Mr. Slate: A Mr. Billionaire Short Story

by Tessa Blake

She blinks at me, then looks at the Senator. “If that’s okay?”

  “Of course.” He pats her knee — in a fatherly way, which is good because it means I don’t have to break his fingers.

  Whoa, where did that come from?

  I move to the door, open it, and wave Sunny through. As she passes close by me, I can smell the subtle scent of her perfume. It’s the same as last night, and instantly I’m hard again.

  Jesus Christ. I shake my head, and follow her out the door.

  Sunny

  Oh, man. This is crazy. Awkward. Embarrassing.

  This is … a whole lot of things that I did not expect to find their way between Slate and me.

  I have a piece of paper in my pocket with his number on it; I copied it down carefully when I got home last night, so I could call him when I was done with this meeting.

  Guess I won’t have to call after all.

  I realize, after a few steps down the hallway, that I don’t know where I’m going. I slow, and he moves past me on my left, his cologne teasing at my nose. God, he smells good.

  He reaches out and takes my hand, and confusion washes over me.

  “This is crazy,” he says.

  Since I just thought the exact same thing, I nod. Blowing out a long breath, I let him lead me through a door and into a small break room. Long counters hold coffee makers and baskets of packaged snacks and fruit. There’s a large refrigerator and several round wooden tables surrounded by chairs. Everything looks … expensive, somehow. It’s nicer than the break room at Senator Robbins’ office, anyway.

  Slate lets go of my hand and takes a sturdy-looking wooden tray from a stack at the end of the counter. He reaches up to the open shelves in front of him, pulling down coffee mugs, and asks, without looking at me, “So… did you know who I was last night?”

  I bristle. “You already know I didn’t.”

  “Still, it’s quite a coincidence.”

  “I could just as easily ask if you knew who I was,” I snap.

  “Well, obviously I didn’t,” he says. “I thought you were …” He seems to be searching for words. “Some kind of hippie chick.”

  “I am some kind of hippie chick,” I say. “Or I was, anyway. And it wasn’t all granny skirts and sit-ins, you know.”

  “God, I hope not,” he mutters.

  That gets my hackles up. “Excuse me?”

  “I just—”

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve worn plenty of granny skirts in my time, to plenty of sit-ins.” I open a cupboard at random, hoping for sugar. Bingo. I pull down a small porcelain sugar bowl. “That doesn’t mean I can’t put on a suit and try to change the world in another way, too.”

  “That’s very practical.” Slate rummages in the refrigerator and comes out with a small pitcher of cream, the mate to my sugar bowl.

  I take it from him and put it down on the tray with a sharp clack. “I believe in making a difference,” I tell him. I know I sound defensive, but he’s making me feel ridiculous. “I spent five years building intentional communities in The Haight.”

  He doesn’t respond, and when I look at him, he’s produced a silver coffee pot from another cupboard. As he carefully pours coffee from a clear brewing pot into the silver one, I see that those full lips — the ones that were so overwhelming on mine last night — are pressed together, clearly suppressing a laugh.

  Stop thinking about his lips, I think. Just stop it. “How is that funny?”

  He clears his throat and sets both pots aside, turning to face me. “Who said it was funny?”

  ”A least I’m not planning to vote for Ronald Reagan.” I scowl at him, but when he reaches out and runs a finger over my bottom lip, I feel myself starting to melt again.

  “Don’t pout,” he says.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.” He moves in close, dips his head to brush his lips over mine. “And it’s cute, but I want to make you smile. Among other things.”

  That makes me smile in spite of myself. “Mission accomplished,” I say.

  “Only half the mission,” he says. He lowers his face to mine again, but this time his lips skim along my jawline and down the side of my neck.

  I catch my breath. “We can’t do this right now.”

  “Okay,” he says, pulling back. “When?”

  “What?”

  “When,” he says again. “When can we do this”—he drops another kiss on my lips, this one deeper and longer than the last—“because I hope it’s really soon.”

