MATCHMAKER (A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance)

by Bella Grant

  The snow had stopped by the time we got off, luckily. The familiar flashing lights and endless distractions of Times Square filled my vision. One billboard in particular caught my attention. Because it was him. Billy the Billionaire. Interview tonight, the sign read, flashing majestically.

  I inhaled sharply, recognizing his face and those eyes. I wasn’t in Times Square anymore, or with Kent, who was babbling about the history of the place. I was in my office, uncomfortable, the blood rushing to my face as I turned around and saw him for the first time.

  He wasn’t the tallest guy in the world, but he had the build to make up for it. His arms were especially sexy, taut and muscular. I could see the definition beneath his suit. His face barely had any wrinkles, and the few, small ones were charming and gave him a distinguished vibe. But his eyes—his eyes, piercing and green—were the most beautiful thing about him.

  Now, they coated Times Square in a green glow. I was bewitched. I didn’t realize I’d stopped until Kent waved his hand in front of my face. He searched for what I was looking at and laughed. “What do you know? It’s one of your clients. I can’t believe he really thought that you didn’t know him,” he added. When I didn’t respond, he grabbed my hand and said, “Come on!”

  My heart was hammering. I tried to avoid thinking about why. This wasn’t appropriate. A counselor was trained to be entirely aware of her thoughts, and mine were wicked. Harmful, even. I had a lot of thinking to do. It might be good to refer him to someone else—like Kent. Someone who wasn’t having sexual thoughts.

  I mean, it was natural to find someone attractive. Counselors are people, after all. But to think about it to this extent—to wonder and be curious… Once you crossed that line in your mind, it could impact your therapy. I liked a challenge, though, and this was my biggest professional one yet.

  “This is the perfect place for you. Maybe you can find something for your collection,” Kent said.

  We were at a huge antique depot with tall, dusty ceilings and several rows of antiques, all from private dealers. He was right; I did love it. I was usually disappointed that none of the shops had many old books, but the second I walked in, I could see rows and rows of them. I feasted my eyes on one row and happily strolled over.

  When I removed one of the books, I could see a pair of bright green eyes staring back at me. They looked familiar. The kid—he couldn’t be older than sixteen—grinned sheepishly and stepped out from behind the bookcase. He wore a black beanie and a red plaid shirt. His phone was going crazy, as was typical for most technology-obsessed teens.

  “You see any skulls?” he asked. “They use them as book holders, sometimes.”

  I shook my head, confused. Why did I seem to recognize this kid? I certainly didn’t hang out with anyone his age, that was for sure.

  “Thanks!” He darted towards the register. “Do you guys sell any human skulls?” I heard him ask.

  The shop owner’s voice faltered. “Uh, no. But we have some animal skulls. Occasionally we get a couple new ones in.”

  “Sweet. Here’s my card,” he said. “Thanks.” He left the shop with a smile on his face.

  “That’s Billy the Billionaire’s kid?” I heard the shop owner say aloud as he read the card.

  “You’ll want to keep him as a client,” the girl at the register said.

  I was shocked. What the hell? That was Billy’s kid? He had said he had one. But still…What were the odds? “Ugh,” I mumbled to myself. I was surrounded by reminders of this man.

  “Let’s get out of here. I can’t find anything,” I said to Kent, who looked crestfallen. I think he was more excited about seeing my reaction than anything else.

  Our date lulled pleasantly on. I tried to get everything out of my head, but it was hard. We went to eat at a burger joint, but I barely touched my food. I was almost disillusioned by the irony of the situation. This man was everywhere, yet nowhere near me. Was I hallucinating? Was it real? Kent, as perceptive as ever, questioned me.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours? You’ve been spaced out all day,” he said.

  “Did you see that kid in the shop? The one wearing the plaid shirt and the beanie?” I wanted to make sure.

  “Which one?” He joked. I rolled my eyes. “Just kidding. Yeah. I saw him. Why?”

  “Just wondering. I guess I’m just not feeling like myself. I think I want to call it a night.”

