Page 2 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 1

Chapter 2

Brand new security badge in hand (the photo only slightly terrible — at least my eyes are open), I board the elevator with a scattering of Scour employees. All of them have headphones in place, their eyes plastered to the devices clutched in their palms (all the newest generation of Scour’s smart phone, of course). I feel like maybe I should pull mine out too, just to fit in...

I find myself jostled to the rear of the elevator, my back pressed up against the steel wall.

“Ninth floor, please,” I say in the direction of the panel of buttons. There are at least two rows of bodies that separate me from my final destination, but since every inhabitant of the elevator has headphones on, no one hears. I have to lean forward, snaking my arm between messenger bags and hands clutching cups of coffee until I’m able to reach the button myself. I earn an evil eye from a guy wearing a knit beanie (definitely a coder) when his espresso sloshes onto his hand when I inadvertently bump his arm.

“Oops!” I mouth the words, because of course, he can’t hear a word I say. When he turns back around, I mouth a few more choice words. I love tech, but I do not love tech bros. It’s just a tradeoff I’m willing to make, especially if it means working at Scour.

As we ride up the elevator, I notice that even though everyone is dressed casually, with messenger bags thrown over shoulders, none of them appear disheveled. I don’t know if jeans and a knit cap can be described as sleek, but these people somehow manage to get there. I think their collective wardrobes probably cost more than my rent. But I guess that’s what happens when you work for Scour, where all the employees are paid at least 30% above market, receive incredible stock portfolios, and that’s to say nothing of benefits, vacations, and in-house perks. All of them got the phones they can’t stop staring at for free, for example. And the laptops and tablets in their bags, all the newest generations, were also gifts.

And, almost desperately, I want everything they have. And more.

It’s not like I grew up with very much money. My parents are both Boston public school teachers. I grew up in a cramped apartment in South Boston, and not the part of South Boston that is now considered trendy. Still, the only reason my parents can still afford to live there is because they inherited the place from my grandmother after she moved to Florida. If my parents want to move, they’ll probably have to leave the city. And my dad, a die-hard Bruins fan in winter and Red Sox fan in summer, would sooner cut off his own arm than leave Boston, the city where he was born and raised.

To say that my potential salary at Scour would be a windfall would be putting it mildly. I survived my four years at New England College on a series of scholarships, loans, work study jobs, and summers waitressing at a tourist trap near Faneuil Hall.

I want this job, but I also need it.

The elevator stops at every floor on the way to mine, and each time the doors slide open, I see an identical white wall, the Scour name and binoculars logo in cut steel on the wall over a sleek steel and white reception desk. It’s like Groundhog Day every time the elevator stops, only a hell of a lot less colorful.

I’ve always pictured tech offices like grown-up daycare centers, with pool tables and bright colors, people riding scooters through the halls while taking breaks in giant, futuristic nap pods. But that’s not Scour. What I’ve seen so far of the headquarters is as austere as an East German prison — but classier. Well, maybe that’s why Scour is so successful. No need to waste money on pool.

Everything about Scour says we work hard. And they’ve got the bank accounts to prove it.

When I finally step out onto the ninth floor (white wall, steel logo, glass reception desk, just like all the rest), I glance at my phone and see that I’m a full fifteen minutes early. Early is great (as my high school soccer coach used to say, “Early is on time, on time is late, and late is dead), but fifteen minutes early seems a little brown-nosey, even for me. So when I spot the bathroom sign, I figure it’s a good opportunity to make sure that the damp morning air didn’t totally destroy my careful home blowout.

I shut myself in a stall to relieve myself of the cups of coffee I consumed while quietly freaking out this morning. Then I hear the bathroom door open, two sets of high heels clicking and clacking on the polished concrete floor.

“Do you think we’re going to get to meet him today?” The voice is squeaky and tinged with a New York accent, all long vowels and nasally.

“God I hope so. It’s never too early to start making an impression, if you know what I mean,” comes the reply, this one confident and almost sultry, which is wildly out of place in a public restroom.

“What, scoring the job isn’t enough, you’ve gotta screw the boss, too?”

“From what I hear, he’s hardly opposed. Besides, I’d have to be shriveled up and half-dead not to want to screw Nixon Blake. And if you say you don’t, you’re clearly lying. He’s basically Zuckerberg, but hotter than pre-divorce Brad Pitt.”

“And single.”

“Exactly. Someone’s gotta win the prize. Why not me?”

“Fine, you can have the dick. I’ll take the job.”

“Excuse me, Jenna, but I think I’ll be winning both.”

The girls dissolve into giggles, but I stay perched in the stall until I hear their giggles disappear behind the closing door.

Okay, if those two are my competition for this job, then I’m golden. Because I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of entitled princesses as a scholarship student at New England College, and not a single one had ever been anything more than stepping stone for me. I sprinted past them all, and even their connections and their famous last names couldn’t get them to bump me off my internship placement with Scour.

As nervous as I am, I’m also feeling a little more confident now.

After a quick touchup on my hair and a dab of lip gloss, I find my way into the hall and to my new workspace. The steel plate outside the door reads “Business Lab Program.” Inside I find a blindingly white conference room with a white lacquered conference table taking up most of the space. Sleek, ergonomic white rolling chairs surround the table. The far wall is floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on Boston Harbor. The opposite wall is floor-to-ceiling glass, making it feel a little bit like being on display at the zoo. The other two walls are floor-to-ceiling white boards, and in a metal box on the table, a collection of dry erase markers. It feels spare and clinical, the only color in the room coming from the people inside it.

Two of whom, I quickly realize, are the owners of the big mouths I heard in the bathroom.

“Hi, I’m Jenna,” squeaks the presumed New Yorker. She’s short, but everything about her is big — hair, lips, and boobs. Her friend, who is tall and thin, but also the owner of a rather impressive rack, gives me a terse smile from her seat at the table right up front, then goes right back to her phone. “That’s Amber,” Jenna says, pointing to her friend.

“Hi, I’m Delaney,” I say. I get a big, toothy smile from Jenna, but nothing from Amber, who continues to pretend either I don’t exist, or if I do, I’m not worthy of her attention.

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