Hunted by Billionaires Box Set

by Ryan Ramsay

  I see glimpses of them shaking hands and hear dollops of laughter echoing from the kitchen and lobby. The door shuts. The car revs. They leave.

  I remember nimbly waiting for the sixteen-year-old-or-something sitter to turn the TV on and nap. I checked the clock for the third time that night. It was 10:32 pm.

  I let myself out and pulled the ladder string down. Silent. I climbed up the steps. Careful.

  The darkness welcomed me, and I turned on the light. Nothing was out of the ordinary. A couple of moving boxes. A few old and used sheets of bubble wrap. The musty smell of cobwebs and outfitted pipes.

  It was all standard for the average attic. And so I turned to leave, when my hand hit something warm. Moist. I inched closer. It smelled funny, too. Funky, actually.

  The overhead light was not too bright, and so I improvised with a nearby desk lamp. The button was fidgety, but it worked. It worked too well.

  It was a big suitcase like the ones rock bands use, to fit a lot of equipment inside. And a lock was unhinged. An item had found its way to the edge of the lining. Dad was sloppy. It was a dildo.

  Ewww.

  At twelve, I kind of knew what it was, but was surprised to see it in my attic. Come to find out, the suitcase revealed more than any twelve-year-old could ever chew; I was horrified, and to be honest, a little intrigued.

  I pored through everything. The magazines came first. The toys, second. The extra ropes and what I came to later understand as BDSM paraphernalia came last. By the time I was done, something else came up, something more fascinating than the last thing. My body felt all kinds of new things that night, emotions that I had not known before.

  It took the sound of a car screeching on the tarmac, and the fade of red and blue lights on the translucent window for me to switch off the lamp and the overhead bulb, my breath hasty and my palms sweaty. I hurriedly walked away, lifted the hatch and slipped down, raised the ladder and made sure no one would know I was there.

  By the time I shut my bedroom door, my heart was in my throat and ears. Something stirred between my legs that night, for the first time.

  But there was no time to explore it. I watched the front door creak open. There were two men with lowered police hats. I still remember it all. The cough. The silence. The somber devastated look on the babysitter’s face was new on her, but not new to me. Watch enough TV and you get the gist.

  I checked the clock for the last time. It was 12:29 am.

  ***

  A day is longer than most of us imagine. It can be an eternity to the deranged or the overly patient. But it is the only way some of us know how to cope. Waiting treads the mill, so to speak. And so the game begins.

  Day 1: Grandma does not come back home. I clean the house up.

  Day 2: I get some groceries and get to working on my blog. Grandma is still a no-show. I try looking for her at the church with no one’s help.

  Day 3: Grandma shows up. Same clothes. Still clean. Puffy eyes. She goes up to her room and locks herself in.

  Day 4: Silence. I take up a tray of food and leave it by her door.

  Day 5: I pick an empty tray of food by her door. Silence.

  Day 6: Same routine.

  Day 12: No change.

  Day 14: I’m tired.

  “You think you have a monopoly on pain, do you?”

  There is nothing after I make this accusation. Not a peep nor any sound of movement in her room. I stand resolute in the corridor, waiting, flaring. I suppose two weeks is my maximum patience threshold. No more.

  “Answer me, Grandma!”

  She coughs lightly.

  “Okay. That’s how you want it? I’m not in the mood to give today. You leave the house in a mess that I can’t fix. You walk out on me for three days without telling me where you were. And then you hole up in your room for two weeks. I don’t care if this is your house. You surely are not my mom or dad, so get out of that room and explain yourself!”

  Too far? I myself even think that was a tad much, considering the slow slide of the door and her face glowing red from behind it.

  “You don’t know what you speak of, child,” she croaks.

  Days without speech must have taken a toll on her. I’m guessing she whispered her prayers out to keep the mood tame.

  “Then tell me why you act like I’m the one who walked out on us?” I demanded. “Tell me why you act like I’m the one who wronged you. And while you’re at it, why don’t you open up about my parents’ deaths. It was the last thing on your mind before storming off into the sunset, so don’t you dare deny it!”

  Grandma licks her lips. She takes her time leaning back to observe me.

  Then she nods. Something sweet is in her mouth; she rolls her tongue along the sides of her cheeks and smacks her lips at the end.

  “Come on in.”

  I don’t know whether it’s a spanking or a confrontation that awaits me. Hastily I trod into her room. Three times I’ve been in here, and each time a makeover has gone on since the time before.

  The last time the walls were lacy pink, a kind of homage to strawberry yogurt, filled with trinkets from her younger days. The closet still looks the same, filled with dashing and subtle clothes and an array of her four pairs of shoes.

  The carpet is clean, and the window slightly opened. On the black metal study table under the window rests a book, a pen, and an ashtray recently filled, and inside of it, three cigarettes damped out. She walks in behind me and shuts the door.

  “Sit.”

  I find myself seated on the neatly folded brown and faded comforter. She sits next to me. Her eyes are heavy. And she seems heavier since the last time we spoke face to face. She eyes me mildly, then moves to tuck her robe around her tighter.

