Manwhore
Page 12
“Is it all right if I ask you some questions now?”
“Shoot,” he says, aloof.
As I pull out my note cards, he sips his water, his eyes coming to rest on me. His face is such an absolute distraction, I try to alternate between studying my note cards and looking at him in a professional manner. “When did the idea for Interface originate?”
“When Facebook fucked up its system.”
“Their weakness became your gain?”
For the briefest moment, an appraising light shines in his eyes, surrounded by an odd yet exhilarating darkness. “Everyone’s weakness is another’s gain. Their system could be much improved upon. Better games, better access, faster downloads, and I’ve got the most capable team on the continent to do that.”
“How many workers are currently on board?”
“Four thousand.”
“Isn’t that a high overhead for a start-up?”
“Considering we’ve already accomplished our initial user-sign-up goal, no, it’s not.”
I smile and flip through my note cards just to avoid the intensity of his gaze for a little bit. When I lift my eyes, he’s drinking from his water bottle, still watching me.
“You have to know that you’re the city’s most wanted man. Does that surprise you?”
“Most wanted.” He repeats that as if almost entertained by the concept, a slight smile on his lips. “By whom?” He stretches out his legs wider and sits back comfortably, his hand spreading over his knee as he drops his water bottle into the cup holder to the side and regards me with openly curious eyes.
He’s got a huge hand. The kind you see on basketball players or pianists.
“The media. The fans. Even investors,” I specify.
He seems to mull it over in silence and never actually answers.
“You grew up under public scrutiny. I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy it. Do you ever get tired of it?”
His hand spreads over his knee, wider. He taps his thumb against his leg in a restless way, but still his eyes do not leave me. Not for a second. Not even as he reaches for his water again. “It’s always been like that for me.”
That stare of his is really messing up my concentration. “All your acts of rebellion,” I begin, trying to be professional and keep my eyes on his as well. “You were trying to make a point that you wouldn’t be controlled? Did you expect this would endear you more to the public?”
A moment. Two.
That small smile on his lips again.
Those eyes still on mine.
“I’m not endearing to people, Miss Livingston. I’d say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only: they want to pray to me, be me, do me, or kill me.”
Surprised by his bluntness, I let out a small laugh; then I blush because of the way his eyes darken when he hears me laugh. “Forgive me the personal questions. I’m interested in Interface and in the mind behind it—though the piece will focus on Interface.”
The car is slowing down as it approaches a driveway. Quickly peering out, I see we’re pulling into the drop-off lane of a very high-end business center, and it strikes me we might have reached our destination. Noooo. So soon? I turn back to him, but he doesn’t seem to share my anxiety. He’s the embodiment of relaxation right now, leaning back in his seat, still continuing to watch me.
“I think we’re here, and I wanted to ask you so many more impertinent things,” I tease.
He smiles at me, a genuine smile that makes him look younger, more approachable. “I’ll tell you what.” He shifts forward in his seat, a mischievous expression on his face. “Tell me something about you, and I’ll tell you one more thing about me.”
I jump at the offer, not even hesitating. “I’m an only daughter.”
“I’m an only son.”
We stare at each other again, the same way we did at his office.
Suddenly I want a thousand and one answers like that one. Personal. Precise. “Can I offer another one of mine in exchange for one of yours?” I ask.
“Ah. I’ve got a bargainer on my hands.” He leans back in his seat, his chuckle rich and savoring.
“Is that a yes?” I laugh too.
“See, the thing about bargains is, you have to have something the other wants.”
I stare at him, unsure whether he’s teasing me or not.
His eyes are dark, but his lips are smiling.
His eyes—I can never seem to stare enough. The pulsing energy of his being seems to roil in their depths. He’s a dark individual. Dark as his hair. Dark as sin. Dark as whatever whirls around him. Something magnetic. Unstoppable. Irresistible. He sits there evaluating me, and I don’t even know what to do, how to respond, what it is he’s trying to get from me. He’s a powerful businessman who gets what he wants and is used to things being done his way. He’s also a player who always gets who he wants. He wanted to know something about me, and I stupidly jumped in and offered more. But he wanted to know one thing about me, not two.
