Page 8 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“I’m grateful for the opportunity to share my vision and my business plan with you,” she began, projecting poise and serenity. “Where would you like me to start?”
So far, so good.
The young man lounging in the center overstuffed chair looked up from his phone, then raked his beady eyes over her body like she was a piece of meat. He leaned forward. “Well, Libby Lamb,” he began in a syrupy tone as a smarmy grin twisted his lips, “we’d like you to start by bending over.”
Two
Libby
Hadthis T-shirt-clad bro asked her to present her ass for the group to assess?
This had to be a joke.
“You want me to bend over?” Libby repeated, doing everything in her power to keep from unleashing a verbal tirade.
“Yeah,” the guy answered smugly before leaning back in his chair.
She pursed her lips, then peered down at the conference room’s faded black and gray checkerboard carpet.
Should she do it?
She studied a black square. As far as colors go, black was a tricky shade. It could promote deep meditation, but it could also signify an impasse—a mysterious, dark obstacle hindering one’s quest for balance. And then it hit her. This had to be a test. Yes, the venture capitalists must want to observe how she’d handle a professional hiccup.
If she remained calm, she’d be fine.
She picked up the mallet and struck the gong gently. She’d lost her cool with the poor instrument more than a few times over the last seventy-five days.
Stupid lopsided chi.
It freaked people out to see a yogi serene one minute, then wild-eyed and working the gong like a game of Whack-a-Mole the next.
But as hard as she’d tried, she couldn’t help it.
Anytime the beefcake invaded her mind, or an inconsiderate, beefcake-like guy wandered into her orbit, it dashed her communion with calmness. And the harder she’d tried to get the beefcake out of her head, the more frequently he’d pop up. The release of striking the metal wasn’t a substitute for the earth-shaking orgasm she so desperately needed. Still, it acted as a pressure valve, dispelling a portion of her grating agitation. And at this very moment, the unsettling energy inside her wanted to bang the hell out of that mini gong like she was one of those wind-up monkeys holding a pair of cymbals, but blessedly, she held back.
“What’s that for?” the guy who’d opened the door barked.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
At least she’d changed the topic from bending over.
It was go big or go home time—and she had to knock this out of the park. This presentation required a full-court positive karma press. And the gong, when she wasn’t banging it within an inch of its life, was the perfect place to start.
She surveyed the men who couldn’t be much older than she was. Three white guys with blond hair coiffed in the same GQ long, but not too long, stylish cut. They looked like they hit the gym—a good sign. Still, they might not be familiar with the benefits of yoga, but their interest in fitness had to be why they’d invited her here today. Somewhere beneath the faded Greek letters, they harbored the desire to learn. Experiencing a renewed sense of purpose, she went into instructor mode.
“I rang the gong to clear our minds and align our chakras,” she announced, exuding tranquility.
Ha! She could maintain her calm like a true professional and educate these guys on the benefits of yoga in the process.
The men stared at her, wide-eyed, before the guy at the far-right end of the table huffed, then went back to scrolling on his phone.
The gong could only do so much. She needed to change tack.
“Which one of you is Derrick?” she asked, hoping to build rapport—again, like a true professional.
The door guy leaned back, rocking in the office chair like a toddler. “We’re all Derricks. I’m Derrick Doyle. That’s Derrick Dawson, and Derrick Dirks is the dude at the end,” the man answered as he gestured down the line.
This was a start—and not a bad one.
