Just Not That Into Billionaires

by Annika Martin

  He draws close, speaking softly. “I was just thinking, you know, what you told me about regretting staying out late. Athlete in training and all that.”

  I blink. He remembered?

  “And Alverson said he had dropped you here, and I just wanted to make sure…”

  “That is very gallant,” I say.

  “I am your husband,” Benny says.

  “True,” I say. And he’s acting like a husband, and I’m enjoying it. I appreciate him trying to bring me to my senses. It is late. I am an athlete in training.

  Five minutes later, we’re in the back of Benny’s limo, speeding toward home. Streetlights strobe his handsome features in soft yellows and whites with the occasional red flame of a taillight. Benny’s texting and scrolling. He mumbles something about morning in Europe.

  I flash back on the way he walked in, so annoyed and determined.

  “He couldn’t stay away from his beautiful wife,” I say. “No matter how hard he tried, no matter what measures he employed.”

  He sniffs, still focused on his phone.

  I smile.

  Sculptors talk about chipping away at a hunk of stone with the sense that they are freeing the true form inside. I can relate. Benny is a beautiful, cold, hard statue that traps a beating heart that I very much want to touch.

  I adjust his collar. “Thrice he visited the boxes,” I continue. “Even that did not suffice.”

  “Are you going to make me regret coming to pick you up?” he rumbles.

  “He sat upon the workout room floor surrounded by the boxes’ unspeakable contents, regretting bitterly that he didn’t sing ‘Alejandro’ to her when he had the chance. What, really, would it have cost him? He couldn’t sing a simple song?”

  He finally looks up. “When will you stop with the song?”

  I grin. “Ummm…”

  He watches me, still in his quintessential stone-statue mode. Everything about him feels achingly familiar, yet so maddeningly remote.

  Suddenly he begins to speak: “He sat at home in his lonely study, wondering why she keeps asking. Why does she care? Is it something he should be worried about? Has she perhaps contracted rickets? Or scurvy?”

  I close my fingers around his non-phone-arm. I’m near enough to his whiskery cheek that I can smell his spicy scent, near enough that I can feel the heat coming off his skin. I can even feel his pulse rise. Or maybe it’s my pulse rising.

  “She keeps asking because she doesn’t understand why he says he doesn’t remember when she’s quite sure that he does.” I do the rest as a stage whisper. “It drives her a little bit crazy.”

  “What you overlook entirely, however, is the fact that he likely has good reasons,” Benny says.

  “The fact that you used ‘entirely’ and ‘however’ in the same sentence so makes me want to kiss you,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I ask, grinning. The more wolf-nerdy he talks and acts, the more I want to kiss him. “Would you entirely not advise it? Would it vex you?”

  He glares sullenly ahead, as though he’s enduring the unendurable. His eyebrows are slashes of brown over his tan glasses, which have tiny pale striations in the rims.

  I slide a hand on up onto his lapel. “I won’t give up on you, Benny.”

  He closes his fingers around my wrist—gently at first, but then his grip tightens. Maybe he meant to remove my hand from his person, but he just holds it there, pressed against his heartbeat.

  Our gazes lock. Time stills. The energy between us swells in the small space of the limo.

  Something new is happening. I’m a miner, sensing a crack in the unforgiving veneer of Wolf Benny. I want to wedge in and pry him open. I want to touch him, skin to skin.

  I lean in. My lips hover at the side of his, desire beating in my veins. “She’s going to kiss you now,” I say.

  He turns to me suddenly. Strong hands cradle my face. Harsh lips claim mine, pressing hungrily against mine. He’s kissing me, greedy and frenzied with passion, fingertips practically vibrating against my jawline.

  I groan, shot through with liquid pleasure. His kiss radiates through my belly, my thighs, my breasts.

  He pulls back, then, staring at me in a feral way. His nostrils contract with a ragged intake of breath. I feel like the prey of the sexiest beast ever, paralyzed with excitement.

  He kisses me again and I kiss him right back, tunneling my fingers through his hair.

  I swoop my tongue into his mouth, feeling deeply connected with him—so much so that I can feel the shifts in him like the topography of a grade school map. Here he’s thrumming with excitement, here he’s ragged, here he’s groaning.

  Then suddenly he’s smooth. All the wild energy is gone. The heart of him is gone, like somebody flipped the suave switch. Like he turned into Sexorator 2000 or something.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “Come back.”

  “What are you talking about?” he rumbles.

  “You left. You were there, and you left. You were in with me and you left,” I say.

  He gives me a debonaire gaze, ever so amused. “If you don’t like my kissing technique, just say so.”

  “I liked it for a while. Until you closed yourself off.”

  “Just as a reminder, the current charade is you as my wife; not my psychotherapist.” He straightens his jacket, resuming his faraway stare out the other side of the limo.

  “Well, if anybody had any doubts about us,” I say, echoing his words from the park, “they don’t now.”

  Fourteen

  Benny

  * * *

  I head for my study when we get home, knowing I’ll be unable to sleep. Hating how I forgot myself back there.

