A Billion Reasons to Date Homeless

*Quick note to readers: This is a very different story than what I usually write. Much more romance than erotica. There will be far less sex than usual. Thank you.

Alana looked over the evaluation papers once again before glancing back up at the man seated across from her. Her face showed no emotion or hint of excitement, but her heart was beating hard. She had everything she needed to close this deal. "Mr. Weeks. The offer we sent you two weeks ago hasn't changed, nor will it. I don't understand why you called this meeting," she said, setting down the paper.

"Because the offer is an insult. Increase it by at least an order of magnitude, and you'll be in the ballpark of reality," the middle-aged man said, hitting his fist on the table. Mr. Weeks is the fifth-generation owner of an ink manufacturer, but that would soon change.

"If the offer is such an insult, why are you still here? Why set up this meeting at all? Why not burn the letter we sent? You don't need to answer because I already know. Superior Ink posted a 38 million dollar profit last year, down from the previous year. In fact, you haven't seen an increase in your profits in almost seven years, have you? In two years, you will start hemorrhaging money. Our offer is the only out you have."

Mr. Week's demeanor continue to get more agitated. "We are in the process of implementing a project that will radically alter our profit projections."

"You mean the marketing consultant you hired a year ago? The third such you've paid seven figures to in the past five years? Mr. Week, I need an answer now on the offer, or we will retract it," Alana said coldly.

He looked down at the paper in front of him, outlining the details of the offer. His eyes frantically darted all over the page, and his face grew red before he finally exploded in anger. "I am not going to sell my company to a stuck-up bitch for her to tear it apart and sell off the pieces. You think you can just wear your slutty outfit and bring your lapdogs in here with you and expect me to roll over and do what you want. The men you take into your bed every night might do that, but not me."

"You fucking idiot. I'll have you rolling on the ground in pain," Franklin responded with equal amounts of anger. Franklin is a partner in my company. He is brilliant at identifying companies, such as Superior Ink, that are one to two years away from failing. By finding these companies, we can make an offer on them for way less than they were worth several years before the larger corporations get wind of them, then sell off the pieces for a high profit.

Alana raised her hand in front of Franklin, and he went silent. Good at finding these companies but poor at getting deals done with them. "Take a walk, Franklin. Let Mr. Week and I discuss something," she instructed him. Franklin stood up out of his chair, still not letting his eyes off the man, but relented and left for the exit. Name-calling, especially pointing out my gender and appearance, was all but standard in this business. Facing the prospect of giving up your company puts any man into an emotional state. However, handing the keys over to a young woman? That seemed to double their negative feelings. Alana was in her early thirties, and while she would not describe her outfit as 'slutty,' she didn't dress like she was attending a funeral either. Also, she was not a tiny woman, almost five foot nine inches. Well before she started her business, she committed to maintaining a life of health and fitness. Every day, she trained with her kickboxing coach. Alana wouldn't let her money be the only source of power in her life.

Alone with her now, Mr. Week looked to Alana with anticipation. Was his burst of anger and name-calling about to be returned ten-fold by her? "I started my company much in the same way your great-great-grandfather did yours. Using the small amount of capital I was able to save up in my teenage years, I started acquiring struggling local businesses and then sold off the parts of them for more than what the whole was worth. With that money, I could buy larger companies and make even more profit by selling off those pieces. Now, I'm buying companies worth eight figures." Alana got up and started pacing the room.

"And made you a billionaire," Mr. Week added. That was true. It was about two years ago that Alana's accountant informed her that she had surpassed the one billion dollar mark in terms of personal assets. She had long acquired everything she needed in her life. Being worth ten million or one billion didn't really impact her life. Thus, Alana never made this milestone a big deal.

"Your grandfather recognized the value of the ink ribbon early on and was able to grow Superior Ink to new levels. Your father pushed it even further when he got an early start in the inkjet business. But you haven't been able to replicate those feats, and as a result, Superior Ink is in decline," Alana continued to calmly state.

