his phone and made eye contact with me, my mind went blank.

"You're late!" he barked at me, looking seriously angry as he put his cellphone away.

"Late?" I asked.

He stared at me. "You're Mr. Parkin's 11 o'clock, right?"

"She sure is," said Donna, stepping up behind me and patting me on the back. "Hell, she's so good, she might be his twelve o'clock and his one o'clock as well! Go get 'im, girl," she added, slapping me on the behind and walking away. I turned to scowl at her as she disappeared into the crowd, and then a moment later I saw her head bob up from behind a pillar, watching me as if I was some kind of spectator sport.

"Why are you late?" the P.A. demanded, his face becoming a little red. "You've kept Mr. Parkin waiting for twenty minutes. Nobody keeps Mr. Parkin waiting for twenty minutes."

"I.. I..." I stuttered, feeling like a rabbit in the headlights. "I..."

"That's three I's in one sentence," the PA said. "Makes you sound rather gauche and self-absorbed, don't you think?"

"Sorry?" I asked, wondering what 'gauche' meant.

He sighed. "Get in the car."

I looked over at the limousine. All the windows in the back were blacked out, making the vehicle seem extremely menacing. "I..." I started to say.

"Get in the fucking car!" the P.A. hissed, grabbing my arm and leading me over to the limousine.

"All right!" I said, pulling my arm away. "I can walk just fine, thanks!"

As we reached the limousine, the driver opened the door for me. The P.A. grabbed me and whispered in my ear. "For your information, you've made a very bad first impression. I'd advise you to keep your head down and do what you're expected to do, and maybe - just
maybe
- this can still work out. Understand?"

I stared at the open door and suddenly my confidence deflated.
I can't do this!
I thought.
I can't get into Drake Parkin's limousine and ask him to rehire me as a junior executive. The guy doesn't even know I exist. He couldn't be less interested in me if he tried, and he's just gonna toss me out the door and probably call security!

"I'll take your silence as an indication that you understand," said the P.A., shoving me into the car. I stumbled and landed on my chest on the back seat. Great. Not a particularly graceful entrance. Rearranging myself, I struggled up into a sitting position. I could only hope that Parkin didn't see that.

I looked to my left.

Parkin was sitting there, staring at me from behind his sunglasses. I opened my mouth to say something, but the P.A. grabbed my legs and tucked them well inside the vehicle before slamming the door shut. Before I could protest, the limousine pulled away from the curb and joined the flow of Manhattan traffic. With Parkin staring blankly at me, I turned to the window and, filled with panic, I briefly saw Donna giving me a massive thumbs up before the limousine accelerated and I found myself trapped in Drake Parkin's world. I turned to him slowly and, with my mind going blank, all I could manage is a rather goofy and dumb smile. He turned to me and stared blankly.

Time to be a tiger, I guess. Or die trying.

Drake Parkin

This had to be a mistake. Evelyn had promised me a blonde.

Keeping my sunglasses on, I waited for the girl to say something. She looked completely startled, as if blind panic had pinned her to the seat and emptied her mind. My initial instinct had been to toss her out of the limo, but there was something about her that was keeping me interested. Sure, she was beautiful, but I'd never had any trouble finding beautiful women to fuck; she looked to have a damn good body, although it was hard to tell since she was wearing some kind of weird office outfit; and despite the abject terror in her eyes, she had an intelligent expression. There was something else, though, something that was keeping me interested.

After a few minutes, I began to find the whole situation amusing. She was still frozen in place, and I felt that a well-timed word might scare her out of her skin. I couldn't let her see that I was amused, however; I had to merely play the waiting game. When a man meets a woman, a contest begins, and whether or not they're aware of the fact, they each start scoring points against one another. These points, as they pile up on either side, define the nature of the relationship in subtle, often unseen ways, and I was determined to ensure that Kathryn remained very much under my control. So far, it didn't seem as if this was going to be too difficult.

Glancing out the window for a moment, I saw that we were passing the Flatiron Building. I figured I might as well give her until the southern corner of Central Park to catch my interest further. If nothing had happened by then, I could just throw her out at the lights. After all, I was in a hurry. In fact, my time was running out pretty damn fast.

Kathryn

Drake and I sat in silence for a few minutes as the limousine slowly made its way across Manhattan. Tongue-tied at the best of times, I felt totally intimated in the presence of one of the richest men in the world and although I felt I should say
something
, I had no idea where to begin. I'm usually okay at parties; hell, once I've had a couple of white wine spritzers, I could strike up a friendly chat with a coma patient. But this was most definitely not a party, and the atmosphere in the back of the limousine wasn't exactly conducive to a conversation. So I just sat there until the silence became totally unbearable and I realized that anything would be preferable to the void that existed at present.

Anything
, I told myself.
Just. Say. Anything.

"Hi," I said, smiling as I looked over at Drake.

No response.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zero.

Zip.

Zilch.

He just stared ahead, not even a flicker of emotion coming from behind his shades.

"Nice car," I said, immediately feeling like an idiot.