  He looked disappointed but concerned. “All right. Let me take you to the train, at least.”

  Night was settling in, and the night was when I came alive. As I walked down the steps to the subway, I could see Billy’s face on the billboard. I felt his eyes on my back as I gratefully descended into the subway. Kent tried to question me about what was wrong. It was hard to hide things from him, but this was none of his business. I could imagine the look of concern and disgust on his face if I told him.

  “Text me when you get home, okay?” he said. He gave me a hug. I gave him a tight one back.

  “I had a good time with you. Stay warm.” I smiled, and he released me.

  He looked so young suddenly, with his hat in his hand. Young and hopeful. Refreshing. Oddly, something repulsed me about him though. Neediness. On one hand, it was natural for me to be needed, while on the other hand, it freaked me out in some deep way.

  We went our separate ways. On the train home, I formulated a plan. Tonight, I would masturbate. I would allow myself to indulge in the fantasy. Then, I would put it away. I would lock the dildo in a box and burn it to show myself—my subconscious—that it was over. I would use it as a growing experience.

  My house was dark, lit with fake Victorian candles in the window. I went upstairs to my bathroom and drew a bath in my big, old-fashioned tub. The whole bathroom was white, clean, and sparkling with Victorian fixtures. The stained glass windows cast a soft glow from the streetlamps outside. As the tub filled, I went downstairs and put on some water for tea. I didn’t bother going to my room to undress. I began to shuck my clothes, feeling the freedom of the cool air tickle my body.

  I carried my tea upstairs and set it aside near the tub, sprinkling rose petals in the lightly steaming water. The bathroom was filled with soft steam teasing my skin. Like I was about to commit some kind of a crime, I guiltily looked into my ‘toy box’ for a dildo that I wouldn’t miss when it was over. I found a small, firm one that hit all the right spots.

  I dipped my body in the bathtub, dildo in hand. The temperature of the metal toy was far cooler than the water, which felt tantalizing against my clitoris. I sighed as I spread my legs, letting my mind wander to Bill and the delicious, carnal urges he represented. My sins.

  He’d looked at me like a hungry animal in the office. As I rubbed the toy up and down my clit, I imagined the feral look in his eyes, the look of a man who always got what he wanted. Those beautiful, green eyes that belonged to a gorgeous, older man. A man who was nearly old enough to be my dad, a man who was off-limits.

  During the session, he’d lost his cool a couple of times. But he remained powerful. I saw him looking at my legs. I imagined him spreading them, touching them. I imagined bending over my desk while he pounded me from behind. Goosebumps ran up and down my skin. I nearly swallowed some water as I lost myself more and more in this fantasy.

  “I know you’ve already figured it out,” I imagined him saying.

  “How’s that?” answered Fantasy-Me.

  “You know I want to take you. Right on your damn desk,” Fantasy-Bill answered.

  “I do. Fuck, I do,” Fantasy-Me gasped.

  I smiled, enjoying my coy dialogue. I was a master at making myself come. I put the toy inside myself and moaned, not caring who heard me, knowing very well the walls were thin. Right now was my time to be bad. Right now, I could be whomever I wanted. I could indulge myself in this fucked up fantasy, and it wouldn’t harm anyone. I was as ready to be rid of it as I wanted it to last, wanted to feel it in excruciating detail.

  Every moment of
touching myself in that tub filled me with both shame and fulfillment. I wondered what his cock looked like. I could tell, based on his demeanor, that it was a big fucking cock. He was ‘cocky’—pun intended. I had a talent for being able to tell how big someone’s dick was. All of my friends were awed by it. There was something about the way men held themselves that told me. His must be big. Not too big, but big enough that he had another significant reason to be confident on top of his success.

  I moved the toy in and out, my free hand tightening on the edge of the tub. I imagined him with me right now, his rough lips all over my neck. I imagined his voice, hot and rough, tickling my ears as he fucked me. The familiar feeling of orgasm began to rush over me. I moved my head back and forth, closing my eyes. My mews of pleasure became louder and louder until I exploded, my body convulsing in the water, my mind never leaving the thought of his eyes.