“Shoot,” he says, aloof.
As I pull out my note cards, he sips his water, his eyes coming to rest on me. His face is such an absolute distraction, I try to alternate between studying my note cards and looking at him in a professional manner. “When did the idea for Interface originate?”
“When Facebook fucked up its system.”
“Their weakness became your gain?”
For the briefest moment, an appraising light shines in his eyes, surrounded by an odd yet exhilarating darkness. “Everyone’s weakness is another’s gain. Their system could be much improved upon. Better games, better access, faster downloads, and I’ve got the most capable team on the continent to do that.”
“How many workers are currently on board?”
“Four thousand.”
“Isn’t that a high overhead for a start-up?”
“Considering we’ve already accomplished our initial user-sign-up goal, no, it’s not.”
I smile and flip through my note cards just to avoid the intensity of his gaze for a little bit. When I lift my eyes, he’s drinking from his water bottle, still watching me.
“You have to know that you’re the city’s most wanted man. Does that surprise you?”
“Most wanted.” He repeats that as if almost entertained by the concept, a slight smile on his lips. “By whom?” He stretches out his legs wider and sits back comfortably, his hand spreading over his knee as he drops his water bottle into the cup holder to the side and regards me with openly curious eyes.
He’s got a huge hand. The kind you see on basketball players or pianists.
“The media. The fans. Even investors,” I specify.
He seems to mull it over in silence and never actually answers.
“You grew up under public scrutiny. I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy it. Do you ever get tired of it?”
His hand spreads over his knee, wider. He taps his thumb against his leg in a restless way, but still his eyes do not leave me. Not for a second. Not even as he reaches for his water again. “It’s always been like that for me.”
That stare of his is really messing up my concentration. “All your acts of rebellion,” I begin, trying to be professional and keep my eyes on his as well. “You were trying to make a point that you wouldn’t be controlled? Did you expect this would endear you more to the public?”
A moment. Two.
That small smile on his lips again.
Those eyes still on mine.
“I’m not endearing to people, Miss Livingston. I’d say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only: they want to pray to me, be me, do me, or kill me.”
Surprised by his bluntness, I let out a small laugh; then I blush because of the way his eyes darken when he hears me laugh. “Forgive me the personal questions. I’m interested in Interface and in the mind behind it—though the piece will focus on Interface.”
The car is slowing down as it approaches a driveway. Quickly peering out, I see we’re pulling into the drop-off lane of a very high-end business center, and it strikes me we might have reached our destination. Noooo. So soon? I turn back to him, but he doesn’t seem to share my anxiety. He’s the embodiment of relaxation right now, leaning back in his seat, still continuing to watch me.
“I think we’re here, and I wanted to ask you so many more impertinent things,” I tease.
He smiles at me, a genuine smile that makes him look younger, more approachable. “I’ll tell you what.” He shifts forward in his seat, a mischievous expression on his face. “Tell me something about you, and I’ll tell you one more thing about me.”
I jump at the offer, not even hesitating. “I’m an only daughter.”
“I’m an only son.”
We stare at each other again, the same way we did at his office.
Suddenly I want a thousand and one answers like that one. Personal. Precise. “Can I offer another one of mine in exchange for one of yours?” I ask.
“Ah. I’ve got a bargainer on my hands.” He leans back in his seat, his chuckle rich and savoring.
“Is that a yes?” I laugh too.
“See, the thing about bargains is, you have to have something the other wants.”
I stare at him, unsure whether he’s teasing me or not.
His eyes are dark, but his lips are smiling.
His eyes—I can never seem to stare enough. The pulsing energy of his being seems to roil in their depths. He’s a dark individual. Dark as his hair. Dark as sin. Dark as whatever whirls around him. Something magnetic. Unstoppable. Irresistible. He sits there evaluating me, and I don’t even know what to do, how to respond, what it is he’s trying to get from me. He’s a powerful businessman who gets what he wants and is used to things being done his way. He’s also a player who always gets who he wants. He wanted to know something about me, and I stupidly jumped in and offered more. But he wanted to know one thing about me, not two.
