I was. It was that Ross had a problem. There were other women I knew who made the mistake of dating him. Ross was many things when it came to business—determined, intelligent, and resourceful.
As a boyfriend, he was shit.
Perhaps due to his infidelity in relationships, I shouldn’t have trusted him as a business partner. Then again, he was honest about his lack of monogamy, truthful not only with me but also with each woman he dated.
His honesty didn’t matter. Each woman went into the relationship with stars in her eyes, determined to be the one to change his ways.
Ross wasn’t going to change.
He would conquer the world and reach incredible heights in business, not in a personal relationship. The only thing he was true to was securing success. In that I believed.
Sipping a hurricane cocktail as Ross rambled on about the possibility of our newest creation, my mind was on anyone and anything except him. The air was sweltering as more bodies made their way into the courtyard. The tall walls surrounding us on all sides obstructed any possibility of a breeze as the live band played their New Orleans sound.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care about what Ross was saying. I did. It was that we’d picked at this subject to death. Over and over we’d worked. For months at home, hours on the airplane…I was done.
The premise we’d created brought our knowledge and skills to the common writer for a cost. The world of big publishing houses was on life support, the ice caps melting and forests burning. Even some of the biggest names in fiction were turning their backs on the very publishers who years and decades ago had made them household names. The news outlets were bubbling with stories as renowned authors secured multimillion-dollar deals, working directly with the biggest online distributor of—well, everything. Self-publishing was on the rise in exponential terms, and Ross and I were poised to break into that market.
Our editing program would revolutionize self-publishing. It was unlike any other available…
I swirled the straw in the last few sips of the peach-colored liquid. The ice cubes rattled as Ross’s monologue reached its crescendo, and my body swayed to the alluring sound of jazz.
“…this could be it, our answer.” Ross reached across the table. “Emma, are you even listening?”
“Yes, and I’ve heard it all…” a million times. I didn’t say the last part. “Save it for this mysterious Mr. Ramses.” I shivered as the name left my lips—Everett Ramses. Maybe it wasn’t his name that caused my reaction but just being in New Orleans where ghost stories abounded, or perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream minus food I should have eaten.
“Em,” Ross said, “the man has more capital than you or I could ever imagine.”
“I looked him up—researched him,” I said, voicing a concern I’d been harboring. “There’s nothing—no Wikipedia, LinkedIn, or website. Christ…” my voice rose over the low trumpet solo. “…he doesn’t even have a Twitter.”
“He’s private.”
“Is he old? Ramses was an Egyptian king…right?”
Ross shrugged. “We’re not in Egypt and they called them pharaohs. Besides, he’s not that old.”
My head shook. “Then why is he so secretive? Is he a criminal?”
Ross sat back and stretched his arms over the small table. “I don’t give a rat’s ass where his money comes from. He reached out to me.”
The whole thing gave me the creeps. I looked at my watch, seeing that it was after nine p.m. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know, but when someone like Mr. Ramses makes an appointment, we’re damn well waiting.”
“Fine,” I said, standing, my balance a bit off. “I need to order something to eat, or I won’t make this meeting.”
From the look on Ross’s face, he was getting annoyed with me. I didn’t care. I was annoyed too. The flight, including a two-hour layover, and a mix-up at the hotel were only a few of my day’s highlights. Steadying my footing and wishing I’d not worn a fitted white sleeveless top that showed a small strip of my midriff, a long flowing skirt, and high-heeled sleek sandals, but instead something more practical, I pushed between bodies, making my way to the bar near the rear of the courtyard.
Placing a food order was my immediate goal.
My head buzzed with the sounds as I did my best to avoid the growing number of patrons.
“Excuse me…pardon me.”
What legitimate businessman would ask to meet in the courtyard of a dark bar off Canal Street in the French Quarter?