Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 2)

by Lola Silverman

  To me, there was nothing more satisfying than winding that cheap plastic wheel to advance the film after I captured something in the cardboard viewfinder on all the hundreds of disposable cameras I went through as a child. It was a pastime bordering on obsession. My foster parents would take me to get the film developed—always insisting on the one-hour option because my patience wouldn’t allow me to send the cameras full of masterpieces away to be developed. To do so would have delayed my examination of the glossy photos by several days. My foster parents would puzzle over entire envelopes full of pictures of the exact same flower, just taken at different times of day, and in different weather.

  “Loren, I love your pictures, but why not different flowers?” my foster dad would ask, turning the photo around and around, like if it were upside down it would provide the answers he sought.

  “She’s making a study of it, aren’t you, sweetie?” my foster mom would offer, pinching him on the forearm. “Like those paintings of Monet we saw on TV the other day, right?”

  I didn’t really understand what my goal had been for that roll of film, so I just shrugged. The flower was something I’d kept seeing throughout my ramblings in our lower middle class neighborhood, but what I really took note of was the fact that it was a different flower each time I saw it. There was impossibility in that statement; I knew it was the same flower, of course, because it grew in the same pot, blossomed from the same stem that I always saw it on. But if I passed by in the morning, the petals took on a golden hue. At full noon, they were cherry red. The sunset tended to cast the flower in bronze, and it lost all color at night. If we’d gone a week without rain, the petals would droop downward, appearing crispy and thirsty. When the grower of this flower took note and watered it, the petals swelled with appreciation and dewdrops of water decorated it like jewelry. When it rained hard for several days straight, the flower looked sick, like it had a stomachache from eating too much.

  That’s why I’d kept taking photos, until I wound and wound the wheel on the back of the case and it kept going, endlessly, signaling that I’d finished the roll. The flower was the same, but always different, and that wasn’t something I could put into words that would satisfy my foster parents.

  I puzzled them more often than not, but they were good people—always supportive, and doting when they could. There were horror stories in the foster system, stories I couldn’t read, let alone imagine. Mine wasn’t one of those. My foster parents were kind, loving, and did the best they could with a daughter who wasn’t always easy to understand.

  What I understood now, however, was that taking pictures made me feel better. It didn’t matter if I’d been teased at school for looking different from my foster parents or if my life was in its current state of shambles. I could always find some kind of solace in a seagull taking wing from a traffic sign, or a colorful bit of trash floating in a puddle, or the expressions on people’s faces when they didn’t think anyone was looking. I could watch people all day, every day, surreptitiously snapping their portraits and then moving on.

  By the time I worked my way back to my apartment, my aching feet the only indication of just how wide I’d roamed, the color was fading from the sky, the sun long since set. I was looking forward to a long, hot shower to wash my sweat and the day’s calamity off when I realized there was someone standing in front of my door…

  …and that someone was Patrick.

  My stomach did an odd, unpleasant little flip-flop at the sight of him. It wasn’t the flip-flop that I used to enjoy, the one when I saw how gorgeous he was, or how sweetly he smiled at me. No, this flip-flop was one of dread: Patrick was upset at me for telling Shawn the truth, and now I would hear about it.

  I stopped in my tracks upon recognizing Patrick, and it seemed like we were both waiting to see what the other one would do—a real standoff.

  I wished I’d spent the afternoon trying to figure out what to say to him the next time I saw him, but I’d immersed myself in photography instead to calm myself. I actually hadn’t thought Patrick would seek me out again so soon. I had zero plans to talk to him for the rest of the day—perhaps even the rest of the week.

  “What are you doing, Loren?”

  I set my shoulders and jutted my chin out. “Deciding whether to walk away or run.”

  “Really?” Patrick shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I don’t really want to see you right now,” I said, then searched my heart to see if that was really true. He’d hurt me earlier at the house. I couldn’t forget that. But deep down, I yearned to hash it out with him, to figure out if that was how he really felt about me.

