by Melinda Minx
“Uh…” she says. “Maybe on the next date?”
My heart pounds, and a hunger starts to fill me up. “What are you waiting for?”
“I just… I don’t know, but next time, I want to see your place. Okay?” she says hesitantly.
Her hand is still in mine, and I lean across the table. I try as best I can to peer through her thick glasses, but I see her lips part, and I know it’s time to strike.
The table is thankfully very small, and it barely keeps me away from her. Our lips get closer and closer, and her eyes close just before I close mine.
The last few inches between us close together in darkness, and then an explosive feeling hits me as our lips crash together.
The wet warmth of her lips presses against mine, I slide my tongue between her lips as I run my hand up her arm.
Her scent fills me up as I drink her in, and I feel her hands grab at my biceps as her tongue presses against mine.
Before I know it, we’re both standing up, the table abandoned. I press her up against the wall, and my hands grip her waist as we lose ourselves in the kiss.
My cock is rock-hard again, and when she grabs my ass, I can think of nothing more than her hand wrapped around my girth. Then I think of her on her knees, her lips spread wide as she takes me in. I let out a growl at the thought and bite her lip.
I have a hand on her throat, and I can feel her moan vibrate against my hand as I devour her with my mouth.
We lose ourselves in each other, and only after what feels like several minutes does a creeping silence break us from the spell.
I look into her eyes, and then I realize that it’s eerily quiet in the bar. We both look away from each other to see dozens of phones pointed at us, and the stunned silence turns to laughter, and then to applause.
A few women pat Ruth on the shoulder. “You go girl!”
Ruth looks at me and laughs nervously. “Let’s go.”
I grab our jackets and whisk her out of the bar.
She laughs loud and genuine when we step out into the cold. “That was crazy!”
“It was good,” I say, running a hand up her throat and across her cheek.
“It was…” she says.
“You realize those photos—“
“I know. I knew it would happen sooner or later, so it’s best to get it over with, right?” she says this with a bravado that I’m not sure she really has.
“I can think of another thing that will happen sooner or later,” I say, eyeing her body up and down as my cock throbs behind my zipper. “That would be best to—”
She puts a finger up to my lips cutting me off. “Eric,” she chides. “I have work tomorrow. Early.”
I look at her in disbelief. How can she resist this urge?
“You don’t get it. Do you?”
I feel a sudden surge of frustration. “I guess I don’t. We both want—”
“Right,” she interrupts. “We do. And how good does this feel?” She waves her hand between our bodies.
I stop and think about it. My heart is racing, and there’s a fire burning inside me unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time.
“Pretty good,” I say, downplaying my feelings.
She nods. “I’m not going to say we should wait for marriage—“
“Don’t even joke about waiting that long,” I hiss.
“I’m just saying that this feeling... it’s something you should enjoy. I want to text you when I get home and tell you how much I can’t wait to see you again. I want to think about you all day tomorrow—I…don’t want you to bite my ear off.”
I laugh, hard. “Damn, using my own words against me now? Tomorrow then,” I say. “That’s as long as I can wait. I need to see you again tomorrow.”
“Pick me up after work then,” she says, her smile spreading nearly from ear to ear.
As expected, the photos leak instantly. When I get to the office in the morning, my secretary Lana is eyeing me with a mix of jealousy and confusion.
Yeah, I fucked her once. It probably wasn’t the best decision, but it’s not like I could fire her afterward. At least I didn’t repeat the mistake with her.
She’s probably jealous because we had a quick fuck in my office, and in the photos with Ruth, you can see just how hungry she makes me. We are clearly on a date and by the looks on our faces, it’s abundantly clear how very into each other we are… it’s not a question of if we will fuck, but when.
Lana can pick up on all that, I’m sure.
“Morning, Lana,” I grunt as I walk past her.
“Good morning,” she says in a neutral voice.
I shut the door to my office and turn on my computer. I know I should get straight to work—I’m nearly buried in it—but I decide to check the gossip sites to see what people are saying. Last night, there were just a few leaked photos without any commentary. Now, the hive mind should have had time to reach some kind of consensus.
The headlines I see are... troubling.
Eric Prince’s New Charity: Dating down? Way down!
Billionaire and the Beast!
A Billionaire’s Fidget Spinner: Nerdy girls from Brooklyn.
“Shit,” I curse to myself.
How is Ruth going to take this?
I checked all the worst tabloids first, in part to soften the blow for the more mainstream ones.
Checking the less clickbait-type sites, the consensus is at least somewhat more favorable. Most of the sites seem sympathetic toward me. They think I might be “turning a new leaf” or “softening” or, as one of the more blunt sites put it, “Growing a heart.”
Still, even the most positive sounding of the articles has used Ruth as some kind of stepping stone to make me sound good.
I check the super left-wing feminist sites to see if maybe they are casting her in a good light.
The first site I check has an article written as if it were directly talking to Ruth. It tells her to dump my ass, and that she’s selling out as a “real” woman by even considering dating me.
