I can’t lose Ethan. But I have a baby to think about now too.
Twenty-Four.
That's how many hours Simon called me and told me I have to get him an I.E. Prototype just now.
I’m serious. He called just now.
It’s Monday morning and Ethan is already at work.
I don't have to go in till later on today to meet with the graphic designers and so I was able to see when Simon called my phone.
When I picked up, he was curt.
“Babes, I gave you long enough to get me what I fucking want. The product goes live in two weeks and I’m done waiting,” was his way of saying hello. “You have 24 hours to get me my fucking shit that actually works this time before Robert gets a nice little FedEx with all your fucking information, right down to your address and daily fucking schedule.”
I froze as I heard him and tried to comprehend what he was saying.
“I know exactly how many nights you spend at One57 and if I wanted to, I’d know exactly what fucking color underwear you were wearing, so please believe me that I am deadly serious,” he said over the phone. “24 hours. No more.”
I stand there for a long time feeling ill.
Wondering not just about myself. But about Ethan. And to top it all off now, about the baby inside of me.
Ethan
“The initial marketing efforts will be through broad-based Internet advertising as well as direct television advertising,” Cheryl is speaking on the line and her voice is coming through on speakerphone.
It’s the afternoon and I’m sitting with my feet up on my desk listening to the people on the call. There’s probably about forty people all told who dialed in to the final two weeks before go-live. We got people from all different areas of the fucking company: Operations, Finance, Marketing, Legal, and R&D are on this call.
And tying it all together and holding us in check is none other than Cheryl —Personal Assistant to the fucking stars. My fucking personal assistant.
“What channels on the television spectrum are we targeting?” someone from Marketing asks Cheryl over the conference line.
There’s a pause. I know Cheryl is prepared for this question. It’s not like someone tripped her up or anything.
“We’re targeting prime time spots on all broadcast networks as well as contemporary movie channels that target the 18-44 demographic,” Cheryl says, reading off her list. I nod to myself. That sounds like a pretty good lineup.
What?
Oh come on, don’t look so fucking shocked. I’m sure prime time television has no fucking problem running ads for a virtual reality porn player. I mean, have you looked at what they put on television recently? Fuck, this shit is exactly what the audiences are waiting for.
“We also have cross-promo licensing deals with all major fast food chains across the country as well as—” Cheryl would say more but all of a sudden my head jerks toward the door as it flings open.
I immediately put the call on mute. Then I put it on hold. Whatever is about to fucking go down does not need to be interrupting this important fucking call that's going to make me billions of dollars.
Jesus. I don’t know why I’m so fucking jumpy all of a sudden.
I realize how silly I’m being when Brittney walks in.
Instead of armed thugs being led by Simon Conners, it's the most beautiful girl in the fucking world walking in wearing a tight dark blue wraparound dress.
I know what you’re wondering right now, and fuck you for wondering, but yes, my cock does twitch a little bit seeing the fabric of Brittney’s dress cling to her fucking perky and full breasts and the rest of her slender body.
“Brittney?” I ask her. I mean, despite wanting to fuck her, I’m a bit surprised. She’s never surprised me at work like this before. “What’s going on, babe?” I ask.
She takes several steps toward me, her face determined.
“I need to withdraw from the project and end my association with Illicit Entertainment,” she says, as if she’s rehearsed this on the way over. “I need off the team.”