“There’s nothing to talk about.”
I try to keep my voice calm. “Are you angry with me? Why? Because I was with Rosenberg?”
“You haven’t been honest with me.”
“And you have? You didn’t tell me you belonged to that 99 group.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
I sigh. “No, not to me.”
Frankly, I couldn’t care less if she’s a left-wing activist. But I do care if this is going to drive a wedge between us. I brace myself for the worst.
Elle remains silent for a few seconds, and when she speaks again, her voice is strained. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? You should have told me from the start.”
“What would you’ve done? Lecture me on the evils of capitalism? Get your friends to bash me up?”
“I definitely wouldn’t have gone out with you. Then this wouldn’t be so complicated.”
“I don’t see why it has to be complicated. I like you. I like you a lot. And judging from the night we went out together, you like me, too.”
Thinking back to our passionate kiss, I drop my voice. “Come on, you’re my beautiful. What does it matter what I do?”
“It—it matters to me. What you represent I’ve spent my life fighting. I hate the rich; they care only about themselves and their fancy lifestyles. I think it’s not right for an individual person to have so much money, especially when people who live a few miles away from them don’t even have enough to eat.”
“So you hate me now? Just because I happen to have money?”
“You make it sound like I’m the one who’s unreasonable. But come on, why waste your time with me? With your looks and your money, you can have any woman you want. I’m not even your type.”
“You don’t know what my type is. Hell, I don’t even know that myself. The only thing I know for sure is that I only want you. Because you’re worth it.”
Elle’s voice drops to a whisper. “Ryder…I do like you, but you and me—it just wouldn’t work.”
I feel my heart crumble. I realize she won’t budge on the issue, and in my desperation, I play the only card I have left.
“Hey, we still have a race, remember?”
“I don’t know if I can go through with that now. Actually, I don’t think I can.”
“Why? What does it have to do with this?”
“It has everything to do with this. It’s just wrong. I—I can’t do it.”
A series of sharp buzzing tones follows: Elle has put down the phone.
I drop my head in my hands. What am I going to do? Should I try to change her mind? Is it worth chasing her or should I just give up?
I don’t understand why I am so obsessed with her. This has never happened to me before. All the women I’ve screwed over the years have been more than willing to throw themselves at me, my money being their major draw. I’ve long stopped caring about their intentions; I just used them to fulfill my needs. It is ironic that when I meet the first woman I’m truly interested in, money is the very thing that keeps her away from me. And there’s nothing I can say or do to change her mind. Maybe Elle is right after all. We’re just not suited to each other with that seemingly unbridgeable divide between us.
I feel like shit. The air in my office seems suffocating; I have to get out of here. I press a button on my desktop speakerphone.
“Alex, hey. Anything planned for tonight?”
“What you thinking, boss? Bar? Club? Ride?”
“Whatever. Your pick.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Okay, I’ll call you when I’m done.”
When I switch off the phone, I let out a deep breath. Thinking about her is driving me crazy. I feel powerless and I don’t like it; it reminds me too much of my early childhood. I’ve had more than my fair share of utter helplessness and desperation—not knowing where to spend the night, not knowing where the next meal comes from. I promised myself that I’d do anything never to experience those feelings again. And I’ve succeeded, by amassing as much money as I could. My wealth has allowed me to break free from despair, and most importantly, to make me feel safe. I’ll be damned if anyone brings back those feelings again. I don’t need that in my life right now—not ever again.
No, I don’t want to remember. Tonight, I just want to forget.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elle
Clang!
Another big pile of dirty dishes lands on the counter next to me. If it goes on like this, I’ll be doing the washing up for another hour. I can’t believe the dishwasher still hasn’t been fixed; it’s already been two weeks. I understand that the soup kitchen doesn’t have the funds for expensive repairs, but a working dishwasher is a necessity to provide for the four hundred or so homeless kids and families they accommodate here each day. I have no idea how they’d cope without us volunteers.
“Hey Elle, have any cookies for me?”
I smile when I notice the cheeky glint in Jimmy’s eyes.
“Sure. Let me see what I can dig up.”
Jimmy is the five-year-old son of a meth addict, and he’s here most of the time, with or without his mother. I’ve been involved with the soup kitchen and the adjoining homeless shelter for the past year, and in that short time I’ve seen lots of Jimmies come and go. A few of them manage to get their life back on track if their mothers are willing to get clean, but most stay trapped in the homeless cycle, going from shelter to shelter.
I count myself lucky that I’ve only had to stay here a couple of times when I just left home. Yet that warm, secure feeling of having a full stomach and a roof over your head for at least a night has remained with me long after I got my life together. So it was only natural for me to help them out as much as I could.
I find a roll of Oreos in the cupboard and hand him two cookies.
“Thanks, Elle!”
Jimmy’s face lights up, and I ruffle his curly brown hair. For a brief moment, the image of a little dark-eyed boy enters my mind—alone, hungry, scared. But before the ache in my chest starts to expand, I push the image away and return to the sink, where I tackle the new piles of dirty dishes. After an hour and a half of non-stop washing and cleaning, I’m finally done. I say goodbye to Jimmy and some of the other regulars, and head home. My lack of sleep combined with the hard physical labor in the soup kitchen has me all but dozing off upright in the subway train.