"And gloating about my failures will make me sign your deal?"

"I'm not trying to embarrass you, nor do I think you are a failure. If I were to have been given the reigns of Superior Ink at the same point you had been, I would have ended up in this exact same situation. Likely worse. But let's be honest. You aren't hesitating to accept our offer because of pride or money. It's something else, right?"

Mr. Week looked down at his feet as his biggest source of shame was being laid bare. "My father, as his father did before him, was able to gift me a thriving company to show the world what I could do. But now I won't be able to do that with my son," Mr. Week bemoaned. The anger and aggression he maintained throughout the meeting had melted away.

"What utter bullshit," Alana said, changing up her attitude as well. Mr. Week looked up at her, confused. "Your father didn't give you an opportunity. He gave you a prison. You had one path forward in your life, and that was to run an ink company that had no future. With this deal, you can free your son from a life of imprisonment. With the money you will make from selling to us, he can start up a business in any field he so desires. You are giving him what the last four generations could not give their sons. Complete freedom." Mr. Week stared at Alana as wave after wave of emotion ran through him. He then turned his attention back to the paper that had been placed before him at the start of the meeting.

Alan walked out of the meeting room and handed the papers to Franklin. "Be careful with those, the ink is still drying."

"Amazing as always, Alana. You've got to teach me how you get these suckers to sell against their best interest," Franklin said, rushing to keep up with her.

"First off, don't behave like an emotional teenager," Alana harshly replied. Franklin may add value to the company, but Alana did not care for him personally. His business ethics were always questionable at best. In the three years he had worked for her, Alana has heard numerous rumors of him screaming at employees and harassing females. However, every time she has looked into these, the witnesses went quiet. It didn't help that Franklin had started putting his own people into key positions like human resources. The board liked his work too much to simply fire him because Alana had bad feelings about him. She would need solid evidence, which she had yet to find. For now, though, he remained a useful liability in her eyes.

"My apologies for that, Alana. My passion for this company sometimes boils up like that," he said in a way that Alana knew was not genuine.

She sighed and let that matter drop. "The key thing to realize is we aren't taking advantage of these people. We're saving them. In two more years, the value of that company will be ten percent of what we have just paid for it. A larger firm will swoop in and leave them practically homeless. We identify them before that, and everyone wins." Alana had explained this philosophy numerous times before, but Franklin couldn't accept a situation where both sides would be considered winners.

As usual, he didn't acknowledge the lesson. "In celebration of our win today, how about you and I hit the town? I can introduce you to the world of fine brandy," he said, changing his tone to be more personable.

"Ms. Goodwin, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I must remind you of your appointment at the soup kitchen this evening," her assistant informed them while trailing behind. Alana couldn't help but smile. She has trained all her assistants to bring up an appointment whenever Franklin suggests a date. However, in this case, it wasn't a lie, as she actually did plan to work in the kitchen today.

"Thank you for reminding me. Apologies, Franklin, but I am going to have to decline. You are welcome to join me, however. We always have room for more in the kitchen." Franklin's friendly attitude was tossed aside as he realized he wouldn't get what he wanted from her tonight.

"I just remembered I have an important meeting tonight as well." With that, he turned around in the opposite direction.

Out front of the building, Alana entered the back seat of the car waiting for her. "Soup kitchen, ma'am," the driver asked. She nodded, and the driver pulled out onto the street to make the short drive there. Alana had committed herself to at least twice a month making time to do charity work. In particular, she wanted to work directly with those who needed help. When Alana's business started taking off, and she became a multi-millionaire, her father took her aside one day.

Her parents raised her in a modest household, and her father recognized that she was entering a lifestyle with which she had no experience with. "People will start to convince you how special you are and how much harder you have worked than those with less wealth than you. It's easy to tell yourself now that you
won't forget how people struggle to make ends meet. But after years of being around people who have never missed a rent check, you'll start to believe the bullshit they are constantly telling you. Promise me you'll make time to help people in need. And not by giving money, but by giving your time. See these people. Talk with them. Touch their lives and let them impact you similarly." Six months later, he passed from heart disease, and she has kept her word.

