Vengeance(30)

Cherie decided to ask what Bianca should have. “What did you think? Bianca’s amazing, isn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call her amazing, but I was feeling a few of the suggestions. Overall, she needs to go back to the drawing board and bring me something more exceptional and unique before I’d be willing to sign a contract. I can’t have the most valuable residential property in Atlanta sporting a mediocre interior.”

“Mediocre?” Bianca exclaimed.

“Did I stutter?” I replied. “I believe I know the issue with all of this. You don’t imagine on my level because you’re not on my level. Nowhere near it.” I paused so they could let that sink in. “I may have to hire an interior designer from Europe who’s done some palaces, citadels, fortresses, or some regal shit like that. I want my home to be a castle and I don’t mean like a White Castle burger joint.”

“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Bianca yelled, lashing out at me.

Diederik immediately got off the barstool and headed in our direction to toss her ass out. I held up my right palm to stop him. He gave me a confused look and went to sit back down but stopped watching ESPN and glued his eyes on the action at our table.

“If you have to question who I am, you don’t need to be here,” I replied sarcastically. “You’re getting all caught up in your feelings. You’re exhibiting a true lack of professionalism. It’s obvious that you cannot handle criticism well. This is not a good fit.”

Bianca swallowed her pride. “I apologize. I’m just not used to—”

“Being slapped back into reality with the truth?” I asked. Then I turned to Cherie. “Look, Cherise, right?” I pretended like I could not recall her name, even though I had known her forever.

“No, Cherie.”

“Cherie, that’s a cute dress you have on. Not sure it’s my style, but if you want to put together a sample portfolio for me to peruse over, I’ll check it out.”

“Thank . . . thank you.” Cherie seemed relieved. She was willing to take even a slight opportunity to get some of my cash. “I’ll have it to you by next week.”

“No problem. Take your time.” I looked over at Bianca. “I’ll come back to you with some specific requests, particularly for the front rooms that my guests will see upon entry. I don’t want the wow factor. I want the ‘oh my goodness, this shit is off the chain’ look.”

“I can make that happen for you.” Bianca finished off her glass of white wine and pushed her plate away.

“You don’t like the food?” I asked, knowing that I was the one who had robbed her of her appetite like a thief in the night. “My steak was incredible.”

“No, everything was great.” She waved the waitress over to ask for the check. “Thanks again for meeting with us.”

I decided to flip the script and act polite for a moment. “It was my pleasure. I don’t have a lot of female friends and I realize that I can be somewhat harsh, but you two seem lovely.” I was lying my ass off. “Maybe we can become good friends, hangout buddettes, over time.”

Cherie perked up. In her mind, being able to actually claim me as a friend stepped up her game a million percent. “That would be cool. Bianca and I are both upwardly mobile here in Atlanta and—”

“Upwardly mobile?” I had to suppress a hiss. “I hear that term quite often. Define it.”

Bianca and Cherie both looked foolish, using terminology that they clearly had no clue about.

“Does it mean steadily climbing in social and financial status, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Cherie said. “We’re constantly striving to obtain more success in life.”

“Are either of you married?” I already knew everything about the two fake broads but wanted to feign interest. “Are your husbands successful as well? What do they do?”

Bianca could not wait to brag. “My husband, Herman, is an orthopedic surgeon. He has a private practice in Buckhead with state-of-the-art surgery facilities.”

“Oh, that’s nice. He gets to play with crusty feet and toes all day.” I watched as Bianca pulled out a black American Express to pick up the tab, holding back on a snide comment that was dying to leave her lips to counteract mine. I paused long enough to give her time to swallow it. “How long have you been married?”

She sighed—weak broad. She should’ve called me on the fact that an orthopedic surgeon was not the same as a podiatrist, but she was too busy kissing my ass. “We were high school sweethearts, actually. We’ve been together for twenty-five years and married for nineteen.”