  I can’t catch my breath. My head is reeling. Everything is happening so fast, and if I’m being brutally honest, I’m dismayed to find out who he is. To find him on the opposite side of an issue that matters to me so much.

  But the dismay is all mixed up with desire, and I want him to kiss me again. To touch me again. To fill me up like no one else has.

  “I … I don’t know?” I say. “I don’t have any particular plans the next few nights.”

  But I have plans tomorrow, I think, and I feel a little trickle of panic.

  “How about tonight?” I say quickly.

  He makes an approving noise. “I love that you just ask for what you want,” he murmurs, framing my face with his hands. He leans in for one more kiss — one that feels like it’s set me on fire all the way down to my toes — then steps back. There’s a small pad of paper on a nearby table, and he picks it up and passes it to me, along with a pen from the counter. “Write down your address, and I’ll pick you up. Six o’clock?”

  I swallow. “Okay.”

  I write down the address and he takes the pen and pad from me, tearing off the top sheet of paper. He tucks it in his pocket and picks up the tray. “Can you grab that pot of coffee?” he asks.

  And then he walks out. I grab the coffee pot, as directed, and scramble out the door to follow him.

  Slate

  The address Sunny gave me is a run-down building in Hell’s Kitchen. The building next door is boarded up, and hers doesn’t look like it’s far from being boarded up, too.

  Garrett Enterprises owns some buildings like this; they’re a hobby of mine. I try to figure out which neighborhoods have the best chance of recovering from the bankruptcy crisis, then we buy a few buildings, fix them up, and rent them out for a decent price. Regular people, blue- and white-collar people, move in; the junkies and squatters and hookers start to move out.

  As a matter of fact, I think we might own a building or two a couple of streets over from here. I’m betting — quite literally betting, with Garrett Enterprises money — that they won’t be calling this neighborhood “Hell’s Kitchen” for too much longer.

  But for now, as I step out of the car and look at the two women on the stroll across the street and the guy passed out in the doorway two doors down, I think it’s still a pretty apt name.

  The front steps are concrete, and tall enough that I know there are probably some decent basement apartments in this building. They’re in rough shape, though — as is the front door, which stands partially open. I slip inside and look around. Pretty standard for a building in decline. You can see the lost grandeur, the good bones, but the years and lack of care have dinged everything up pretty bad. There are still some interesting period details — the banister on the tall, curving staircase, for one — but few of them would survive a renovation.

  It’s a shame. Real estate is my favorite part of our varied businesses — and I think that, ultimately, it will prove to be the most lucrative. My father disagrees, points out how many decrepit neighborhoods there are, but I’m sure he’s wrong. I’ve nudged him into a few purchases he was unsure of, and they’ve turned around pretty well. Well enough that he leaves me alone when I decide we have to have another building in an area where he swears everyone’s knifing each other in the streets.

  Hey, at least it’s not trash. That’s not going to be something we can do for much longer. In twenty years, the most valuable business in this city will be real estate. I plan to make sure Ga
rrett Enterprises has positioned itself to take advantage of that.

  I climb the stairs and find 2B — so designated with a sheet of lined notebook paper tacked to the door. I knock, and Sunny’s voice calls, “Come in!”

  Inside, the apartment is bright and cheerful. Sunset is still a couple of hours off, and the westering sun floods the big main room with light. Colorful fabrics are draped on the walls, but the windows — tall windows that almost reach the 10-foot ceilings — are unobstructed save for glass and metal mobiles that catch the light and fling shards of it everywhere.

  There’s a tiny kitchen nestled in the corner of the room, and a rickety dining table flanked by mismatched chairs stands between the kitchen area and the cushions and beanbag chairs that comprise what I guess is the living room section of the space. There are three doors in the wall to my right; the middle one is open enough for me to see the curve of a clawfoot tub.

  Sunny is standing in front of one of the windows, backlit by the sun, wearing a simple halter top and wrap skirt. Through whatever happy accident, her parents gave her the perfect name; she practically glows. The chic hairstyle from earlier has been combed out and fluffed around her face again; she’s haloed in sunlight — seems, somehow, to amplify it.