Arriving at the kitchen, she put on her apron and took her place at the counter right when the facility opened, and people started streaming in. Normally, she would have arrived an hour ahead of time to help prepare food, but her earlier meeting prevented that. "Good evening. We have fresh hot soup ready to pass out. There are some crackers, too, if you would like," Alana said, passing the bowl she had just filled.

"Mr. Folds, how is your leg? Was the clinic able to help?" she asked the elderly man next in line.

"It's doing better, Ms. Goodwin. Thank you for asking," he responded, taking a bowl. Talking with these people was vital for Alana. She wanted to understand them and empathize with them. Over the next thirty minutes, she continued handing out soup while talking with those she knew and getting to know those she didn't. Today, like most, the line for food was long.

"You need to hurry it up. You are taking too long handing out the soup," a harsh voice rang out as she just finished hearing about a woman's grandchildren.

"Excuse me," Alana said, looking for the person who had spoken to her so rudely. Off to the side, she found a tall, burly man who looked like he had just walked in from a long day of cutting down trees. He was far from the stereotypical homeless man that came around. He couldn't have been more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. However, the quarter-inch-length beard that covered his face made it difficult to tell for sure. He had long, curly brown hair that looked surprisingly well-kept but oily. He wore a beat-up flannel shirt with blue jeans that had been ripped and repaired so many times that it was amazing they still held together. However, what really set him apart from the other men in line, besides his age, was the look in his eyes. They shone with passion and life. So many men passing through the line looked defeated, as if they had nothing to look forward to but death itself.

"You are taking too long handing out soup. Spend less time talking and more dishing up the food," he instructed her. The brief moment Alana had been admiring this man's spirit had passed, and now everything about him only served to piss him off.

"Now, you listen to me. Get back in line and be patient. I'm not here just to pass out food like a robot. Maybe you don't care, but many of these folks haven't had anyone talk to them like a human all week. Their stomachs aren't the only thing that's hungry," Alana snapped back.

"I understand that, but...," the oddly handsome homeless man shot back, looking annoyed.

However, Alana wasn't going to let him harass her anymore. "If you are so anxious to get your soup, then arrive earlier next time. We're doing the best we can with the limited people we have on hand. Now get back, or I will have you removed, hungry or not," she said, pointing to the back of the line. The man looked desperate to argue more but held back. He grunted loudly and walked off.

Alana picked up the ladle and found her hands shaking. That damn man had really gotten her worked up. She has had unruly people in the kitchen before, but not like this. She tried to forget about him, but he kept coming back into her mind. She was soon passing out bowls with little conversation as she stewed on what had happened. She understood how people can get when they haven't eaten in days. But this guy was built like a tank. Surely, he had other ways to get food. Why can't a man like him find a job anyhow? Was he lazy? Maybe that's why he was having such an impact on her.

The kitchen's time came to an end, and they closed their doors just as the last person was fed. Alana apologized to the rest of the crew, stating she couldn't stay to help clean up but would be back soon to make up for that. She headed back to the car and, once inside, instructed the driver to head to her next meeting. "The meeting with the finance team, ma'am? I just got a call from Franklin informing me the meeting has been moved to another night. He suggested you both meet up at the new bar downtown for drinks instead," the driver said, looking back at her through the rearview mirror. Crap, thought Alana. She wondered if there ever was a meeting or if Franklin had made it up just to ensure she had no excuse not to get this drink.

"Fine. It's only a few blocks away. Let's go."

The bar reeked of arrogance and forty-five dollar martinis. The ideal place for someone like Franklin. He waved her over to the corner booth he probably bullied and bribed his way into. "Thank you for joining me, Alana, I figured you could use a drink after being around those beggars for the past hour. There's a Calvados brandy they just got imported that you must try."

