The Billionaire’s CamGirl

by Wylder, Penny

  That breaks her and she falls into a fit of laughter. “I have eyes,” she concedes, and now we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch, laughing.

  “Just promise me something,” she says, a serious note in her voice now. “Promise me you’ll be careful. And beyond that, please promise to confide in me. I may be in Paris and busy with the restaurant, but I am always here for you. You’re my best friend. Let me in more.”

  I’m afraid the tears pricking the corners of my eyes will mess up my make-up, and I shake my head to hold them back. I had been making excuses since I got back from visiting her for all the reasons we were losing touch, but I had to admit to myself now that I’d been pulling away, feeling like Kate was too good for me. That ends now. She’s my best friend. And she probably needs me as much as I need her. I clasp her hands in mine and say, “I promise.”

  My phone rings and I see it’s Chris calling.

  “I gotta go,” I tell Kate, fitting the strap of my shoe over my heel and grabbing my clutch. “He must be downstairs. You and me,” I say, pointing back and forth, “tomorrow morning. Enormous greasy breakfast before I send you back to the land of café au lait and croissants. Gird your stomach for pounds of bacon.”

  “My belly’s never been so prepared for anything in its life,” she says.

  “How do I look?” I ask. My wardrobe is limited, so I feel a little self-conscious about my outfit. I chose a flared black skirt that falls just above my knees, and an asymmetrical sweater that droops off one shoulder. I dug through an old box of clothes to find sheer tights, and I was happy to discover an old necklace of my mother’s that she gave me for my birthday, a round coral pendant on a gold chain.

  “Drop dead gorgeous. So terrific I think I’ll be taking that sweater home with me to Paris,” she says.

  We kiss goodbye and I head down the hallway toward the elevator.

  I’m going on a date!

  Our cab slows down in front of a non-descript building downtown, just the word “Liquor” lit up above a busted-up looking door. I begged Chris to tell me where he was taking me the entire ride, but he wouldn’t give me a single clue. I’ve never been someone who’s impressed by wealth or attracted to a man for what’s in his wallet, but I did assume Chris would take me somewhere supremely fancy tonight, a place I could never afford on my own. So this place (is it a liquor store?) is surprising.

  “Are you sure you have the right address?” I ask him, looking up and down the deserted street before I step out of the cab. I wouldn’t walk alone on this street at night, and I’m not even an overly cautious New Yorker.

  He reaches into the cab and takes my hand, helping me to the street. Slamming the cab door behind me, he pulls me in close so that we’re nose to nose, and slyly says, “I’m sure this is the spot. And by the way, did I tell you yet how amazing you look tonight?”

  “Only about a hundred times on that twenty-minute ride,” I say, pressing my lips to his for a kiss. “Although I think I may be a little over dressed.”

  “Trust me, you’re perfect,” he says, and starts leading me to what I’m assuming is the restaurant.

  He opens the rickety security door and says dramatically, “After you, señorita.”

  I’m shocked when I walk inside. As generic, and frankly creepy, as the exterior is, the interior is overwhelming. The walls are covered in tapestries, deep reds and purples, of dancers. Beautiful flamenco dancers with flowing hair and dresses whipping around them, some surrounded by musicians in cafés and others woven into abstract backgrounds. The tapestries create a cozy ambiance and buffer the conversations at the tables. Over the low buzz of voices is a soulful guitarist’s chords. He’s playing in a corner, and his lush notes fill every corner of the room. Diners lean over tables that glow in candlelight. There are candles everywhere. In hurricane lamps on shelves around the restaurant and low tealights on each table. It feels like I’ve stepped into one of the tapestries. The air is spicy, like garlic and cloves and saffron, and beyond the guitarist I see into the kitchen, where giant stockpots are steaming, and a chef is fussing over a smoking skillet.

  “What is this place?” I ask Chris.

  “This is the best and oldest paella restaurant in the city. Prepare to have your mind blown,” he says.

  “Señor Beliem,” a voice booms in our direction. An older woman greets Chris. She’s wearing a jacket with ornate read epilates and a bright red carnation in her lapel. “I’m Sofía, Arturo’s grandmother. I was so pleased to learn you’d be visiting us tonight. Follow me, I have our best table reserved for you.”