  “I understand,” he said. “But I think we need to talk.”

  “We were talking earlier,” I said. “It didn’t go so well for either of us.”

  “That’s true. But I think now that we’ve had some time to cool off, we can have a more productive discussion about what to do next.”

  That was the last thing I wanted to talk about—the idea of next. To me, that meant that there needed to be some action completed in order to move forward, something that hadn’t happened yet. It felt extremely likely that Patrick wanted to end things. That was what he had come over here for. He wanted to close the box of our relationship and tie a bow on it, never to be opened again. This was the last conversation I wanted to have right now.

  “Loren, can we at least go inside your apartment? It’s getting dark.”

  I wished I could be petulant, to refuse him and make him leave me alone, but it just wasn’t my nature. I wanted to see this thing through to the end, even if it wasn’t the end I wanted.

  I approached Patrick, who stepped aside to give me space, and fumbled with my keys for a few long moments before opening the door. My apartment was messy, as usual. I threw on a few lights then set to picking up the clutter and dirty clothes that had accumulated since the last time I cleaned. Patrick walked in, closing the door behind me.

  “You don’t have to pick up on account of me,” he said.

  “Just give me a few moments,” I said, depositing an armful of my wardrobe into my hamper before clattering the dirty dishes into the sink. For someone who rarely cooked or ate in my apartment, I sure could dirty some plates and bowls.

  “Loren, it’s fine. Seriously. My place would look the exact same if I didn’t have someone working there to keep it clean. You’re busy. You’ve been busy. This isn’t a priority, which I think is admirable. I’m sure your photography has been keeping you busy.”

  I let a pizza-encrusted fork drop down noisily into the sink. “That’s what I’ve been doing all day…since I left your house,” I said. “Taking pictures.”

  “Anything good?” Patrick asked, still standing awkwardly on the rug in front of the door, unsure where to go or what to do. I realized that he was just as rudderless as I was about this situation with Shawn, and it made me soften a little.

  “There’s always something good,” I said. “I just have to be looking at the right moment. Do you want something to drink?”

  “That would be amazing, yes.”

  I dug out a pair of beers for us from the fridge and tossed a can to him. I cracked mine open and took a small sip, then a larger series of gulps. The bubble and coldness was a balm to the awkwardness, to the uncertainty of this moment. Everything was going to get figured out because it had to be. It might hurt, at first, to try to unravel the tangles we’d gotten into, but it was essential if we were ever going to find our way forward again.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I wanted to say—”

  Patrick and I both stopped and laughed. We’d started talking at the exact same time, both of us biting the bullet and deciding to plunge onward.

  “You can go first,” Patrick said, holding his hand out, still standing.

  “Maybe we should sit down,” I said. “Someone told me, once, when we were about to have a discussion much like the one we’re about to have, that there was no reason not
to be comfortable.”

  That someone had been Patrick when I’d shown up, unannounced, to his house after we’d kissed beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. We’d draped ourselves over the floor pillows in the den and argued about being together before having mind-blowing sex for the first time. I hoped that this discussion could end just as happily, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

  He chuckled in recognition and took a seat on the couch I’d just liberated from dirty clothes. I sat on the arm at the other end of it.

  “I didn’t mean that thing I said,” I began, clutching the cold beer can for security, assurance. “About the threesome. I was just trying to be offensive, to get a reaction from you. To assert myself. I don’t know. It was stupid.”

  “It was pretty gross,” Patrick allowed. “But you were angry. I don’t blame you.”

  “I guess I just don’t understand how it would help if we weren’t together,” I said. “I wouldn’t automatically go and be Shawn’s girlfriend. I love him very much, but not like that. I can’t just rewind time and decide not to be in love with you, just to save him some hurt feelings.”

  “I understand that,” Patrick said. “And I was wrong to suggest that there could be some sort of solution along those lines.”

