Chapter 11 - Rhea’s test

I was surprised that I found a seat at the bar. I’d asked Grace to just stay close enough so that she could watch over me, but far enough that the guys wouldn’t think I was with her. The bartender didn’t even have a chance to bring me my cosmo before a guy was running his finger over my shoulders and saying, “Hey there beautiful. Need some company?”

My smile doesn’t waver but inside I cringe wondering if I ever came across as this much of an asshole. I mean, at least he could ask if I WANTED some company. If I was LOOKING for some company. But need? Like some girl at the club alone NEEDS to have company? Ultimately though, this is the type of attention that Rhea wants to see me tolerate so I don’t bat an eye as I bring my hand up to his bicep and say that I was hoping someone like him would come along.

It turns out that Curtis is more than just full of himself. I don’t have to direct the conversation away from me as he keeps it focused on himself anyway. He evidently owns a small catering company here on the Gold Coast, he serves celebrities and millionaires, he drives a Ferrari but it’s in the shop getting a new exhaust, and his condo overlooks the lake and is something that I absolutely need to see. I certainly hope that Rhea is watching as this evening’s practice has made it so that I don’t flinch or blanche at all as Curtis’ hand wanders over the open skin of my leg, up to my hip, over my back and neck, and even ‘accidentally’ rubbing against my breast once. Actually, he may have hit that area several times, but I only looked down once to see it and realized I couldn’t feel him doing it.

I hold out just long enough to not look **** but end up getting Curtis’ number within fifteen minutes. I’m happy to text him mine knowing damned well that this phone is going to be garbage soon enough.

A few minutes later, as I’m returning from the bathroom… a learning experience all its own… I bump into a guy. I quickly mentally replay the moment and make sure it was me bumping into him and not him stepping in front of me but as he turns and puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me, I can honestly say the bump was my fault.

Terry teaches up at Loyola and comes across as far too earnest with his puppy dog eyes and his scruffy beard. After we sit and chat for a bit, with him buying me another cosmo, I take his invite to go out onto the dance floor. Having never been to this particular bar I didn’t realize that the downstairs area was all retro so I ended up dancing with Terry to Madonna’s Holiday and Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody.

Only after I get Terry’s number and part ways does Grace find me and explain why Terry seemed so confused as to why I’d leave. It turns out it’s not only my breasts that I can’t feel. She watched as Terry cautiously got his hands on my ass while we danced to Madonna and then he freaking mauled my big fake butt for all of Whitney Houston’s number. After thanking Grace for letting me know I’ve been accidently slutty again, I vow to not return to the dance floor. At least not for a touchy feely dance partner.

When Holden introduced himself, I immediately knew he might be a problem. He was just so full of himself. I guess it says something about the look I have that he’d focus in on me, but even I get tired of his routine within a few minutes. I try to go for his number, but he turns that into a request to join him in the bathroom. Laughing at him was definitely the wrong thing to do.

I’ve had my fair share of fights. I generally have to fight dirty as it’s a really rare situation when I outweigh anybody that steps up to me. The advantage is that I’ve learned to get out of a fight quickly. The disadvantage is that my methods rely on me not being in a skirt.

I see that my laughter throws the switch behind Holden’s eyes from cocky to pissed-off faster than I thought possible. I’m barely able to back out of the way of his open hand coming up to slap me across the face. I don’t think, I simply respond by crouching down just a bit more and bringing my knee up into Holden’s crotch. That’s where the dress problem comes in. The dress certainly stretches quite a bit, but it also slows down my leg and ensures that I barely tap Holden’s groin instead of delivering a tear inducing, fight ending, maneuver.

This time Holden’s hand is quicker. Instead of going for a slap he grips my throat. Tight. With a simple push he has me pressed up against the bar with his body right next to mine, leaving me no room to deliver another kick. While I continue to stare into Holden’s fiery eyes I reach to the side and start searching for a glass or a bottle or something else that I can strike him with. Faster than I can find something though, someone’s arm circles Holden’s throat and pulls him away with a shouted “LET THE GIRL GO!!”

Holden was a pretty big guy, but these bars don’t skimp on security, and the bouncer was shaped like a WWE wrestler. While Holden was dragged away, I was quickly surrounded by people. The bartender, who had run around from behind the bar, a couple patrons, another bouncer, and the hostess. I have to admit, it’s intimidating to have this many people surrounding me all asking if I’m okay. I don’t think it’s ever happened to me before and I have to assume it’s a man vs woman thing. Everyone wants to help the damsel in distress, no one gives a fuck about the dude that just lost a fight.

It takes a few minutes for everyone to calm down, but I finally convince everybody that I’m okay. I thank the staff for coming in so quickly and accept the free drink from the bartender. As I sit and take my first sip I catch eyes with Grace and send her a nod, letting her know that I’m okay. I do note, however, that she’s found Ms. Birdie who at least seems impressed.

As I look around it becomes real clear real quick that I’m being looked at as ‘that girl that just got attacked’. It’s not exactly inducive to me getting phone numbers. After I finish the drink, I thank the bartender again and head upstairs where the music changes quickly from the 80s to modern pop. I wander out onto the dance floor and start just moving back and forth as I’ve seen girls do before. Not too surprisingly a guy shimmies his way in front of me and starts that awkward ‘are we dancing together or just dancing near each other move’ that I’ve fallen into myself.