Last night I’d come home around three after going out with Adam and my other friends from The 99 to celebrate the success of our protest. As Adam had planned, our video went viral, producing a lot of publicity for our group. Not only did our street protest get covered, Adam was also interviewed on the major TV and radio stations. The support for our campaign was overwhelming, resulting in a massive increase in our likes and followers.
To celebrate, the ten or so of us headed to a bar. I had a couple of drinks, but I didn’t get plastered like I normally would have. To my surprise, I still enjoyed myself, and my relatively sober state helped me dodge Mark’s advances. For the very first time, I didn’t have a head-pounding hangover after a night of heavy partying. It was merely the lack of sleep that left me slightly dizzy and constantly yawning this morning.
After walking home from the subway station, I have a shower and change into my riding gear. Even though I’m exhausted, I really feel like riding my bike right now; I haven’t ridden it for more than a week. I walk the two blocks to the lock-up garage, and when I approach it, I see a familiar figure in front of it. Damon, wearing a red-and-black leather jacket, is fishing out his keys to the garage that he’s renting and letting me use to store my bike. He holds up his hand in greeting.
“Elle, hey. Going for a ride?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Going to work.”
Damon opens the roller door and switches on the light.
He says, “Wow, what happened to your bike? It sure’s clean, it’s not in its usual condition.”
He winks at me,
and I look at my bike. My mouth almost drops open; it looks brand-new, like when I just bought it. It’s shiny, almost sparkling, in the garage’s strip light. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it when I wheeled it into the lock-up the other night.
Damon walks around my bike.
“Hey, new tires.” He cocks up an eyebrow. “And a new exhaust.”
“Really?” I stride towards him and inspect my bike up close. “The exhaust sounded different when I picked it up, but I just assumed the mechanic screwed up the repair. I was going to check with you.”
Scratching his jaw, Damon starts walking to the front of my bike. “Come on, how couldn’t you have spotted the new tires? It’s so obvious.”
“It was dark. And I was distracted, I guess.”
At the time, I rushed to get my bike to the lock-up when I remembered I left my five hundred bucks, which I’d saved for emergency repairs such as this, in the pocket of my jacket that I’d casually thrown to Ryder. Eager to get back, I quickly locked my bike in the garage and hardly even looked at it.
Damon squats down near the front wheel. “These tires, they’re Dunlop race tires. Do you know how much they cost?”
I shake my head.
“More than four hundred bucks each.”
What the hell? Why would Ryder replace my old tires for better ones, especially when he was intending to race against me?
“And look at the exhaust. It’s a Two Brothers racing exhaust. It will seriously increase your horsepower.”
“Yeah, I thought it was faster when I accelerated. But wasn’t sure if I was imagining things.”
This is getting crazier by the minute. Why did Ryder go over the top with this? I hope he didn’t do it because he needed to prove himself to me after I accused him of wanting to sabotage my bike. But for some reason, I have the feeling he, being his cocky self, would have done it anyway, even if I hadn’t said anything to him.
Damon takes a torch out of a drawer and shines it into the engine.
“Have you had it serviced recently?”
“No, of course I haven’t. I would’ve told you.”
“I have a strong feeling it’s been serviced. I’m not quite sure, but it looks like a performance oil filter has been installed. Gimme the key and I’ll take it for a spin.”
I throw him my keys, and he starts the engine. The revving sounds deeper, throatier than before, probably because of the new exhaust.
When Damon has taken off, I take out my cell phone. My heart sinks—no new messages. I know it’s completely irrational—and ridiculous—but I secretly hope that Ryder will send me a text again. Not surprisingly, there haven’t been any more messages from him since our heated phone call yesterday. I should really delete all his texts, but I don’t think I’m ready yet. I need more time to process what’s happened and how I feel about it. At the moment, I can’t make sense of my jumbled thoughts and feelings.
A roar echoes outside in the street—Damon is back.
“So?” I ask.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He pulls off his helmet. “I think this guy’s put in a lot of money into making your bike the best it can be. It’s definitely a faster, smoother ride. The tires and the exhaust play a big part, of course. Did you pay for all this?”
“I only paid for the repair of the sensor.”
“How much?”
“Fifty.” I look down at my boots, which are in dire need of a polish.
“Fifty bucks? You must be kidding me. I bet he’s had it fully serviced. With all the extras installed, this job must have cost around two grand. And you paid him fifty!”
“I swear I had no idea. I know it sounds silly, and I should’ve noticed it that night. But Ryder didn’t mention it. He even got me to talk to his mechanic and he didn’t say anything about all the extras.”
Damon shakes his head. “Wow, that guy must be really, really into you.”
“Mmm.” My chest tightens, and I suddenly don’t know what to say.
“So, are you still going to race him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
I explain what happened between me and Ryder. But instead of sympathizing with me, Damon bursts out laughing.
