Page 14 of A Very No Strings Halloween
“Nut up, Fischer,” I say to myself as I ascend the stairs again, pride and curiosity winning the battle against apprehension. “I’m coming upstairs and I have a weapon!” I call out, hopefully just to some rodents and a leaky radiator.
Reaching the second-floor hallway, I am astutely aware of my elevated blood pressure and each and every hair that is standing up on the back of my neck. This terrible cocktail of excitement and trepidation feels very much like my reaction every time I’ve thought about the possibility of dating again ever since Trevor left. I am certainly not ready to face aserious relationship yet. But I am going to be the boss of this house, and it starts with returning to the master bedroom.
The bedroom door is closed. I don’t remember closing it when I ran out last time, but again, why wouldn’t it close on its own if this house is so drafty?
I have to pause when I’m a foot away from the door because I hear that sound again, more like a moan.
Definitely an old house sound.
I reach for the doorknob, but just as I do, the door pops open on its own.
And all I can hear is my own screams.
FIVE
Billy
RESIDENTIAL EVIL
I’m striding through the shiny waiting area of some fancy-schmancy offices in a downtown skyscraper that I would one day like to rappel off.
After I won the lottery, it was important to me not to just spend or waste all that money. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I put it to good use for good times. But I wanted to do something productive with it as well. As part of my legacy, if you will. After consulting with my family, Declan and Nolan in particular, I founded a startup called the Locker Room.
It’s an escape room meets a fantasy sports camp. To move on from one locked room to the next, you have to score the winning basket or catch the winning touchdown or punch the puck through on a fast break. It’s the kind of place I would have spent all my time at when I was a kid, and it’s been a huge success rightout of the gate. So we’re scaling rapidly and opening new locations all across New England. If all goes well, and there’s no reason it wouldn’t, we’ll be all over the East Coast by the second quarter next year. National by the end of next year.
Is it exciting? Sure. Am I nervous? Nah. Do I like making a shit ton of money? It doesn’t hurt. But I was happy before I was a millionaire, and I’m no more or less happy now.
I tip my hat to the receptionist and see myself into the boardroom. All of my executives are already seated. I remove my derby hat and drop it in front of me at the head of the long, impressive oak table. I’m still wearing the pastel pinstripe suit and suspenders I put on when I left my apartment last night. I never used to explain thewhys and thewhats and thehows of what I did and wore before I got rich. Now that I’m a boss I explain even less. It’s fucking awesome. But if anyone wants to know about the Boston derby I organized last night with a couple of my friends and about a hundred friendly strangers, I would be happy to tell them.
“Good morning, everyone,” I say as I take my seat.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Sullivan,” my team replies.
I lean back in my executive chair, stretching out and stacking my boots on the table. The boots are clean—I’m not a filthy animal. “What’s first up on the agenda today,ladies and gents?”
“We need to discuss the Make-A-Wish partnership,” my chief financial officer says.
I lower my feet and lean forward, resting my forearms on the table instead. “Shoot.”
“The foundation has the budget to pay travel and lodging fees as well as the going rate for the cost of the use of our facilities. But I was wondering if you?—”
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “No, we pay for everything. They just tell us where and when and whatever they need—it’s on us.”
“That’s very generous and it’s what I figured you’d say, Mr. O’Sullivan. Thank you.”
“What else?” I look around the room. This meeting could have been an email, but I like the face-to-face aspect of it. “Whaddya got for me?”
“The promo event with Make-A-Wish…” says Grace, my chief marketing officer. Or my head of marketing. Or my VP of marketing. Whatever she is, she’s great.
“What about it? What can I do to make it awesome?”
“Will you be attending?”
“Of course.”
“Fantastic,” she says, holding up her iPad. “Will you be…bringing someone? A plus-one?”
I immediately think of Donna. Which is silly. Because Donna and I aren’t dating. But it just seemslike the kind of event she’d enjoy if she actually had the night off.