Maybe it’s the fact that he just looks kind of sad. Obviously alone. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not much bigger than me and therefore not the kind of threat that most of the guys have been. Maybe it’s the fact that he looks like he could barely afford to be here with wrinkled old unstylish clothes. Maybe it’s his nerdy look with the thick plastic framed glasses. Or maybe it’s just a combination of all the above. Regardless of the specific reason I step toward him and take away the ambiguity, dancing with him directly.

As he keeps his hands to himself, we end up dancing to three songs before he guides me over to a table. On our way over I see several women all giving me a large amount of stink eye, like I stole their man or something. I put it in the back of my head and instead focus on this strange guy. We chat and he’s beyond polite, letting me carry a lot of the conversation. He doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t talk much about myself.

When the waitress comes over I sit back knowing it’s best if I let him order for me but am pleasantly surprised when she instead drops off a bucket with ice and a bottle of champagne in it along with two champagne flutes. When I turn and look at Art, he seems almost embarrassed as he blushes and shrugs, “Sorry about that Paris. They know I like sharing Champagne with women I like. I didn’t mean for them to bring it over until we got to know each other better. Or.. I mean, unless we got to know each other better. If it’s too much, I understand…”

I giggle at his naivety and pour us each a glass, admiring that it’s not a cheap bottle. Now more curious as to who this guy is I start to talk around different subjects, trying to find what interests him. Just when I find that he is VERY interested in talking about biology in general and something he describes as protein function regulation with specific DNA expression and protein post-translational modification, a woman approaches the table and starts calling out to Art. Not just calling out, she’s begging him to let her be with him, to give her another chance!

Out of nowhere a tall guy wearing an all-black suit, black pants, plant shoes, black shirt, black tie, black jacket, and black sunglasses, gently but firmly grabs the woman’s arm and starts guiding her toward the door and the bouncers. When I look back at Art questioningly, he shrugs and apologizes “I’m sorry again Paris, that was Gina. We had a good time last week, but it turns out she was more interested in my money than in having a good time, so I told her I wasn’t interested. It turns out she’s a bit of a stalker.”

I sit back in my seat, now completely confused as to what’s going on here. This nerdy little guy has women going after him? For his money? “Umm… maybe I’m just being dense Art, but… what do you do?”

Art laughs for a bit before realizing I’m serious, “Oh, I thought you knew. Wow, and I finally meet a really beautiful woman that doesn’t know who I am and I screw it all up. I’m… well, I don’t like to brag, but I’m rich. When I graduated from Cal Berkley, I patented a new process for regulating protein functions. It was something we’d worked on in our spare time at school and I thought we might be able to sell it to some biotech company for several thousand once we got it published. But that was… well, it was just before COVID hit and it turns out that it was really important for developing the first mRNA-based vaccines. When Pfizer approached me, they wanted to offer me enough money to sell my research to them exclusively before I got offers from anybody else. So, they kind of made me an offer I couldn’t refuse!”

We continue chatting with me slowly realizing I’m talking to a billionaire. And when he steps to the bathroom, I confirm what he says. I quickly see why he’s surprised I didn’t know him. His face really was on the cover of the New Yorker magazine as they heralded the COVID-19 vaccine. He looked just as small and nerdy back then. I also realize that I’m not likely to get his number. He probably doesn’t give it out to many women at all.

When he gets back, I try to wrap up our conversation. As fascinating as it is, I still have two numbers to get. When he asks where I work, I follow the same path I’ve been walking all night, letting him know that I’m just starting at K Edison Global. I get a small shock when he recognizes the name. It turns out when Pfizer was trying to buy his patent, he went to K Edison Global for help and they managed to get him a contract. Not only did he end up with a huge lump sum to buy his patent outright, he also got a 0.01% of all sales of the vaccine plus a massive stock option. He now technically works for Pfizer running a small research wing, with all of his research owned by the company. The big shock comes when he tells me the man that helped him the most at K Edison Global. His good friend Malachi Orpheus.

I don’t dare let him know that I’m working for his friend since I’m technically not even hired there yet. Instead, I thank him very politely for the dancing and the conversation and try to excuse myself. As I’m scootching out of the seat though I’m surprised by Art quickly getting out of his own chair and moving to pull mine out for me. I’m even more surprised when he pulls out his phone and hands it to me, asking if he can have MY number.

I try to think of any reason to say no but the shock of having a billionaire be interested in me as a woman clouds my thinking and I end up typing in my digits. When I hand the phone back, he smiles and taps the screen a few times then looks back up at me expectantly. When I don’t do anything, he looks back down to his phone, over to my purse, then back up to me, “I just texted the number. Did… did you give me a fake number Paris?”

I feel my heart stop as I realize I had gone too far onto autopilot. I hadn’t typed my new burner number into Art’s phone. I gave him MY phone number. My real phone number!

Picking up my purse I open it and unzip the back compartment where I’d slid my real phone just in case. Turning it on I flash the screen at Art and give a fake embarrassed laugh, “Oh, I’m sorry Art, my battery was dying and I turned my phone off.”

As soon as my phone boots, it dings with the new text including Art’s phone number. The billionaire nerd’s phone number.