  We follow her to the back corner, away from the guitarist and the kitchen. It’s a secluded table, and while I’m excited to sit down and have some privacy with Chris, I yearn to get up close to the kitchen and inhale the amazing aroma.

  “Thank you, Sofía. This is perfect!”

  “Then I will leave you. Qué te aproveche la comida!”

  “Well,” Chris says, a cocky note in his voice, “what do you think?”

  “I’ve seen more authentic,” I deadpan. But I can’t help it, my smile cracks wide open. “It’s remarkable. I’m just overwhelmed by this place. How on earth did you discover it?”

  “Sofía’s grandson picked me up at JFK last week. We got to talking and he told me about his grandmother’s restaurant and before I got out of the car, I made him give me the phone number. I knew I wanted to bring you here,” he says.

  “You were that confident this was going to happen?” I ask.

  “I was,” he says, leaning closer. “Because I knew I’d do anything to get close to you. I wasn’t going to give up.”

  A waiter comes by and serves us two large glasses of red wine and places a platter of roasted red peppers, still sizzling and drenched in olive oil. Chris doesn’t hesitate, he raises a glass and looks me so deeply in the eyes I feel myself blushing.

  “To you, Weaver,” he toasts. “Thanks for taking a chance on me.”

  I raise my glass and meet his, warmth spreads through my chest and tummy as I drink. The wine is delicious and I’m happy, truly happy, that I did give Chris a chance. I pick up one of the red peppers with my fingers and take a bite. Olive oil soaks my lips and the bitter but fruity flavors explode across my tongue. I moan in appreciation, and Chris leans in to kiss my greasy lips. He holds his forehead against mine for an instant and says, “You couldn’t expect that I wouldn’t want a taste.”

  When our paella is served, we are all business. The rice is cooked to perfection, so rich with flavor and streaked with red strands of saffron. Chris and I playfully dual with our forks to claim the juiciest bits of meat, laughing at each other’s appetites and our shared enthusiasm for this unique meal. It’s fun and light and a relief to know that we have fun together. Sexual chemistry doesn’t always translate into friendship, but by the end of the meal, when there’s just a few grains or rice and a couple of lima beans left in the pan, it’s clear we enjoy each other. When Chris motions to Sofía for the check and stands, disappointment floods through me.

  “I don’t want to leave,” I say honestly.

  “We aren’t leaving just yet,” he says. “Not before a dance.”

  I look around confused, because I don’t see a dance floor. But that’s not stopping Chris, who takes my hand and urges me to my feet. “There’s plenty of room right here. In fact, I think the guitarist would be insulted if the most beautiful woman in the restaurant left before she danced.”

  The guitarist is playing a slow and jazzy number. The notes are bright and robust, and Chris pulls me close to him, our bodies flush against each other. He starts swaying, one hand on the small of my back and the other on my neck. I hook my arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin against my wrists, the weight of his body pressing against mine. We slow dance, surrounded by the rich atmosphere, and I feel like we’re completely disconnected from the outside world. Chris rests his cheek against mine and whispers, “This feels perfect,” and I nod in agreement,
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  The song picks up, and Chris rocks his hips. I follow his lead, dropping an arm to my side and swaying to the faster rhythm. He’s right, there’s plenty of room to dance by the table, and the guitarist and Sofía look on approvingly. We rock together, faster as the song’s beat builds, and we both start to lose ourselves in the moment, smiling at each other and laughing. As the guitarist ends the song with a flourish, Chris surprises me by dramatically dipping me, bending me at the waist and then pulling me back up. He meets my lips with a scorching kiss that I don’t want to end. I can’t help myself and I slip my tongue over his lower lip, tasting red wine and spices and feeling his hands tighten around me, pulling me even closer.

  “Ready to get out of here?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  When the cabbie asked us where to, I spoke up immediately. “The Plaza hotel, please,” I said.

  Chris was facing forward, but I saw his mouth quirk up.

  “You approve,” I asked, leaning into his side and sliding my hand up his thigh. We sit like that for the entire ride, the sexual tension thick between us, as I stroke his leg and he traces circles over the sheer tights on my knee. By the time the cab pulls up to the hotel, Chris is ready with a fifty for the driver and swiftly pulls me from the car and leads me up the hotel’s front steps.