  “I am not your mother. Neither am I your father. You want to know why I’ve acted the way I have, which was, and still is, in hindsight, unfair to you.”

  She breathes hard enough for her nostrils to make a slightly disturbing noise, before continuing.

  “I assume you read the letter.”

  I nod.

  “Christy left home to pursue worldly pleasure. I have no say in what she chooses for her life. No one does. I suppose that went out the window years ago when I took you two in. Amy, I want you to imagine what I went through that night. Realizing that my son and his wife died at the same time while their two young girl were left without… well, it was hard,” she deflects. “I know I could have done better. I know I tried. But these things are hard. Maybe some day you’ll understand.”

  She stands and walks to the study table. She sits by the only chair and pulls out a lighter from a drawer. She picks an almost-done cigarette and lights the end once more. She takes a long drag down, holds it in, and lets it out slowly through her nose.

  “Your parents died doing what they loved – fucking.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I sputtered.

  I wasn’t used to hearing my grandma swear. And I especially hadn’t been expecting her to say that word. It surprised me that she said it and surprised me even more that she said it about them, even if I had seen all of the evidence up in the attic with my own ages, back on that fateful night.

  “It was the 3rd of July, more than ten years ago. I know you remember the date,” she said.

  I nodded.

  How could I ever forget?

  “It was going to be their anniversary soon. I was at the local church helping out the soup kitchen back in New Orleans when I got the call,” she explained.

  I listened with bated breath, having never heard the story from her point of view, yet always having wanted to.

  “I was on the next flight to Boston, and during the three or four hours I was in the air, I got to thinking it over and over until the story Officer Mullins gave me made sense. You see, Amy, your parents were what is referred to as sex addicts. Funny how they found each other in this sea of madness that is our world. Your father was quite the randy teenager growing up. I found him once—”

&
nbsp; “Grandma!”

  “Sorry. You still think highly of them. That’s why I never wanted to tell you the full story. But since you’re old enough now, and since you insist…”

  “I do,” I said quickly, as if to ease her of any guilt.

  I did very much want the details. It was almost as painful to not know how they died than it was to not have had them in my life any more for all this time.

  “Okay. Well, if you want the truth, here it is. Maybe it’ll stop you from leaving, like your sister did, if I can unearth some mysteries for you and if we can all stop keeping secrets around here.”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” I told her, in advance.

  “They were found dead in a train cabin along with five other couples,” she said in a rush, as if she had to get it out right then or she wouldn’t be able to do it. “It was a case of self-induced suffocation, they said. Your dad wasn’t even fu— having sex with— your mother. They were all animals in there, tied to other people and fucking every orifice possible. The report said they were so caught up in passion that they didn’t even care that they were strangling themselves—”

  “Why are you telling it to me like this?” I scream, with blood rushing to my face and my fists curled.

  She smokes out one last drag before talking, almost enchanted.

  “Because I want you to know that that is where your sister is headed. You could have stopped her. You could have slapped and punched her until she was down and she couldn’t leave. But no. You let her walk out of here to follow her heart. Fuck that. We see where following our natural desires leads us…”

  “Grandma!” I protest.

  “Oh, what? You think cursing is gonna shoot me straight to hell? Fuck these archaic rules. I’m old and I’ll say what I think. Your parents were both sex addicts to their last surviving breath and that’s what killed them. I wouldn’t be surprised if you go away too, despite me doing everything, including telling you these ugly truths, in order to get you to stay, because — there we go! That’s the spirit. Storm off and follow your heart too. I am done. I am done with you all…”

  I bang the door to my room and cover my ears up. Still I hear her torturous tone inside my head. I can’t see. My nose and eyes drip hot and wet. I want to run. I want to fly far from here. I want to—

  The offer.

  I had received one from my sister Christy when she left.

  Find happiness, sister.

  Find freedom.

  Find me.

  Christy saw past the fakeness of this life. She, after all, interacted with Grandma more than anyone in my eyes. She must have seen. She must have known. And she gave me an offer.

  Even though I was as fake as they come – always going to church and telling her she had to go, too, as if through salvation I could erase our bad memories – she still gave me the offer. I had thought she hated me, and probably for good reason.

  But now I don’t care about any of that. I just want to see her again. And to go to where she found peace.

  I can’t go yet, though. I’d never forgive myself for leaving Grandma this upset, despite my initial impulse to get the hell out of dodge without thinking twice or looking back, just like Christy did.

  My phone rests idly on my floor. I unplug my ears, cringe at Grandma’s insults still echoing off the walls, and hastily scrawl a text to her.

  Hey sis.

  It’s been a while. I hope you’re okay. I’m just saying thank you, for the offer you gave me.

  I’ve been thinking about it and I just might take it. Not now. Soon. I’m still… thinking it over.

  Grandma’s okay. Take care. Talk soon.

  Over and over I read through it to make sure the message sounds right. My thumb glosses over Grandma’s okay. I badly want to delete it. But I don’t want Christy to worry.

  I decide that it will have to do. I press send and throw the damn phone to the corner of my bed.