"Don't talk to me unless I speak first," he said, still not looking at me. His voice was dark, deep and a little smoky; the kind of voice that sounds like it always means what it says. To be honest, there was a hint of menace buried in there. "I won't tell you again," he added, still staring out the window, with the Manhattan streets reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses.

"Okay," I said. Well, there went my best chance at making a good impression. It would have to be damage limitation from this point on, with little prospect of job preservation at the end of it. "Sorry," I added.

He sighed. "I'm not paying you by the word, so please..."

I took a deep breath. "The thing is..." I continued after a moment. "Okay, the thing is, I..." I paused again, unable to get the words out.

With another sigh, he turned to me, my face reflected in his shades. "Shut up."

I raised my eyebrows, shocked at his directness, his bluntness... his
rudeness
. I couldn't remember the last time someone had told me to shut up, and I certainly didn't expect such words to come from the lips of a man who seemed to be so refined. Is that how Drake Parkin came to be so successful? By telling everyone else to shut up? "Sorry," I said eventually, privately marking him down as a spoiled brat. I looked down at the armrest by my seat, vainly hoping to find the button for an ejector seat.

"Good," he said, turning back to look out the window as Manhattan flashed past. "I'm glad you're sorry."

I looked down at my feet. I'd never met Drake Parkin before today, but after just a few minutes I was firmly of the opinion that the guy was a Class A jerk. He was rude, arrogant and self-important. After all, I'd been more or less thrust into his limousine; I hadn't asked to be here - well, not
exactly
. If anyone was to blame for this bizarre situation, it was Drake's P.A., and Donna. And me, a little bit. But here I was, getting all the blame (as usual) and left to try to find a way out of this place. I glanced over at the window and tried to calculate my odds of survival if I simply opened the door and rolled to safety. On a busy Manhattan street, traveling at speed, falling directly into the path of traffic... not such good odds.

"Why were you late?" Parkin asked.

I turned to him. "I..." I paused. "I don't know," I said finally, starting to wonder who Parkin thought I was.

He stared at me, his eyes hidden behind the large sunglasses. "Huh," he said after a while.

"Yeah," I said. "Huh."

"We almost left without you," he continued. "Another minute and we'd have been gone."

"Right," I said. "Sorry about that. I mean..." I was torn between contrition and annoyance, and finally I decided to try being polite. After all, my mother always told me to be polite, even when dealing with an asshole. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Parkin, I would never have been late if I'd known there was, uh, a specific time when I..." My voice trailed off as I realized the sentence was pretty useless. What would Donna say if she could see me now?

"You didn't know the time you were supposed to be there?" Parkin asked. "Curious. I'll have to speak to Evelyn about that. I wouldn't want standards to slip. Still..." He paused again, which was unnerving considering his eyes were still hidden behind his sunglasses and I couldn't tell exactly what part of me he was looking at. "At least you're here now."

"Yep," I said. We sat in silence a little longer. All I wanted to do was apologize, get him to stop the car and maybe, on my way out, raise the question of a possible reinstatement at the office. But even that relatively small request seemed stuck in my throat. "So," I continued, "do you -"

"Shut up," he said bluntly.

I opened my mouth to continue, but no words came out.

"So you were late," he continued. "You inconvenienced me, and you disrespected me. I hope you're sorry."

"I am," I spluttered.

"How sorry?"

I paused. "Like, on a scale of one to ten?"

"If you like."

I paused again, starting to feel my heart beating faster and faster in my chest. This meeting definitely wasn't going according to plan. Not that there was ever a plan, anyway...

"Seven," I said eventually, hoping to play it safe.

"Seven?"

"Eight."

"Not ten?"

"Um... sure. Ten." As the words left my lips, I was already starting to feel like I didn't even want to work in Drake Parkin's stinking company. After all, if the guy couldn't even be polite for five minutes, did I really want to go to work in his crappy little office every day and draw a crappy little wage just to contribute to his business success? Perhaps I could go and work for a charity instead, and contribute to something more meaningful, like the welfare of sick animals, or perhaps helping the homeless?

After a few more minutes of complete silence between Parkin and I, the limousine pulled into a prime parking spot right outside one of the city's most prestigious hotels. The chauffeur got out and opened Parkin's door, and then came around to let me out on my side. I emerged onto a fairly quiet Manhattan side-walk that was dominated by the grand facade of a hotel that looked so up-market, I was absolutely certain I'd never be allowed in the door.

"Are you coming or not?" Parkin asked, walking to the door.

"Excuse me?" I replied, stunned by the offer.

"I don't make a habit of saying things twice," he continued, not looking back at me.

"Right," I muttered. My gut instinct was to turn and walk away, but I couldn't help wondering whether Donna might have been right after all. By staying the course and surprising him, had I impressed him?

"Okay," I muttered, figuring I might as well give this my best shot.

"Be a tiger," Donna's voice said in the back of my mind. "Not a mouse. A tiger."

I followed tentatively, smiling with unease at the man holding the door open. He stared back at me, and I could tell he saw me as some out-of-place proletarian. I clearly didn't belong in a place like this: he knew it and I knew it. Damn it, the whole world knew it, and as I entered the lobby, I was convinced it would only be a matter of seconds before some quick-thinking hotel employee would rush over with a high-powered hose and blast me back out the door like a rat.