  The doorman greets us and opens the large glass door to the lobby. Chris holds my hand, a conspiratorial smile on his lips, and leads me toward the elevator bank.

  “Bro,” a voice shouts, stopping us in our tracks. We turn to see where the voice is coming from, and I see a man standing in the entrance to the hotel bar. His suit is disheveled, and his tie is crooked. He sways a bit as he walks toward us, and I immediately identify this asshat as Chris’s brother, the one he was complaining about the other night.

  “Ryan,” Chris says, through gritted teeth, “what are you doing here?”

  “Hey little brother,” he says, ignoring Chris’s question and zeroing in on me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “Uhm, yeah,” Chris stammers, like he’s been caught off guard. “This is my friend. Her name is Weaver. Weaver, my brother Ryan.”

  I extend my hand to shake Ryan’s and he brings it to his lips, leaving the faintest trace of saliva on the back of my hand that I discreetly wipe away on the back of my skirt. Chris did not exaggerate when he described his brother. The guy is a pig.

  “Well we’ll just be on our way…” Chris says, but Ryan talks over him, slinging an arm over each of our shoulders and leading us to the bar.

  “Just one drink,” Ryan pleads. “I want to get to know your friend. Anyway, the night’s young.”

  Chris shoots me an apologetic look and mouths “Sorry.” Ryan leads us to a tall table by a window; he must have seen us getting out of the cab. There’s a plate with the remnants of his dinner on the table: the crust of a hamburger bun and some streaks of grease from what I assume were fries. Two empty beer bottles flank the plate. The scene screams of desperation. Ryan and I hop up on the stools, but Chris stands, leaning on the table.

  “Three whiskeys, neat,” Ryan yells to the bartender. He looks up with disdain from behind the bar, and I imagine what it must be like for Chris, continuously having to apologize for this oaf.

  “Weaver? Are you from New York?” Ryan asks. “And how do you know this jackass?” He jabs Chris in the chest with his thumb.

  Before I can answer, Chris pipes up. “Weaver and I met in Paris,” he says curtly. “Through mutual friends.”

  This isn’t exactly a lie. We did meet in Paris and do have acquaintances in common, but by several degrees and they didn’t introduce us. I don’t know how I’d prefer Chris introduce me given the circumstances, but something about the way he’s speaking leaves me uncomfortable. It also occurs to me that even though Chris and Ryan had dinner together the other night, Ryan hasn’t even heard my name. Chris hadn’t mentioned me to Ryan at all the other night?

  I grow more uneasy when Chris asks Ryan how his business dinner was tonight. I listen as Ryan recites some meaningless numbers to Chris but soon, I start tuning them out. Is Chris intentionally trying to exclude me from the conversation? Does he think I’ll start talking about my cam-girl business and start calling him WildCaptain in front of his brother? Is he embarrassed by me?

  “Where are you from, Weaver?” Ryan asks me, snapping me back to the moment.

  “I actually grew up not far from here. My mom still lives on Long Island. I live on the Upper West Side now.”

  The bartender brings over our drinks and asks me and Chris whether we want something to eat.

  “No, this’ll be fine. We aren’t staying long,” he tells the bartender.

  As soon as he leaves the table, Ryan resumes his questions. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “God, Ryan,” Chris interrupts. “What’s with the third degree?”

  “Dude, I’m just making conversation. Relax,” Ryan replies.

  I take a swig of my drink and look Chris straight in the eyes. “I have to agree with Ryan. Relax,” I say with steel in my voice. “I went to school for hotel management and I plan on opening a boutique youth hostel, a new spin on the budget concept. Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I have to find the ladies’ room.”

  I walk toward the back of the bar, and when I get to the bathroom door, I hear Chris calling my name behind me. “Weaver,” he says, reaching out for me. “Hold up.”

  I spin around but I don’t move from the door. It opens behind me and I step aside slightly to let a woman pass.

  “I thought I’d give you a break from monitoring me,” I say icily.