  I should’ve resisted the impulse to go and get her in the first place, resisted the urge to kiss her. Francine always wants what she can’t have. She’s a cat who hates a closed door, and like a cat, she’ll lose interest the moment she gets what she wants.

  Been there, done that.

  When I come out a little bit later, I find her curled up asleep in the den with Sleepless in Seattle playing. She’s in the loveseat next to the fireplace. It really is the best seat in the house—you can see the fireplace, you can see the TV, you can see the view out the window over the river.

  But it’s not the best for sleeping.

  I stand there, annoyed on her behalf, unsure what to do. She didn’t even choose the couch; she went for the small loveseat. She’ll feel like shit tomorrow.

  Our wedding night all over again. Though unlike tonight, I was drunk, too—we were both lightweights back then, I guess. Unprepared for the tequila punch.

  I’d kissed her that night—thoroughly and ravenously and over and over. And then again at the wedding ceremony; the moment they’d instructed us to kiss, we’d drunkenly and exuberantly obeyed. I had my wits about me enough to know we shouldn’t sleep together, though. Francine was eager to, but I wanted us clearheaded. It was important to me. The whole thing was important to me.

  Not so much to her.

  She remembered at least some of that night—a lot of the fun parts, from what it sounds like, and still she took off. Never looked back.

  She shifts and a lock of hair falls over her cheekbone. Maybe this charade needs to end. I need to give her the papers and cut her loose.

  The first time I ever saw Francine was in the season kickoff meeting to ‘Alejandro.’ All the dancers and stagehands were gathered in the auditorium seats where the audience would normally sit, and the managers and directors took to the stage to go through the schedule and rules.

  I noticed her right away. How could I not? She was the most beautiful woman there. The most beautiful woman in the world.

  It didn’t occur to me to talk to her. She might as well have been another species. I was too blunt on a good day; self-conscious about every little movement. My awkwardness only got worse when I was excited about something; I’d come off intense, angular. Annoyed.
>
  When I was interested in something, people thought I was glaring. They assumed I was annoyed when I wasn’t. Yes, I’d get annoyed from time to time. I’d get annoyed when people would act illogically or when they’d refuse to grasp the most obvious of things. I’d get annoyed when people made assumptions about my annoyance, an unfortunate feedback loop.

  I was fine as a loner.

  Until Francine.

  She struck me as very nearly magical in the way that she breezed through rehearsals, nailing the choreography with minimal effort, drawing people into her enchanting sphere of charm.

  At the same time, she had this curious quality of being outside of the herd, though it was impossible to put my finger on exactly how, because she was the center of attention. I slide my fingertips against each other, remembering the feel of her face.

  I remind myself that a woman like her always has to be the center of attention wherever she goes, even if it’s two people in a limo.

  Still I should move her. It would be best if she was in a bed.

  I consider getting a blanket and a pillow, and then maybe sliding a pillow under her head. I stand there, vacillating intensely between being annoyed and concerned. Though when I’m honest with myself, my annoyance is mostly concern.

  She shifts in the chair, frowns. Troubled. I really should bring her to the bed; she’ll feel shitty enough as it is tomorrow. She’d hate that she’s sleeping like this.

  It’s here that I make my decision. Gently, I scoop her up, lifting her slowly into my arms and pulling her into my chest. I head silently across the living room and dining room, down past the river in nightscape, flashing here and there where spangles of waves catch the moon.

  She’s light and warm in my arms; frail, even, though I know that she’s anything but. A dancer is an athlete with the explosive core strength of a wrestler.

  The dancers came from different dance backgrounds and dance traditions; a few of them had come out of gymnastics and circus arts, but when they’d compare notes, it became clear that none of them had even an iota of the background and discipline that Francine had. Yet she acted like she was on perpetual vacation.

  Francine was the girl who wanted to stay out the latest, to have the most fun, to eat the most decadent foods, to date the flashiest guys. It baffled me because getting to her level of ability took extreme practice—I was a manically dedicated person myself, and knew another maniacally dedicated person when I saw her.

  I head down the hall, walking smoothly, taking care not to let her feet brush the walls.

  We were all forced to dine together after shows and rehearsals—some weeks even with assigned seating. Those in charge thought it would inspire camaraderie between the dancers, the stagehands, and tech crew. I found these meals to be a torment and an exercise in delineating just how acutely I didn’t belong, but at least I came to understand a lot about dancers in general, and Francine in particular.

  She started dance at three, and by ten years old, she was boarding at an elite academy, hundreds of miles from her home on the plains, putting in ten-hour days of workouts and stretching and drills and dances. There were strict dietary regimens, lots of yoga and physical therapy, magnesium baths for her muscles. When her day was over, she’d drag herself up the ladder to the bunk bed she shared with another dancer who was also far from home, and start her school studies.

  I settle her into her bed and go in search of a warmer blanket than what she has. I don’t know where anything is. Why should I? I never have guests. I try the linen closet, but it’s just sheets. I send Mac a text and wait alone in the silence of my hallway.

  The almost monk-like nature of her preteen and teen years became even clearer to me when I realized how unfamiliar she was with the workings of a normal high school; she’d never snuck out of the house, she’d never gone to a party or football game or a music festival. I hadn’t either, but it wasn’t surprising in my case. Francine would’ve loved those things.

