The women I rolled around with were willing to do anything I wanted, because the money they smelled was worth it.
I'm sure a solid percentage of them all fantasized about being The One.
The one to change me.
The one to chain me.
The one to get me to see the error of my ways.
The one who got me to settle down to be a worthy husband and wonderful father.
It cost me more than a few pretty fucking pennies to keep their mouths shut, but it was worth it. My addiction demanded it. And I loved my addiction.
Should those lady friends spill one word of what transpired between us, all the lovely zeros at the end of their bank accounts would disappear. Confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt the one constant in the universe:
Money talks.
It buys happiness. And despite what all the morons in the soul-mate club want you to believe, it is everything. You can take it with you. And being the root of all evil is not a bad thing.
What it couldn't do was tell me who the crazy Latina chick was. There was only one person that could divulge that information, and she was back at my office. A tad indisposed, yet, she'd asked for it the minute she stuck that gun in my face.
I tapped the phone on my hand. Thinking. What I needed to do was get my ass into the dining suite and take care of business.
What I wanted to do, however, was something entirely different.
I returned to the dining suite, and put on the best poker face I had at my disposal.
“I appreciate your patience,” I said, taking a seat across from Ms. Ryon, and smoothing my tie.
“Everything alright, Mister Petersen?”
“Couldn't be better. What do you think of the catch and release philosophy, Ms. Ryon?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Catch and release. You know. Catch a fish, admire the fish, let the fish go. What are your thoughts?”
Martin wanted to interrupt. Wanted to ask a question, or perhaps multiple questions.
He adjusted himself, moving his weight from one cheek to the other, and did what he was supposed to do. Kept his damn mouth shut.
“Oh. Well, I can't say I've ever really fished before, but –”
“You don't have to have fished, Ms. Ryon. It's a simple enough question. Based on ethics and humanity, what do you think of the catch and release method?”
Ryon cast her eyes to Martin, who offered a pleasant grin. Deep down inside, he was thinking about punching me in the nose at the next available opportunity.
“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought, to be honest. But I suppose that yes, it seems like the proper thing to do.”
“Which is why you wouldn't make a good fisherman. Fisher person, if you'd rather. Which is also why I'm going to say 'no' to your proposal.” I took the wine list from the center of the table, opened it, and glanced at the array of wide selections. Since when did we start importing from Ontario?
“I don't understand, Mister Petersen,” she said, those dreamy baby blues of hers filling with confusion. “What would my stance on fish rights have to do with anything?”
“You spend all this time reeling in a catch, fighting with it, not to mention the money spent on equipment, boat rental, time off from work… all these factors figuring in to landing a marlin or whatever you've managed to hook, only to just let it go? That's a weak stance to have, Ms. Ryon. Ethical or not, and frankly I don't care, it speaks volumes about you. It wreaks of soft heartedness. Not the trait of a person, or company, we wish to deal with. Don't you agree, Martin?”
“It might be an interesting change of pace,” he replied, staring at me with eyes so glazed over I was surprised he could see straight. Maybe he couldn't.
“Mister Petersen, if I may? If I had answered differently, would that have changed your perspective? Because I think you may have made your mind up well before tonight.”
I didn't know Ontario even had a winery. That made two things I didn't know about, all in one evening. The winery was no big deal, but the girl back at the office was. Her heated brown eyes, her exquisite Spanish body, her perky tits, the gun,...
Ryon leaned her elbows on the table, pushing out her chest which I estimated to cost upwards of ten thousand dollars, and tipped her head to the side. There was a splash of freckles along her collarbones, sprinkled against her ivory skin.
“Would your decision have anything to do with, well…would it have anything to do with what Drixoll does for a living?”
I slammed the wine list shut. She didn't flinch.
“Despite what I'm sure your boss told you to say, and grand media speculations aside, no. Not a thing.”
“Then why go through all the trouble of confirming a meeting, attending a meeting, not to mention all the scheduling and paperwork that goes into it… all these factors...when you had no intention of ever agreeing to our proposal?”
I sneered at her. She was cute. “I just like fucking with people.”
Her mouth parted, her perfectly pink tongue resting against her perfectly white teeth. She got treatments, obviously. You could land a plane by the glow of her incisors alone.
“My goodness,” she said. “I knew you were a son-of-a-bitch, but you're so much more disgusting in person.”
“Thank you, Ms. Ryon,” I said, getting up from the table. “And so this evening won't be a total loss for you? Please, indulge in whatever you'd like.” I handed her the wine list. “It's on me.”
Ryon batted her eyelashes. Her fake eyelashes. I never understood why women glued those things to themselves. They looked like caterpillars doing calisthenics every time they blinked.
“In a respectful decline, Mister Petersen, I'd rather choke on my own vomit.”
“Then, by all means, please do. And, Martin?” Martin barely looked at me, but even then,
