Fifty Degrees of Shade - The Billionaire's Badass Mate - On hold for a bit!

2. Just the Tip

I'm in San Francisco on a crowded commute-time sidewalk across from the address Clarissa gave me, my neck craned upward. It turns out her favorite building in San Francisco looks like a penis—or to be more specific, an uncircumcised penis.

I like irony as much as the next person but come on! This is so conspicuous that maybe it would be better for everyone involved if I returned to Berkeley and celebrated the end of finals getting shitfaced at a dive bar like a normal person.

And by everyone, I mean me. Plus, what does this say about Mr. Shades?

Nothing good.

The crescent moon hangs over the glowy tip of the penis skyscraper like a fishhook. I cannot do it. I can't! And it has nothing to do with the fact that I am not dressed appropriately for an interview with a billionaire; I'm dressed for a final. I had no time to stop back at the apartment to change, so here I am in a tight red sheath dress with one long tantalizing zipper up the back and matching red patent leather stilettos.

Time to end this madness and make my departure.

I turn on my heel, wobbling a little so the people around me know I'm only human. Already I can taste the too-sweet five-dollar Cosmo from my favorite bar on my tongue. My phone buzzes. I hope this isn't Vogue texting to beg for another photoshoot.

Wrestling the phone out of my tiny purse, I glance at the message.

It's Clarissa.

          Don't even think about it.

          Think about what?

          Leaving.

See, she's totally a witch.

          Why would you think I'm leaving?

          Because I know you. Just go in.

          The building looks like a penis.

          So?

          So, I'm not in the mood to be swallowed whole by a blatant metaphor.

          You're just afraid of heights.

          Now what kind of friend rudely hurls someone's fear in their face like that?

          A desperate and very sick friend. *cough cough*

          Fine.

I jab the phone back into the purse, take one more glance up at the looming penis, and cross the street. This is when things get worse. Because the stone sign in front of the monstrosity reads: SHADES HOUSE.

Crispin doesn't just live in the penis; he is the penis!

***

Girding my loins and tugging at the bottom of my too-short dress, I stride into the bright lobby, my heels click-clacking against the marble floor. The space is at least 5 stories high, with massive glass jellyfish sculptures, tentacles dangling from the ceiling like a sea of penises. The walls, décor, windows, even the furniture, are jumbo-sized, made from hard, polished materials like glass, stone, and metal.

Okay, I get it already. Penis building. It's hard. It's big. And it's fucking obvious!

I hope Clarissa makes better architectural choices than this. We're going to have to have a talk before she's unleashed upon the world of building design.

It's supposed to make me feel small and inadequate, but I refuse. This is when a brilliant idea inserts itself into my brain. Maybe I can get Shades to interview me in the lobby. There's ample space. And wouldn't it be more appropriate than having me, a poor, fresh-faced college student, going up alone into his den of iniquity?