“Wow.”
“Exactly,” he says, pointing his pen at me. “So how do we tap into that possibility? We could invest in water-rich areas and transport the water, but that’s a nonstarter. The barriers to entry are too high.”
“The barriers . . . ?”
“It’s hard to transport water. You need pipelines, which raises all kinds of issues. They’re expensive, they’re politically unpopular, they raise property-rights issues. They disturb ecosystems. And think about it—we’re moving water away from its original source. The ripple effect on the environment—water life, plant life, coastlines—could be catastrophic.”
“So what do you do instead?”
“The way to invest in water is through food. It’s the least contentious, least controversial way to redistribute water. You don’t transport the water. You grow food in water-rich areas and transport it for sale in water-poor areas. You have any idea how much water it takes to produce even small quantities of food? It takes nearly two thousand gallons of water to ultimately produce one pound of beef off a cow. And selling food is profitable, right? So that guarantees sustainable redistribution. Meaning, industry won’t stop doing it.”
“So you’re buying up farmland.”
“Right. You see the returns we’ve already gotten. I’ve already given my investors over a three hundred percent ROI. The next five years are going to be even better. You give me twenty-one million dollars, I’ll give you a hundred million in five years. I promise you, Vicky, I will take you for the ride of your life.”
I take a breath. The ride of my life, indeed. When I was six, I had to tie a shoelace around my left shoe because the sole had come off completely and we couldn’t afford new ones. I walked with a limp that entire year, just to keep my shoe on. When I was eighteen and on my own, I started donating my plasma once a week for the money. When I was twenty, I fucked my landlord to pay the rent.
When I don’t answer, Christian says, “Or, if you’re risk averse, give me ten million and I’ll turn it into fifty. We’ll put your other ten in Asian equities. That’s going to blow sky-high, too, though not as much as water. But the diversification might give you comfort.”
By the time I was twenty-four, sex was the only way I knew how to survive. It was transactional. I was an escort living in Indianapolis. I met a woman early on who taught me that the best way to survive as a prostitute was to have some cops for clients. They’d make sure you never got arrested; they’d stand up for you if someone got rough with you. My clients were mostly married men with money who were looking for a thrill on the side. And cops. And when it wasn’t a direct trade, it was an indirect one. I learned how to make men do things for me. Expensive dinners that ended up in my bedroom or his, but for me it was about having two days of leftovers in the fridge.
The sums of money Christian is talking about, they’re as real to me as flying to Mars.
“Or,” he says, “we don’t do any of that.”
I snap out of my fog and focus on him.
“Listen, Vicky, this isn’t for everybody,” he says. “My investors, they love the upside of my investments and aren’t that concerned with the downside. They can risk twenty million in the market because they have plenty more. You don’t. I get that. And look, twenty million dollars is a lot of money. You could sit on it, invest in low-risk bond funds and some index funds, live mostly off the interest, and cut into the principal slowly. You can be comfortable. Your whole life, you’ll be very, very comfortable. If that’s where your head is—then you should do that. I could put that together for you. Or you could use one of those other financial advisers you interviewed. No hard feelings. This isn’t a hard sell.”
I look up from the proposal. “You’d put together a low-risk portfolio for me?”
“If that’s what you prefer.”
“But you don’t do that. I mean, everything I’ve read about you—that’s not your game.”
“No, it isn’t. Actually, I’ve never done it before.”
“But you’d do it for me.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I would.”
“Why?” I prod.
“I . . . like you,” he says. “I like your style.”
That’s what I thought.
I slowly nod my head. He keeps my eye contact. Finally, I break it, looking over at the leather couch in the corner. Then back at him. He’s still looking at me.
“You have any other appointments today?”
He pauses a beat. “I do not,” he says.
“When does your receptionist leave?”
He looks over toward the door, more confident now that he’s reading this correctly. “Five o’clock,” he says.
“Maybe give her a break today, let her off early,” I suggest.
Now he’s sure, and he knows how to handle it. “I could do that.”
I smirk. “Then do it.”
He pushes a button on his phone. “Emily, I don’t have anything else today. Why don’t you take off a little early?”
I stand up and unbutton my dress, taking my time with each button, watching him watch me. My dress drops to the floor. I step my heels out of it and lean over the table.
“I’m going with option one, Mr. Newsome,” I say. “Take me for the ride of my life.”
24
Vicky
“Maybe you had a point about water,” I say. “Because I need some right now.” I untangle my sweaty body from Christian’s and get off the couch.
“In the fridge by the bar,” he says. “Where are my manners?” He has that smug, self-satisfied look that men have after they think they’ve rocked my world.
He was fine. Not as good as he thought he was, but fine. He knew what he was doing. It’s just that I’ve never gotten to the point that I find intimacy in sex. Brief, raw pleasure is the most I can get from it, on a good day.
I grab a bottle for each of us and return to the couch. He does a sit-up to get to the seated position, allowing him one more opportunity to show me his ripped abdominal muscles. He’s got a great body, I’ll give him that. The guy must spend hours a day in the gym honing it. Whoever compared bodybuilding to masturbation had a point.
Christian takes a drink from the bottle and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Well, Mrs. Dobias, that was . . .”
Don’t say amazing. Please don’t.
“. . . fun.”
“You have a lot of energy,” I say.
“You bring it out in me.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I take a drink of water and find my phone. It’s a quarter to seven. We’ve been going at it for over two hours. I’m going to be sore tomorrow. I’m out of practice. I haven’t had sex for months.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says.
“Shoot.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
I pull on my underwear, hook up my bra. “Do you want me to answer that?”
“I do.”
“Are you sure? You wouldn’t prefer to remain in your male-fantasy bubble, that you’re the only one who can unleash the tigress inside me?”
“Wow,” he says, though he chuckles.
I lean over him, face-to-face. “No, Christian, I have never done anything like this before. I’ve been a very good girl for the last ten years.”
I put my dress back on, a little wrinkled now. As he’s pulling on his trousers, Christian says, “By the way, we never circled back on that trust language.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve never seen language quite like that, but your take on it is accurate. It’s valid and enforceable. You must stay married for ten years before you can touch that money.”