He snapped his finger and got the attention of a passing waitress. "Bring out two fingers of the Calvados for my friend here," he commanded.

"Apologies," Alana said to the frightened waitress. "I'll order for myself and wait for our actual waiter to arrive." Looking relieved, the waitress went on her way. "Fingers are a measure of whiskey, not brandy. Just so you know, Franklin."

As he usually does when corrected, he didn't address what was said and moved the conversation on. "Alana, I know you've had concerns about the change in strategy I've been pushing, but let me explain it better." Alana has heard Franklin give this pitch numerous times and had firmly rejected it an equal number of times. Still, it was best to let Franklin ramble on first before shutting him down again.

"We've been passive in the acquisition market. Waiting for companies to start to head towards a path of failure, which we grab them up from. But what if we take the initiative? So many businesses are living on the edge. The difference between a successful business and failure could be a rumor. Maybe someone creates some buzz about a competitor introducing a new product that will eat away at their share. What if a bank makes a lowball offer on the business that spooks investors away. There are so many possibilities that we ourselves could undertake. Artificially decrease the perceived value of a company, and then we swoop in and buy it up. We could increase profits ten times in only a few years."

"We could also ruin people's lives unnecessarily. I didn't start this company to destroy the hard work of men's and women's livelihoods. I want to catch companies before they completely fail," she replied, as she always does to this pitch.

"You're making a mistake, Alana. The board is real excited by this, and I worry your reluctance will force their hand," he said, looking smug.

Franklin was too good at weaseling his way into making people think he was a good guy. We wouldn't change any minds tonight, so she changed the subject. "I've heard you recommend a lumber mill out east for our next acquisition. Tell me about that."

"It's a small deal, but the company is starting to struggle and could be an easy win for us. I've got it handled and will bring it to the board for approval in a few weeks. No need for your involvement." Everything this man touches, Alanah feels a need to look over but would leave this matter to him.

"What's with you today, Alana? You seem agitated. Did that guy from Superior Ink bother you that much," Franklin asked, showing unusual concern for her. While she typically never open up to him, her cocktail was feeling warm inside her, so she figured she would share a bit.

"There was this homeless guy at the soup kitchen. But not like you typically think of them. He was young and healthy. Anyway, he really got on me about giving out food faster, it really hit a nerve with me."

"Guy was probably an alcoholic who just wanted his free handout. Not worth a second thought," Franklin said dismissively. Alana nodded in agreement but knew there was much more to this man than was apparent.

Alana excused herself after finishing the single drink, much to Franklin's complaint, but he should feel lucky she showed up at all, she thought. "Fine. I need to make a call anyway," he said, opening up his phone as she walked away. Outside the bar, Alana found the sidewalk crowded and the street jammed with cars.

Knowing she wasn't going to get picked up here anytime soon, she called her driver. "Meet me two streets over. There's an alley I can get through to reach there," she instructed. She navigated across the street and entered the alley, which was a welcome break from the crowds and noise of the road.

Only about twenty feet from the end of the alley, a large garbage truck pulled in, carrying a dumpster. "Hey! Watch out! I'm in the alley!" Alana yelled out. The dumpster was raised up, so she couldn't see the driver. The truck made no indication they could hear her and continued to advance up the alley towards her.

This was bad. The alley was barely wide enough for the truck to fit. She had no ability to get out of the way of its advance. Seeing no alternative, Alana turned and ran towards the opposite entrance of the alley where she had entered. But it was hundreds of feet away while the truck was tens of feet away and gaining speed.

Alana ditched her heels and sprinted on her bare feet along the dirty pavement, but the truck continued to gain. The alley was lined with doors connecting to the businesses it shared a wall with. Seeing no alternative, she picked a door and prayed it would be unlocked. To her horror, though, the handle wouldn't
turn. It was locked, and she was dead. She turned to face her fate in the form of the bright headlights approaching her.