“A billionaire, huh? Isn’t that the best reason why you should have this race with him? He’s not going to miss that fancy bike of his. You won last time, so you’re sure to win now, especially with the mods he’s put in.”
“You know I can’t. It’s against my principles.”
“What principles? You mean the one where you care so much for the environment that you pollute it with your exhaust fumes? Or the one where you don’t lust after material stuff—like motorbikes? Like a top model BMW? I’ve seen you drool over it.”
Pressing my lips together, I look out onto the dark street. I can’t deny it—he’s right. I’ve been questioning myself about this for a while since I started my obsession with motorbikes. Does it make me a hypocrite, riding a sport bike while being active in a left-wing, anti-capitalist group with high ideals? The fact that I haven’t told any of the other members of the group about my bike should tell me the answer. An answer that I haven’t been able to admit to myself.
Damon puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, I better go. I’m gonna be late for work.”
After we say our goodbyes, I put on my helmet and get on my bike. The cold wind whistling in my ears, I relish the heady feeling of speeding weightlessly on a lone stretch of road.
It’s true what Damon said—my bike is in tip top condition and is faster than it’s ever been. Maybe he has a point about the race; it’s very likely I’ll win a second time. And when I do, perhaps I could sell the bike instead of keep it for myself, and use the money to buy a new dishwasher and other necessities for the soup kitchen. But if I decide to go ahead with it, there’s going to be one problem: I’d have to see him again.
The thoughts I’ve been suppressing all day instantly come to the surface: Ryder challenging me for the race for the first time; the feel of his hard body when he gave me a ride back home; his boyish smiles in the arcade; his arm around me at our night picnic; his warm lips in that incredible kiss.
I don’t know if I can handle seeing him again. He unnerves me; for in my heart I know he’s the only one who is capable of destroying the walls I’ve so carefully built around myself. And I’m not ready to let him in. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.
This is insane. Of all things, why is he a goddamn billionaire? Someone who’s not only filthy rich, but helps other millionaires and billionaires become even richer. I wish he was someone different. I wish I was someone different. I wish…
But I have to face reality, and realize I can’t go against what I believe in. It’s bad enough I went out with him—kissed him—but I can’t turn back the clock. I have to accept that whatever there was between us will soon be a distant memory, albeit one that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
When I get home, I yank my cell out of my pocket and take a deep breath. I delete Ryder’s number and I delete his messages.
I should delete my memories, too. Because from now on, I need to forget everything about him.
Ryder
Sunday is my favorite day for going into the office. It’s quiet, and I can fully concentrate on work. But today, I can’t keep my mind on the report in front of me. My thoughts keep on whirling back to what happened between Elle and me. My hand reaches for my cell on the desk and scrolls down until it finds Elle’s number. Shall I call her? Shall I text her? I’ve been tossing it up at least ten times today.
No, I shouldn’t. She’ll blow me off, I’m sure of it. And frankly, I don’t blame her. I know I’ve been an asshole not being open with her about who I am. But if I’d told her, I wouldn’t have had those two nights with her—nights that are burned into my brain. Nights I’ll never have with her again. Without looking, I open my desk drawer, dump in my cell phone, and close it, pressing my hand over the drawer front momentarily. I should n
ot call her.
I pick up my pen and force myself to resume work—reviewing the company’s annual report. As CEO of my own fund management firm, my working life revolves around financial projections, endless meetings, and boring lunches and dinners. Of course I love the money and power that goes along with business success, but some part of me is nostalgic for my early days of trading futures on the floor, especially the adrenaline high that accompanies a big win.
Nowadays, all my trading is done electronically. With the computerized trading systems I’ve devised, money comes rolling in at the press of a button. All I have to do is monitor the systems while concentrating on other aspects of my business like PR, marketing, and client acquisition. For someone who lives for the thrill, work has become rather tedious, so I’ve been thinking up new projects to keep me on the ball.
The phone on my desk rings, and I perk up.
“Ryder. I knew I’d find you in the office on a Sunday.”
“Hey, Martin. What’s up?”
It’s Martin Rosenberg, my client and the banker I had the breakfast meeting with that was so rudely disturbed.
“I met Annette Delaware, the director of the Department of City Planning at a function last night. When I talked to her about our project, she was keen to meet up with you. I told her you’d be at our fundraiser in two weeks, and she agreed to come.”
“That’s great news. Thanks, Martin.”
“If you play this right, it’s in the bag. The Bank of the USA will take major sponsorship. It’s going to be great PR for us.”
Martin and I are working together on our latest project: the building of affordable family housing in West Chelsea, smack in the middle of Manhattan. Although this is more of a favor to him than anything else, I try to do my share of charity work and don’t mind providing most of the funding. But I leave the corporate sponsors to deal with the marketing and publicity as I like to stay low profile. Not only do I feel uncomfortable in the limelight, it is too painful for me to get personally involved in charitable projects, especially if they have to do with homelessness. I just don’t want to be reminded of my past. As long as I support them financially, I tell myself.
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