  After, I scrubbed my skin, feeling like I had committed some wrong. The relief that followed, however, left me in a kind of calm twilight I couldn’t deny. This toy—I couldn’t burn it, but I could throw it out. I entered the dark kitchen and threw it carelessly in the trash, noting how dumb it looked mixed in with vegetable peels and plastic wrapping.

  Before I settled into bed, I turned on the TV to a main news station.

  “No way…” I said to myself. “No way.”

  It was him again. I might as well have been facing him in person. I pulled the covers up over my neck, wanting to hide from the humiliation of my fantasy. He was doing the interview. That’s right—the billboard had read that there would be an interview…

  I had broken one of my rules, unable to pry my eyes off the television. A well-known news anchor shook his hand as they began.

  “So what’s it like to be you?” he said.

  “It’s a ride. A fun one. Sometimes bumpy, but fun.”

  A woman sat near him, a redheaded woman who looked to be my age. My stomach churned with jealousy and curiosity. Who was she?

  The anchor wondered, too. “And who do you have here tonight?”

  “Fiona, my fiancée.”

  “What the fuck am I thinking?” I asked myself out loud. It didn’t matter that he had a fiancée, because he was first and foremost my client.

  “Millions of people want to know—what is the key to your success?” the anchor asked, moving on.

  “The key is that there is no key. You just have to work hard. Actually… That’s a lie. I’ll be honest and say that the key is to know the right people. You have to work smart. I know a lot of guys who go in working hard and end up with nothing,” he explained.

  “So working hard isn’t a good thing?” the anchor joked.

  “It’s good for you, but don’t let anyone fool you into thinking that hard work alone means money. It doesn’t.”

  “Wise words. Now, tell me more about this lovely woman you have here.”

  This was too much for me. I shut off the TV, not understanding my anger. I’d just met him, he was my client, and I’d promised myself it was over. I wasn’t one to bask in my own torturous love psychosis, either. I was weary of it, love that most of us delude ourselves into when we meet someone exceptional who, despite our efforts, we have no real chance with.

  Once someone became my client, I could never be anything but their counselor. This filled me with hope. I began to separate myself again. He was my client, so it didn’t matter who he was with. It didn’t matter at all…

  Something came over me. I got up and fastened my robe. I went downstairs to the garbage and rummaged through it, thankful no one could see me. My hand grasped the dildo. I put it in the sink and washed it thoroughly.

  No need to waste a good dildo, I thought. I felt powerful taking it back. If a girl didn’t have control over what sex toys she wanted to keep, then what did she really have any control over?

  I took it upstairs and put it gently back into the toy box, which was filled with various toys, restraints, and condoms. I refused to have a boring sex life. As a teenager and younger adult, I had been promiscuous. I did things I shouldn’t have done, things that had come to hurt me.

  High school had been hard for me. I lost my mind when I was nineteen and slept with every man I could find. No amount of sex could fill the hole, though. I managed to scoot through my psychology courses with just over a B. I shone in grad school, when some of my raunchy behaviors were left behind. Behaviors born of pain. I never wanted to return to that part of myself.

  I got my tea from the bathroom and sipped it. It was cold but still tart and good. I walked into my office, and my shelves looked a tad barren. I regretted not getting a book at the shop, but it was good that I saved the money, at least. I powered on my laptop and sat at my oak desk, looking at the assignment due this week—the main structure of our doctoral thesis.

  I had mine all mapped out. On a cork board above my desk was my thesis, plastered with papers and sticky notes.

  The Boundary Point, it read at the very top.

  “The importance of keeping ethical boundaries with clients.” I read out loud to myself, my own words sounding fake in my mouth.

  I’d created the boundary point, the point of no return. Once a therapist crosses it, they’re done. My thesis intended to clearly map out the stages of the boundary point so that a counselor can avoid reaching it at all costs. Once a therapist crossed it, his or her license was at risk, as well personal dignity.

