Page 130 of Wildest Dreams

Rhyland: Change of plan.

Dylan: Are we going to the Italian place instead of the Burmese place?

Rhyland: No, we’re still going to the Burmese place, it took me three months and a goddamn sexual favor to secure a reservation!

Rhyland: (don’t worry, the sexual favor was flavored condoms from Japan I still had a pack of that the manager wanted)

Rhyland: (besides, the most important meal of my day, YOU, is still happening)

Dylan: That’s a lot of side notes. Hit me with the bottom line.

Rhyland: I’m going to Texas for the weekend to mingle and entertain Bruce’s journo and celebrity friends to help the app take off.

Rhyland: BUT I’m going to make it here in time for the Taylor Swift concert + make friendship bracelets with you.

Dylan: Thanks for clarifying. I was THIS close to going upstairs and destroying all your belongings.

Rhyland: LOL.

Dylan: I’m not kidding.

Rhyland: I’m not going to disappoint you, baby.

Dylan: OMFG what is wrong with me? I totally believe you.

Rhyland: Is this a love declaration?

Dylan: Depends. Am I talking to your dick?

Rhyland: Yes.

Dylan: Then yes.

Rhyland: And if you’re talking to the man attached to it?

Dylan: Getting warmer, but not yet.

Rhyland: Burn, baby, burn.

RHYLAND

Ispent Thursday kissing so much Texan ass I was worried my breath would smell like manure and smoked brisket.

Bruce Marshall had really worked me like his busiest call girl. There was a junket, a press release, a virtual conference, and a dinner with all the investors tied to the project. By the time I walked into my room, it was two in the morning. I sent Dylan a quick message to let her know I was still alive, albeit barely, before crashing.

Friday started at 6 a.m. First, I subjected myself to a ninety-minute yoga session with youth-obsessed tech moguls who bragged about being so flexible they could suck their own dicks. Then there was breakfast with the press, a brainstorming session with Hollywood PR gurus, a professional photo shoot of me and Bruce looking like we were reenacting Brokeback Mountain, then another dinner, and another party.

This one was different from the rest. Bruce had decided to clear out the entire backyard, all two acres, and had gone guns blazing on the Texan experience. There were mechanical riding bulls, long wooden tables laden with southern comfort food, cowboy-boot-shaped beer glasses, and donut stands. A live band took the makeshift stage. There was a lot of media present. Photographers, influencers, and bloggers roamed the place, taking pictures in the App-date picture booth, downloading a sample app, mingling, and having fun. I had to admit, he’d gone balls-out and garnered at least five pieces of traditional press for the company, not to mention endless social media posts and reels.

And the celebrities? He’d actually managed to pull in a few A-list actors, including the hottest actress on Hollywood’s current roster, Claire Larsen, who was helming the blockbuster Bratz movie. She was, in truth, every man’s fantasy. She looked like a cross between Megan Fox and Scarlett Johansson. And she was fast approaching me from across Bruce’s manicured lawn while the bastard was talking my ear off about ways to monetize the app.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Claire Larsen’s comin’ to talk to you,” Bruce murmured, mouth pressed against the rim of his beer bottle. She wore a white waistcoat with nothing underneath, the slit coming all the way down to her belly button. I’d seen more clothes on a Victoria’s Secret runway model.

“You mean us.” I knocked back the rest of my whiskey.

“No, you,” Bruce chuckled. “I’m an old, married man. You’re a young, handsome one. Ain’t no ring on your finger yet.”

“She’ll be wasting her breath,” I said tersely.

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