I lean back and sigh.
If I were just worried about New York’s Best Couple and the bet, I could definitely salvage this. If that were my only concern, I’d probably be thrilled by this development. I’d just need to get Ruth to clean up a bit, then keep being seen with her, and we’d have it all in the bag.
But Ruth isn’t just a fucking “Billionaire’s Fidget Spinner,” she’s a real person and she’s not going to be happy about all this.
It will be up to me to convince her that all of these viewpoints shown in the media are wrong, and that how we feel about each other is what really matters.
But then there’s the bet. I can’t lose, or I lose her. I know Dmitri. If I failed to honor my end of the bet, he would commit all of his resources to ruining me. And Ruth.
12
Ruth
I told Eric I just wanted to get the media shitstorm over with, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.
I get to work early. Deciding that arriving first would make it a lot easier. I’d rather see each person’s stupid little look as they walk in rather than walk into a room full of stupid little looks.
It won’t be that bad, I figure, since most people at the shop have seen me with Eric already. None of them realized who he was, as bike hipsters don’t exactly follow billionaire gossip news.
Hell, maybe I’ll be safe for that reason. Maybe none of the people I work with will even see the photos.
As I’m getting the register ready, Wilson walks in with his bike in tow.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, avoiding looking at me.
“Wilson,” I say, leaning in closer toward him, and stopping him from walking past me.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“Did you see?” I ask.
He nods slowly.
“If you have something to say about it, just say it.”
“Uhhhh,” he says, stroking his beard with his free hand, and clutch
ing his bike saddle in the other. “I dunno.”
“So you read gossip websites?” I ask.
“I saw it on Reddit,” he says.
“Of course you did.”
“It’s cool though,” he says. “I didn’t realize that guy was... that guy.”
“I didn’t either,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, “Well—”
“Do you think everyone else is going to see it?” I interrupt.
Wilson purses his lips together and says nothing. Then he slowly nods, looking uncomfortable.
“Dammit,” I groan.
He slides past me as soon as I let my guard down, and he disappears into the backroom.
Maya is the next one in, and I don’t even have time to ask her. She just shouts across the shop. “You gold-digging slut!”
If she didn’t have a giant grin on her face, I’d think she was actually insulting me.
I look down at the floor, hoping she’ll leave me alone.
Instead, she walks up and hugs me. She’s never been friendly with me at all, but now she’s hugging me so tight that I can hardly breathe.
“You slay them,” Maya says. “Take it all down!”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to push her off me.
“The patriarchy,” she says. “I wish I had realized who that guy was when he was in here... but you can do it too.”
“Do what?”
“Eric Prince’s billions are basically stolen from the poor and suffering—mostly women, the real underclass—and now you can get it back.”
“I’m not in it for his money, Maya,” I say.
“Oh,” Maya says. “I know you’re not like that Ruth. But just think about how much of what he’s taken you can claw back in the name of women everywhere.”
I decide to just humor her. It’ll be a lot easier than explaining to her a simple concept such as: “I like him as a human being.”
“Will do, Maya. I’ll play the long game on him. I’m just on step two or three, but there are hundreds—thousands—of steps to go,” I say hoping she doesn’t hear my sarcasm.
Maya grasps my shoulders and smiles. “I’ll help you along the way.”
“Thanks,” I say, faking a big smile. “I so appreciate that.”
It all turns out to not be as bad as I think, until I go on my lunch break and decide to check the articles on my phone. I purposefully ignored them this morning, being too nervous, but now I’m curious.
“They... they called me a fidget spinner.” I whisper to my burrito.
I look over everything, and I start to wonder if Maya isn’t fucking right. Everyone is acting like Eric is some great and noble man for dating me. Not a single article throws out there that maybe, just maybe, he likes me. There’s always some implied power dynamic, and the only one who comes out ever looking good is Eric.
Even the ones that try to trash him act like he’s just clueless. Look at the big dumb billionaire that doesn’t realize how undesirable and awful the girl he’s with is, what a fool!
The prevailing question across all of the articles is: Why is this gorgeous billionaire dating this poor, boring nerd?
They all try to answer that question, and they all ignore what I thought was the obvious answer: Maybe we just like each other?
Not that I’ve ever put huge stock in tabloids and gossip rags, but if literally everyone but me is seeing something else here, then just maybe I’m the foolish idiot. I can’t help but notice how—overall—Eric comes out looking good from this. They say the simplest explanation is usually the right one, and just maybe “Cocky selfish billionaire wants to make himself look good by dating down” is the more realistic explanation than “Gorgeous billionaire that could have any woman in the world has chosen Ruth Biederman.”
I try to put it all out of my mind, but it’s a slow day at work, and the hours drag by.
By the time I finally get off work, I want to just go home and sleep more than anything. Stressing and worrying all day has worn me out. Since I haven’t heard from Eric, I figure after the media frenzy he won’t be picking me up at work after all.