  I think I admire my sister. She was true to herself, to her desires. She never accepted the lies told to her. I pinch the letter she left Grandma between my fingers. Still fresh. Still numbing.

  For the first time in my life, I don’t think getting on my knees will work.

  I see nothing but pain, nothing but blurring wetness before me, and all the blackness the world has to offer.

  “Fuck!” I scream motionlessly to a blank wall.

  Chapter 2

  Richard

  Ego: I’ve never been a fan.

  Sure, the chest-beating and live-action testosterone foreplay usually gets my blood sizzling, but it always seems to accomplish less than it sets out to. Take, for example, these guys I’m in the company of right now, at my college reunion.

  Matt and Chad. Harvard graduates, just like me. But unlike me – I could barely manage to graduate – they were second and third runners-up to valedictorian.

  Matt only got a B in math because he skipped finals to get a BJ in a seedy area of the quad. It just so happened that a tour was being given to potential Harvard students and their parents at that same time, and they saw everything. It even made the news. Yet Matt still managed to only be docked one letter grade.

  And Chad missed out on being valedictorian by fucking his French teacher. I shouldn’t say it was the fucking her part that got him the bad grade. It was the breaking up with her after they fucked part. She tried to flunk him, but he complained to the dean – who was his father’s golfing buddy – and the worst she could give him was a B+.

  They weren’t any smarter than I was, but their good grades were due to connections. Those two events were the only things they had done in their undergraduate career that were so dumb that no amount of networking or elbow-rubbing could get them out of the mess they had created.

  They were billionaires in the oil industry. Charming. Extravagant. Rubbing it all up in my face.

  I get it. They’re cool. And so, when I bring a rise to the conversation that actually brought us all here – scholarship funding – they shut me down. I swear they were better roommates.

  “So, what have you been up to, Dick?” asks Chad.

  “Just sticking it in your girlfriend, old boy,” I said.

  Yep. Still got it.

  “Okay. Okay. What’s got you in a twist?” Chad protests. “You’re the one who always had more notches on your bed post than the rest of us, so it’s not like you have to go around pretend-bragging.”

  “I just think that this whole scholarship thing is a little too much. I mean, this place can sustain itself, right?” I ask.

  “Nah. I heard the dean got caught pants down with a junior at the end of his stick. And nowadays, you don’t get away with these things with just a swat on your hand. Media is swarming. The place could be sinking,” says Matt.

  My dad’s golfing buddy? I think. But then I remember that there was a change in deans a few years back. Dad’s golfing buddy was safely retired in the Florida Keys.

  “With all the hype about this joint? Doubt it. Maybe the guy gets suspended. That’s basically it.” Chad gulps his tequila down. “One more, please,” he says to the bartender.

  He gets what he asks for, and right away, too. Just like he always does.

  “Okay, guys. If you think about it, what are we doing here?” Damien said.

  I hadn’t even realized he’d walked up mid-way through our conversation. Damien. He was a year ahead. Did something to do with economics, I think. Cool dude.

  “Hey, man! Where did you come from?” asks Matt.

  “I had the same question,” I admitted out loud.

  “Heaven, I assure you. How are you guys? Catching up? Bored?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  The boys just nod.

  “Ever heard of a game for the rich boy club?” he asks.

  “Which one?” moans Chad. “We’ve done everything.”

  “Not this,” smirks Damien. “Listen in. There’s a place, a mansion, a few couple miles out of Newport, where the game takes place. It’s a treasure h
unt of sorts. The participants, well, you three fit just fine, you put in a fine amount of money. Call it a bet. You have to find a rare item, such as an expensive diamond bracelet, hidden in the field. There are multiple men, and one woman. A virgin. Whoever wins gets to have sex with the virgin on site. The virgin gets all the money. And the expensive bracelet, I presume, but it’s all the same thing now, isn’t it?”

  We spiral into laughter. I think it’s a joke. It’s clear that the boys do, too, until Damien shakes his head.

  “Fucking hell, you’re serious?” asks Matt.

  “Well, are you?” I ask, after a moment without an answer.

  I’m dying to know.

  Damien smiles and chuckles. He gets a card out of his pocket and hands it to the closest hand that reaches out for it: mine. One name and a number are finely printed on an opaque card – Mia.

  “Have fun, boys. You didn’t hear it from me. Even though I’ve done it myself, and let’s just say it worked out quite well for me. Even better than I’d initially expected, and for very surprising reasons.”

  The man saunters off to talk to some more fellow alums down at the reunion tent, perhaps to solidify his business network. I doubt he was spreading the word about this “treasure hunt” to many other people.

  “He wasn’t serious, was he?”

  Chad is obviously as clueless as I am.

  “Well, fuck me sideways and get me a surprise. Are you up for it?” Matt asks me.

  I’ve always had an ace up my sleeve with women. I’ve had to have some super power, since I wasn’t nearly as well connected as my friends.

  This will no doubt be an interesting turn of events. I tighten the hold on the card and sip my drink easily. It goes down smooth.

  “I’m calling this Mia chick. This reunion blows, anyway. How about you two assholes?” I ask them. “Are you interested in finding out if this is for real?”