"Good morning, Mr. Parkin," said an obsequious man at the reception desk, but Parkin just ignored him and strode toward the elevators.

"Good morning," I said to the man, trying to be nice.

Without replying, and with a look of disdain, he glanced down at his paperwork.

Parkin and I stepped into the elevator and the bellboy - yes, this place had an actual bellboy, with a uniform and everything - hit the button for the penthouse. Everyone at this place seemed to know Parkin, to know what he wanted and to be ready to fall over themselves in order to cater to his every whim. I felt like I was in someone's private world.

"Thanks," I said to the bellboy as the elevator started going up.

The bellboy smiled awkwardly.

"Don't talk to him," Parkin said. "For fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath.

I looked down at my feet; frankly, I was afraid to look anywhere else. I kept telling myself that I should just tell Parkin what I wanted, clear up any confusion, and get out of here as fast as possible. I was already in way, way too deep, but I figured I might as well wait until we got to his room before I told him why I was here. This whole experience was getting worse and worse by the second, but there was still a chance to save it. Maybe I could be back at the office by lunchtime?

When we got to Parkin's hotel room, he let us in and I found myself standing in the most luxurious place I'd ever seen. It was the kind of space that made glossy magazine spreads looks cheap. One entire wall was taken up by a huge glass window, overlooking a stunning view of Manhattan. The rest of the room was bare and minimalist, but with an achingly modern sense of style. Doors led off to various other rooms. This was the kind of room that costs more to rent for one night than most people pay to buy their house outright. The money was almost dripped from the walls. As I looked out at the view, I couldn't help but feel as if the entire city had been laid out purely for Parkin's benefit.

"Impressed?" Parkin asked, walking over to a briefcase on the desk and flicking it open.

"Yeah," I said, somewhat shocked by my surroundings. This was by far the most sumptuous place I'd ever been, and I was convinced that alarms would start ringing at any moment as Parkin realized that I didn't belong in this kind of world. I took a deep breath. It was time to ask about my job. "I -" I started to say, but I paused as I saw that Parkin had taken a huge pile of money from the briefcase and was carefully counting it out. For a moment, all I could do was stare at the money; it was absolutely hypnotizing and mesmeric, and although I wanted to look away, I couldn't even blink.

"You ever seen this much money up close before?" he asked, not looking over at me.

"No," I said, my voice a little higher than usual. There was clearly at least ten thousand dollars in his hand, and more in the briefcase. I was starting to think that maybe Donna was right after all; maybe money could be addictive, in which case - newly single and newly fired - I clearly had a bad case of withdrawal.

He smiled. "Not many people have," he said. Suddenly he was finished, and he grabbed a pile of notes and brought them over to me, putting them on the table next to where I was standing. "There," he said. "Twenty-five thousand, in cash, in advance, as arranged. Evelyn was very clear that I should put the money down before we begin. I find it hard to believe that she thinks I'd try to get out of paying, especially given that..." He paused, and for a moment he seemed a little uncomfortable. "Anyway," he continued, "I should warn you, I don't give tips. I expect to pay you a fair sum for your services, and I expect you to perform properly for that sum, do you understand? I don't have time for bullshit or negotiations."

I stared at him.

"No bonuses," he said. "That's the deal." He turned and walked over to the other side of the room, before sitting down on a large sofa as if he was waiting for some kind of performance. "Come over here," he said after a moment, his dark eyes and firm voice daring me to go closer.

I looked at the money. It was astonishing to see it just sitting there so casually. Astonishing and slightly scary, since I was pretty sure that such a large bundle of cash meant something bad, or at least unusual, was about to happen.

"Touch it," he said.

"What?"

"The money. I can tell it's what you're thinking about. Touch it. Feel it."

Reaching out, I took the bundle of cash in my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It felt firm and strong, packed tight... thick, and potent.

"It feels good, right?" he continued. "In a world filled with artifice and illusion, that bundle of money is real. It might even be the only real thing in this whole room." He paused. "You know how you can tell it's real? Because it's solid, and because everything else - all the unreal things - flow around it."

I squeezed the bundle of cash again. He was right; it
did
feel good.

"Don't be distracted by the money," he said, sounding a little amused but also, perhaps, annoyed. "Put it down and come over here."

Putting the money back on the table, I walked over to him. With every step, I found myself debating whether or not I should just walk out of here. Whatever was happening, I was completely confused and I felt I was getting in way too deep. I knew I should get the hell out of this hotel room, but something was keeping me here. It was almost as if some previously hidden part of my personality was slowly unfolding its wings, getting ready to show itself.

"Stop," he said when I was a few meters away. "Now let me see your tits."

I felt the color drain from my face. "What?" I stammered.

"Your tits," he said. "The last girl had sad, flappy little tits. I told Evelyn I wanted a girl with good tits, and she promised she'd deliver. I want to see. Get them out." He paused. "Now," he added. "Show me your tits. Jesus, don't make me say
everything
twice."