  In the world, but apart from it. Like a fairy tale creature.

  The night we were married we told each other everything. Francine confessed how shut out from her peers she felt, like an alien from outer space. And being the youngest of a large rural family, her parents and siblings treated her as the permanent baby. Nobody believed she could hack the dance world. People didn’t think she had grit.

  They couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Before I could stop myself, I was telling her how awkward I always felt. I would act too intense and put people off. I told her about my high-energy, outgoing, tech-challenged family and the jokes that I was maybe switched at birth. You’d think a family like that would’ve made me more socially adept. It didn’t. We joked that we were aliens who’d found each other.

  By her own admission, she remembered a lot of that night. Not all of it but a lot. Enough.

  Mac gets back to me: ottoman blanket storage, another feature for guests that never gets used.

  Mac was adamant I keep guest amenities just in case, and I went with it, more to placate him than anything. Because what the hell do I need with guest amenities? I only have business visitors, and if and when I would ever have a non-business visitor, I would put them up at a hotel, including my parents, though they never visit. The few holidays I ventured back to Michigan, I always stayed at a hotel. We’re not close like other families.

  I bring her the blanket and then I go back and get the water and the aspirin and I bring it in and I set it on the bedside table where she’ll see it. I decide that’s everything I can do, so I head back to the kitchen to make a bagel.

  I stuff the two halves into the slots of the toaster, watch the wires turn red.

  The Monique and Igor thing was the first time I’d ever engaged in any kind of joking or humorous interaction whatsoever, though I would have never admitted it. What kind of person doesn’t joke? It sounds psychotic. It’s not that I couldn’t recognize or appreciate humor—I always have appreciated humor and I laugh when things are actually funny—a rare occurrence, but it happens.

  However, Francine’s Monique and Igor thing was one of those rare instances when something was actually funny, though I seemed to be in the minority about it. Cast members would smile politely as if her fake daughter stories were simply odd, but really they were hilarious. The one thing that was missing from those jokey humblebrag stories of hers was a competitor for Monique. With that, Igor was born. Unexpectedly. A surprise baby like me.

  Suddenly I was telling an Igor story, putting it up against her Monique story.

  And suddenly we were having fun.

  Me. With a sense of humor. It had everything to do with Francine; we clicked invisibly. Synergistic operating systems under the surface. Two fake children, uniquely ours.

  The night that we got married, she described the picture she had in her head of Monique, which looked suspiciously like her. And the picture that she had of Igor looked like me. “Igor is brilliant and misunderstood like his papa,” she’d said, “though one must overlook the tragic little teapot performance incident.”

  When I get up the next morning, there’s coffee made and the cutting board has a little puddle of juice from an orange sliced into six sections.

  I flip Pandora on the penthouse-wide sound system, assuming she took off, but when I wander into the den, she’s on the couch with Spencer. Her hair is down, glossy as a mirror. She’s in a T-shirt and pajama pants, one leg outstretched with the pants leg rolled up. She’s pressing an ice pack around her knee, forming it into a semicircle.

  The Beau Cirque dancers used to do that, trying to press the ice or the heat all the way around their sore joint. Usually they preferred pressing it for each other, so that the person with the injury could focus entirely on relaxing it. That seemed to be the gold standard—somebody else doing the pressing while the injured person relaxed.

  But of course, I’ve ripped her away from all of her girlfriends who would probably do this sort of thing for her.

  “Go
od morning,” I say.

  She looks up. “Thanks for the aspirin.” I can read everything from her tone. She feels angry. Shut out.

  The heat pack is draped over on the back of the couch, probably having cooled off. That’s the dancer technique from Beau Cirque—ice-heat-ice-heat-ice. They were always very specific about beginning and ending with ice. It was considered a bad sign when a dancer was ice-heating a lot.

  “What?” she asks.

  “You want me to heat that?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Is that a yes?” I ask.

  She looks up. If she thinks that’s funny, she’s disguising it well. “No.”

  I stand there, frustrated. I want to heat up the heat pack for her. And what about this injury? A picture pops up in my mind of her confiding in me about it. Maybe I can help her think this thing through or find resources for her knee. I want to protect her wishful thinking. I want to pick her up and carry her across the condo again—not to her bedroom, but to mine. I try to look annoyed while I fight like hell to get my reactions to her under control. There’s a first—me trying to look annoyed.

  “I’m standing right here. I may as well.”

  “You don’t get to be a cold and remote captor one minute and then a caring husband the next. I’m your show horse that you need for whatever reason. I’m a convenient employee for the next two weeks. Do you go around getting ice packs for your other employees?”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I say, frustrated. “It’ll ruin the whole process if you have to get up and walk all the way back to the kitchen. Lest you forget all that time I spent in the auditorium. Why not maximize all of the tools that you have at your disposal?”

  “Like you did with me?” she asks.

  “That’s right.” I grab the heat pack and head to the kitchen, tossing it in the microwave, stopping at every ten seconds to get it just the right temperature—just bearable to the touch. That was always the goal. I rest my palm onto it and then I give it another few seconds and then I take it into her.