  “Stage one of the boundary point begins with a formal process of self-reflection. A counselor’s self-awareness is paramount to his or her other qualities. Once this awareness is established, examined, and documented, it is imperative to continue to monitor one’s self-talk. Internal dialogue is often the first place where the boundary point is crossed, and therefore must never be disregarded.”

  Looks like you already crossed stage one. Now stop, I commanded myself.

  I felt more reassured after reading my notes. I could and would stop, especially since the fantasy was complete.

  I pushed my chair in and turned out the light, ready to sleep this time. By the time I looked at my phone, it was eleven p.m. Kent had sent me two messages.

  “Did you make it home safely?”

  “Katie?”

  Bill

  Work had always been my safe space. I was the king at work. Even when I was stuttering and fucking up my most recent business deals, I found structure and order at the office—something I regretted needing, but knew that I did nonetheless.

  This morning—about a week later—I’d taken a nice cool shower. I whistled to myself as Gretta picked Zach and me up. Fiona was already gone, shopping or something, as fucking usual. Gretta and I dropped Zach off at school. Also as per usual, he had barely looked up from his phone, even when I ruffled his hair and said goodbye.

  “Kids these days,” I muttered dryly. Gretta giggled in response.

  Gretta and I stopped at my favorite bagel place, where I got my usual, a plain bagel with cream cheese and freshly squeezed orange juice. I also got coffee—good, bland, black New York coffee. Nothing fancy. There was something so fucking amazing about simple things like that. Orange juice tasted amazing with a bagel and cream cheese, and washing it down with a hot cup of Joe… damn fine.

  “Good Morning, Mr. Carson,” my secretary said, offering to take my coat.

  I nodded politely as I handed it to her. “Today, let all my calls go to voicemail,” I told her. She nodded, though visibly confused.

  I put my food on my desk and stretched, enjoying the amazing view of the city. The only person I planned to speak to throughout the day was Fiona. I had taken out a credit card in her name, and the nut wanted to increase the limit.

  Women, I thought to myself, rolling my eyes. It’s never enough.

  I enjoyed my bagel, alternating between bites and typing on my computer. I listened to all of my calls go to voicemail, knowing very well they could wait. In fact, if I wanted to, I could pay someone to do all of this shit while I ran the company f
rom a distance. Might as well, right? Why did I even work, anyway? Besides the feeling of productivity and power, I had nothing to gain from it.

  My day was going so well, in fact, that I nearly forgot about my Sophia-lookalike counselor. Chalk it all up to a bad dream, though I had a session with her again tonight.

  I went to the bathroom at some point around noon. As I was taking a piss at the urinal, a guy walked in. I didn’t recognize him, which was odd, because I knew most of my employees. Or, I could recognize them when they passed by. I stood at the urinal, pissing, trying not to take my eyes off the wall in front of me. A familiar spike of anxiety shot down my spine, and my heart began to race. The man was quiet. He didn’t make any noise. People taking a dump sure as hell made noise, so why wasn’t he?

  Beads of sweat shimmered on my forehead. I zipped my pants quietly and proceeded cautiously to the sink. I needed to get myself together. I bent over and splashed some cool water on my face. When I looked up, he was right behind me. I shouted and turned around to face him, my arms up in the air. He was visibly shocked.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was just letting you know there’s no more toilet paper in here,” he said, backing away a few steps.

  I rarely felt embarrassed, but when I did, I expressed it as anger. “What the fuck do I look like? The janitor?” I roared. “Get the hell out of here!”

  He left me alone in my silence. Water dripped off my face, mingling with the sweat. I hastily grabbed some paper towels out of the dispenser and dried my face. When I left the bathroom, the man was mumbling to some other workers. His face dropped when he saw me. He looked like he was about to cry. Only then did I realize he wasn’t too far from my son’s age—probably just started with the company.

  I ignored my guilt. He shouldn’t have come up behind me like that. He was lucky I hadn’t punched his lights out.

  “The bathroom needs toilet paper,” I mumbled to one of the secretaries and quickly exited the room.