Claim Me: A Novel

meeting with the clients.
    “I’ll field that,” Tanner had said when the head of IT asked me a conceptual question. “Ms. Fairchild is coming at this from a purely administrative point of view.”
    “The little prick,” Jamie says when I get to that part of the story.
    “No argument from me,” I say. “But I probably should have said nothing. I mean, the whole idea was to get the client to take the product and the team. That would get Tanner out of my hair for six months.”
    “So what did you do?”
    “When he finished, I just casually pointed out that while Tanner’s overview was entirely accurate, he left out some key information. Then I spent the next fifteen minutes running through ways to tweak the algorithm to give them a huge variety of options. I mean, conceptually, the program is brilliant, but when you get down to the actual coding, then all you really—”
    “Okay,” Jamie says, lifting her hand. “I get the idea. Techie stuff. You impressed them. Tanner looked like a doofus.”
    “So sweet and so true,” I admit. “But the beauty is that he didn’t look like an ignorant doofus. He knows his stuff. He just left out some important details.”
    “Which is good, because they wouldn’t want some bonehead moving in-house for six months,” Jamie says.
    “Exactly. I think I’d have to quit if Tanner were working down the hall from me. The guy’s toxic.”
    “Well, we wouldn’t want you to quit,” Jamie says, rolling her eyes. “How on earth would you live? A million dollars just doesn’t go as far as it used to.”
    I toss my napkin at her, but I’m smiling as I do it.
    The bartender comes over and Jamie orders another martini. I go with a sparkling water.
    “You have no sense of adventure,” she says.
    I think about the rather adventurous things Damien and I have done together and bite back a very self-satisfied smile.
    “So when do you get the money?” she asks.
    “It’s already mine. But I need to tell Damien where to transfer it.”
    “Uh, yeah,” Jamie says.
    I shrug. The truth is, I’m oddly hesitant to invest it. There’s so much riding on that money, and after seeing how my mother’s horrible investments went spiraling down the drain, I’m nervous about making my own choices. Of course, Mother’s failure was about her craptastic running of the family business and her ridiculous over-the-top spending habits, but knowing that I am not my mother and believing that I am not my mother are two entirely different things.
    “I’ve been talking with brokers,” I say, which is sort of true. I’ve talked with two receptionists to make appointments to talk with brokers. From the way Jamie eyes me, I’m pretty sure she’s cluing in to my deception. “And enough about the money,” I say,as the bartender returns with our drinks. I lift my water. “To you. Today a commercial, tomorrow an Oscar.”
    “I’ll drink to that.”
    “You’ll drink to anything.”
    “True,” she says, and polishes off half the martini. “Would you have believed it?” she asks.
    I don’t know what she means. “Believe what?”
    “When we were in high school and you were doing all those damned Miss Corner Gas Station pageants and I was auditioning for community theater. Would you have believed we’d be in Los Angeles and I’d have a commercial and you’d be on the cusp of starting your own business? Not to mention lassoing the town’s most eligible bachelor.”
    “No,” I say. “I never would have believed it.”
    “So this is for both of us,” Jamie says as she holds out her fist, waiting for me to bump it. I do eagerly. “For two Texas girls who moved to LA on their own, we’re not doing half bad.”
    Since Jamie walked to the bar, I drive us both back to the condo. It takes longer than I anticipate since my Honda keeps stalling out at the lights.
    “Face it, Nik,” Jamie says. “You can’t do LA in this car.”
    I’m afraid she’s right, but the truth is bittersweet. The car is the first thing I bought on my own. I’m proud of what it represents, and I can’t help but feel a little bit superstitious about the fact that she’s starting to die right now when I’m starting to take off.
    “I’ll take her in for a tune-up soon,” I decide. “It’s probably just something like spark plugs or a gunked up carburetor.”
    “Do you even know what a carburetor is?”
    “No,” I admit. “But presumably the mechanic does.”
    “Open your eyes and observe the