  She’s breathtakingly beautiful. Blinding. Like the sun.

  “Who’s the suit?” A black guy lounging on one of the beanbag chairs sizes me up with careful and suspicious eyes.

  “This is Slate,” Sunny says, crossing the room toward me.

  I think to myself that I will never forget seeing her come to me across this pretty, sun-drenched room. I’m not a fanciful man, but the sight of her undoes me, just absolutely floors me. I’m speechless.

  And then she’s in front of me and rests her hands lightly on my shoulders, rubbing her lips gently on mine. The sweet floral scent of her surrounds me, and I look at her and I realize I’m completely fucked right now. Because I barely know anything about this woman, and I’m crazy about her.

  I take a deep breath. “You look beautiful,” I tell her.

  No one has ever looked more beautiful. But I don’t say that part out loud.

  She flushes prettily, and turns back to the guy who spoke earlier. “Slate, this is Isaac. You saw me dancing with him last night.”

  The roommate. She was clear that he wasn’t her boyfriend, and he doesn’t seem jealous — just protective, maybe.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  He nods at me, a short, sharp jerk of his head, and turns his gaze back to Sunny. “When will you be home?”

  “Why?” she asks. “Won’t you be at the Youth Movement meeting?”

  “Not all night,” he says. “Should I wait up?”

  “I … don’t know.” I can’t see Sunny’s face, but something wordless passes between them.

  I look at him over her shoulder. “I’ll bring her home whenever she wants me to,” I say, holding his gaze. “Doesn’t matter what time. I’ll see that she gets home safely.”

  Isaac’s expression softens a little. “Maybe just call if your plans change,” he says to her. “I won’t worry as long as I know where you are.”

  She moves lightly across the room and gives him a quick hug.

  The door to the left of the bathroom opens, and a slender man with longish blond hair steps into the room. “Hey,” he says. “Who’s the suit?”

  Sunny looks back at me and giggles; I lift an eyebrow at her. That’ll teach me to wear a suit to Hell’s Kitchen.

  “Slate, this is Marcus. Marcus, Slate. We’re going out.”

  “When will you be home?” he asks.

  Isaac barks out a laugh. “We’ve been over this already. Come here and I’ll catch you up.”

  Marcus walks over and drops onto the beanbag with Isaac. There’s not exactly a lot of room there, but from the relaxed way they sort of tangle their limbs together, I gather they don’t need much room.

  Interesting.

  Well, at least now I know for absolutely sure that neither of them is Sunny’s boyfriend, in any capacity.

  Sunny gives Marcus a quick hug, too, then comes back to stand in front of me. “So where are we going?”

  I do a quick mental change of plans, and say, “It’s up to you.” I made us a reservation at La Grenouille, but she’s not dressed for it, and I’m not going to tell her that. She might feel bad, which would be terrible, or she might insist on changing — and I somehow like this Sunny better than sleek, dressed-and-made-up Sunny.

  “Up to me?”

  “Surely you have an opinion?”

  “I guess I just thought —” She stops herself, reaches out a hand to smooth down my tie. “You’re all dressed up.”

  “That’s optional,” I say, “and you don’t need to concern yourself with it. Where do you want to go?”

  She looks at me for a long moment, her head tilted, like she’s trying to figure me out. Then she smiles and shrugs a little. “Let’s decide on the way,” she says.

  And that’s good enough for me.

  Sunny

  The first surprise comes on the front step: he brought a limousine.

  It’s long, sleek, and shiny black. I pull up short and just stare at it for a moment. Then I turn to face Slate.

  “You came here in that?”

  He just shrugs a little. “I actually go everywhere in that.”

  “I have a feeling you don’t come to this neighborhood much.” I look up and down the street. The limo just sits there like something from an entirely different world. Which I guess it is, actually.

