Release Me

night I was one up on Jagger.
    I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don’t leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven’t looked at the envelope, and if it’s about the presentation, Carl’s going to expect me to know the details cold.
    I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of
Forbes
falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There’s a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine.
I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn
. There’s no signature, but the From the Desk of Damien J. Stark stationery is a big clue.
    I’m still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he’s tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can’t let this go any further.
    But that doesn’t mean I’m not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.
    “What are you grinning about?” Carl demands as I pushthrough the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn’t really want my answer. He’s already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, “Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I’d give you money. So long as you don’t screw up the slideshow.”
    “I won’t,” I say, grateful that he’s not mentioning last night or Damien or late night phone calls.
    Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he’s completely revamped our presentation outline.
    I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.
    I’m in heaven. I’ve reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn’t my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Damien Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I’ve been toying with since my last year at UT.
    Today I’m going to get to see two entrepreneurs in action. Carl, who rarely fails to get financing for any project he pitches. And Damien Stark, who has never said yes to a project that didn’t ultimately exceed expectations and make a fortune for both him and the underlying company.
    The conference room table is littered with paper, electronic tablets, and notebook computers. While the rest of the team scurries about, Brian and Dave, the two lead programmers whohad worked with Carl developing the software, bang away at the notebooks, fine-tuning the presentation slideshow and doing dry runs of the software with a staggering number of parameters.
    Carl paces, his eagle eye on everyone. “We’re doing this right,” he says. “No fuck-ups. No slips. A well-oiled ship.” He narrows his eyes at Dave. “Go order up some sandwiches for lunch, but I swear to God, if anyone goes to that meeting with mustard on their shirt, I am firing his ass right then and there.”
    At one-thirty sharp, Carl, Brian, Dave, and I gather our things and march mustard-free to the elevator. Carl fidgets during the entire eighteen-story descent. He looks at himself so often in the mirrored wall panels that I am tempted to tell him he makes a beautiful bride. Wisely, I keep my mouth shut.
    Of course, once we cross the courtyard and enter the ultra-modern Stark Tower, I’m the one who fidgets. My nervousness exists on so many levels that I can’t even rally and organize my thoughts. There’s the basic flutter of nerves simply from the thought of seeing Stark again. Then there’s the fear that he’s going to say something during the meeting—not necessarily even something suggestive. But God forbid he should say the word “phone.” Or “ice.” It’ll throw me