  “That’s not what I’m doing, I swear,” he says, contrition in his voice. He runs a hand through his hair, and his expression is pained. “I’m not trying to hide you from my brother, Weaver. I’m trying to shield you from him. This night was so perfect, and he just ruins everything. All I wanted was to take you upstairs and…be with you.” He reaches out and traces a finger down my jawline. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me honestly: are you embarrassed by me?” I ask.

  “How could I ever be?” he softly whispers, leaning down to plant a searing kiss on my lips. He pulls away from me, leaving me wanting more, and walks back out to the bar. My lips tingle from where he touched them and I stand there, staring after him.

  I follow him back to the table and find a young woman has joined Ryan. Joined may not be the right word. Ryan practically has her trapped; his hand is positioned on the wall beside her head and her eyes dart from side to side, looking for an exit.

  Chris is already trying to defuse the situation, trying to help the poor girl and simultaneously save face for his brother. “Hey Ryan, why don’t we all sit down to talk? Give her space, dude,” he says, placing his hand on his shoulder to guide him to the table. I’m not so inclined to spare Ryan’s dignity, and I do what I’ve been dying to do since I set eyes on the man.

  “Oh shoot,” I say mildly, and toss what’s left of my drink at the back of Ryan’s head, dousing his hair so the remnants of whiskey and ice dribble down his neck and the back of his shirt. He spins around and raises his voice at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I tripped,” I say flatly. Ryan’s prey is grinning at me. She reaches for her purse and walks around the table. She leans over and whispers in my ear, “Thanks sis,” and sashays out of the bar.

  “Always so clumsy, Weaver,” Chris says, throwing some bills down on the table and hardly suppressing his laughter. “She’s like a bull in a china shop, this one.”

  I’m already halfway out the door when Chris catches up with me, and shouts back over his shoulder, “Send me the dry-cleaning bill, buddy.” By the time we arrive at the elevator bank, we’re both laughing through tears.

  12

  Weaver

  Inside the elevator our laughter fades, and I look at Chris’s face and see a droplet of whiskey by the side of his mouth.

  “Sorry about that,” I say,
leaning in close and licking the drop from his mouth. “I guess I got you a little.”

  “That’s okay,” he says, “but I think you missed another spot, here.” He points to the other side of his mouth, and I snake out my tongue and lick that imaginary drop too.

  The mood has turned from lighthearted to serious, and the atmosphere in the elevator feels heavy with anticipation. The lights indicating passing floors seem to change too slowly, and it feels like Chris and I are suspended in time, eyes locked on each other, our breathing in synch. He catches my chin in his hand and lowers his head to me, resting his lips against mine. His lips feel warm and his breath feels hot. I feel his lips moving against mine and he says, “Thank you.”

  With my mouth on his, I ask, “For what?”

  “For being you,” he says. I feel his lips quirk up, and I smile in return. Finally, the elevator comes to stop, and we pull apart to walk down the hallway to his room. My body is humming, a whir of energy as I imagine what awaits me once we’re inside his room. The other night at the club, in the alley, was amazing, but now we’ll be able to take our time, and the idea of exploring his body, touching him, seeing him, tasting him, it overwhelms me.

  Chris slides the key card into the door, the green light flashes, and he opens it for me, placing his hand on my hip and moving me forward. I step into the room ahead of him and into darkness, all I can see are the large windows, looking out on the city ten stories below. The view is breathtaking, and I’m drawn to the window to take in the full effect, leaving Chris behind as he takes off his jacket. The trees in Central Park are bare, so I can see all the way uptown. The Guggenheim Museum is lit up in the distance, and red taillights zigzag across the park. Below on Central Park South I see a couple climb into a handsome cab. I’m following the old horse with my eyes when I feel Chris walk up behind me. He brushes my hair aside and trails his fingertips up and down my neck. His mouth ghosts along my ear, but it’s his fingers that bring my body alive. Featherlight touches that send electricity traveling across my skin. He moves his lips to the nape of my neck, and his breath raises the small hairs there. His fingers tickle around my neck and onto my chest, tracing around the coral pendent. He lays his hand flat against my chest and whispers into my ear, “I’m going to take my time with you. You’re going to spend the night.” It’s not a question, but I nod in agreement, completely incapable of speaking.