  “Well, I’m here now.” He reaches out to cup the back of my head and pulls me in for a long, slow kiss.

  “Okay, if you’re taking me to dinner in a limo,” I say when he’s done, “I’m gonna need to go change. Where are we going?”

  “Wherever you want to go,” he says. “Or nowhere. If you want, I’ll send him home. Where do you want to eat?”

  I look at him — he’s not in a tux or anything, but he’s definitely a step or two up from the suit he was wearing in his office — and laugh. I can’t help it.

  He quirks an eyebrow at me.

  “No restaurant that I’m familiar with,” I say, “is going to be somewhere you want to go in that suit.”

  Without a word, he strips off his jacket, unties his tie. He hands them to me, then removes his cufflinks and stows them in his pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting rid of the suit.” He starts to roll his sleeves up, and something about that — the way the muscles of his forearms are revealed, that shift from buttoned-up to casual — is just unspeakably sexy. He pushes each rolled-up sleeve to his elbow, takes back his jacket and tie, and starts down the stairs. “Come on.”

  I scramble down the stairs after him. “Where are we going?”

  “Well, I’m going to put these in the limo and send it home. After that, as I keep telling you, it’s up to you.”

  I watch as he does just that, sending the limo on its way and coming back to the foot of the stairs.

  “Are you serious?” I say.

  “Deadly serious,” he replies, taking my hand in his. “Where would you go if I wasn’t here?”

  “Probably back upstairs to cook for the boys,” I say. “They’re hopeless in the kitchen, and I imagine I’ll come home to a bunch of Chinese takeout boxes.”

  “I might have thought at least one of them would be good in the kitchen,” he says absently, looking past me. “Is that pizza on the corner? Pizza would be good.”

  “Why would one of them be good in the kitchen?” I ask, ready to defend Isaac and Marcus. “It’s not like they teach it at gay school.”

  His eyes shift back to me. “What?”

  “I mean, if you’re saying that one of them has to be the woman or something — and anyway, who says only women can do the cooking — I just think —”

  But he’s shaking his head at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “What are yo
u talking about?” I ask, confused.

  “I just figured if they’re a couple, one of them ought to know how to cook, or they’ll starve.” He peers at me, brows drawn together. “Are you mad about something?”

  Oh. “Uh… no. I’m good.” I smile at him. “And yes, that’s pizza. It’s pretty good, too.”

  “Then let’s do that,” he says, and brushes his lips across mine quickly. “I’m starving.”

  And that’s how I end up sitting at a rickety chrome-and-formica corner table in Hell’s Kitchen, eating pepperoni pizza with one of the richest men in New York. Slate paid with a twenty and told them to keep the change, as casually as if it had been fifty cents, and here we sit, him with the sleeves rolled up on a shirt that probably cost as much as my rent, and me in an off-the-rack wrap skirt I bought on clearance. It’s dizzying.

  We chat about everything and nothing, and manage to finish an entire large pizza while we get to know each other. We talking about my childhood in Vermont, his years at boarding school. The work I did in San Francisco. It’s the kind of easy conversation you always wish you could have with a date, yet never do.

  So sure, we did this kind of backward, what with the interlude on the rooftop coming first, but it turns out he’s kind of amazing — funny and warm and self-deprecating in a way I guess I didn’t think a millionaire would be.

  And I know, as I knew last night, that he’s going to be trouble.

  “You weren’t kidding,” he says, dropping his paper plate onto the battered metal pizza pan in the center of our table. “That was really good.”

  “I never kid about pizza,” I tell him, and polish off the last bite of mine. “I didn’t realize I was starving. Thanks for this.”

  “For a seven-dollar pizza?” He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “You’re welcome, I guess, but it’s not exactly the impressive wine-and-dine I had planned.”

  “So you did have something planned!” I throw my napkin at him. “I told you I could have changed.”

  “What if I don’t want you to change?” he says. His voice is light, but there’s a challenge in his eyes. He stands and pulls me to my feet. “What if I like you just how you are?”