I get home and collapse onto the bed with all my clothes on, with a sigh I grab my phone. I open a text message to Eric and start typing up an excuse to cancel. I’ll tell him that I’m too tired. It’s actually true…
I won’t mention that I’m angry, and that taking tonight off might make me less likely to bite his head off.
But then my phone vibrates, and I see that it’s a text from Eric.
Go to this address.
Is all the text message says, and there’s a map link.
I sigh and click the map. Didn’t he say he would pick me up? Can’t a billionaire at least send a car, or even an Uber?
The map location is a building just two blocks away. Maybe he’s got the car waiting there?
Give me thirty minutes. I respond.
I splash water on my face to try to force my brain to adjust from relaxing on my bed and feeling sorry for myself to biting the bullet and seeing Eric tonight.
I don’t have the nerve to ask Tracy if I can borrow another outfit. If Eric is in this for all the “dating down” points, I might as well dress like I usually do.
The one concession I do make is changing into a clean pair of jeans and a sweater I found at a thrift store three winters ago. It’s at least two sizes too big, but it’s soft and warm.
I consider doing my makeup, but decide also not to bother. Maybe I’m just being spiteful now, but if Eric really likes me, he shouldn’t care either way, right?
Since the address is so close, I end up walking. It’s a six or seven story building, one of the taller buildings in my neighborhood.
There’s a guy in a suit standing outside, but it’s not Eric.
“Ms. Biederman?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I say. “Are you the driver?”
“No, this way,” he says indicating I should follow him.
He opens the door, and I follow him inside.
The hallway is warmly lit, and we go down a hallway with freshly-waxed hardwood floors. He takes me to an elevator, and he hits the button for the roof.
“Is Eric up there?” I ask.
The man just shakes his head.
When the elevator doors open, we’re on the rooftop, and there’s a helicopter in front of me.
“I’m not your driver,” he says. “I’m your pilot.”
My mouth drops open as I look up at the thing.
“You’re not afraid to fly?” he asks. “Eric didn’t mention—”
“I’m not,” I quickly say. “It just seems… extravagant.”
He shrugs and slides open the door for me.
The interior of the passenger section is lined with leather seats and couches. I slide onto one of the couches, and the pilot turns back to me.
“I’m going to shut the window, it’s sealed to be nearly soundproof. If you need to talk to me, use the radio,” he points to it.
I nod.
“And enjoy the view,” he says just before sliding the window shut.
I feel vibrations as the blades start to turn, though I can barely hear anything through the soundproofing.
There’s a TV screen in front of me, so I suppose I could watch TV or a movie if I wanted. It seems a bit silly when there’s a nice view to be had, but I guess that’s what luxury means: to have things you don’t really need at all.
I forgot to ask the pilot even where we are going. For all I know he could be taking me to another city. Hell, he could be taking me to Canada. Can helicopters even go that far?
I press the button on the intercom. “Hey, where are we going?”
“Eric’s penthouse,” the pilot responds.
Oh, of course. Assuming he lives in a prime location in Manhattan, I probably could have biked there or taken the train there in under forty-five minutes. The helicopter will probably get us there in five or ten minutes. So it will save thirty-five minutes, and it p
robably costs something like five thousand dollars per hour just to operate. It seems so ridiculous.
Suddenly I see movement, and I realize we’ve already lifted off the rooftop. I stick my face closer to the window, and I watch in amazement as my whole neighborhood comes into view.
As soon as we’re a few hundred feet off the ground, I can basically see all of Brooklyn and Manhattan. It’s a rare view, because even flying into New York, you’re usually on the wrong side of the plane, or the wing is blocking the window, or you’re flying into Newark, or a million other reasons you can’t see a thing.
Now though, I’m in a helicopter that is travelling straight over the city. The bridges look like cords of light connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan. The helicopter starts to move toward Manhattan, and the grid-shaped roads dotted with thousands of pairs of headlights come more and more clearly into view.
The helicopter isn’t even really moving that fast, but it’s able to completely circumvent all bridges, traffic, indirect roads—everything. I see Central Park, which looks like a big rectangle of missing lights. Just as fast as it came it disappears from view when the helicopter turns. The fact that I can’t see it means we’re probably heading straight for it.
Just as I’m getting settled in, the buildings are suddenly directly below me, and then I see the park again, right next to us. There’s a small lurch as the helicopter stops its forward motion and begins to descend.
I’m not used to any of this, but I still clearly remember taking off from only six or seven stories up. As I watch our descent, I expect it to take another minute or so to touch down, but then we just stop seemingly in mid-air.
We must have touched down on a rooftop, but we’re way above the park still, and way above even most of the buildings I can see.
I notice the vibrations begin to die down, and when they’ve completely stopped, the door swings open, and the pilot smiles.
“We’re here,” he says.
“Where’s here?” I ask.
“My penthouse.”
Eric answers in his deep voice. I crane my neck out of the helicopter and see him standing there, his tall figure dressed in a suit, and his tie blowing in the last wind of the slowing helicopter blades.