  “It made me think that you don’t take what we have seriously,” I said. “I think that if I were someone else—anyone else—who was older, closer to your age, someone you were in love with, you would understand how ludicrous it is to forsake something you believe in. Just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I’m any less real.”

  “I’m not interested in hiding our love away,” Patrick said. “I just…you have to understand, Loren. This will always be harder for me to justify than it is for you. I’m the old man preying on the young girl.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I know it’s not. We know it’s not. But that’s what anyone on the outside will think. They’ll be looking in on something they don’t understand.”

  “Then fuck them.” I raised my chin, defiant, at Patrick’s raised eyebrows. “That’s right. You heard me. Fuck them. Who cares what other people think of us? The only thing that’s important is what we think of each other. If the love is there, then nothing else matters. Is the love there, Patrick?”

  It was an important question, and my stomach careened around my insides as I waited for the answer. He’d told me he was in love with me before, but if he wanted to back away now, he could escape. He could explain it all away as a heat of the moment thing and walk away from me forever. I wouldn’t see Patrick or Shawn again, and I’d move forward in life alone.

  Instead, though, Patrick leaned across the couch and seized my hands, pulling me down onto the cushions.

  “Of course the love is there,” he said. “You amaze me, Loren. You surprise me at every turn. Just when I think I’ve got you pegged down as one thing, you do something completely unexpected. I haven’t felt like this in longer than I care to admit. You make me feel different, like a young man again. I feel selfish about you. I want to guard you and keep you close, and yet I know that you’d never allow that. You’re so independent, so wild and foreign. In all my life I’ve never met someone like you before.”

  I leaned forward to kiss him—it seemed like the right time—but he stopped me.

  “What about it, Loren?” he asked, his voice soft. “Is the love there?”

  I smiled at him. “The love is there. You make me feel safe and free all at the same time. I want nothing more than to be near you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and I don’t care about what anyone else might think. When it’s a real thing, you know, and I know. This is real, and we’d be idiots to try and ignore it.”

  He captured my lips with his, kissing me deeply, threading his fingers through mine before taking my legs and wrapping them around his waist. I looped my arms around his neck and hugged him to me. There was nothing better than this—I was convinced. There was nothing better than to hold the one you loved against you and breathe in his scent. Worries dropped away, and other, much more pleasant feelings grew. I squeezed my legs around him and was rewarded with a push of friction, his erection grinding into my denim-covered crotch.

  We were going to have to get these clothes off.

  I fumbled with the edge of his shirt before slipping my hands beneath the fabric, running them up his hard stomach and torso, exploring his chest, smiling as I felt his nipples peak beneath my palms. He helped me, taking the hem of his shirt, flipping it quickly over his head, and flinging it across the room to rest—forgotten—while we relearned each other’s shapes and curves, the things that made us shiver.

  I plucked at his belt until he took pity and removed it himself, joining the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor, followed by his pants and shoes and socks and boxers. There was something oddly erotic about being fully clothed but writhing against a very naked Patrick, his cock still pressed against my jeans.

  “Now this isn’t fair at all,” he said, giving me a playful pout. “I feel pretty exposed.”

  “I don’t really know what to do about that,” I said, sighing helplessly, fighting a smile.

  “I think I might have a solution.” And that was all the warning I got before Patrick divested me of my jeans in one swift, strong tug, the tight material dragging my panties down with it. The bundle of clothing—along with my shoes—joined Patrick’s pile on the floor. He dragged my shirt up over my face with his teeth, nibbling at each new inch of skin he exposed as he went.

  Finally, we pressed our completely nude bodies against each other, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. I liked the shivery tickles his hard nipples made against my own breasts, the way his cock seemed determined to bury itself at the juncture of my legs. I stroked it once, twice, and was rewarded by a delicious sigh. Patrick loved being pleased, and I loved pleasing him. It was so simple, and so glorious.

  He traced my ribs beneath my skin with his fingers, making me shudder and giggle before going completely serious, homing in on my clit as if it had been beaming a signal only to him. I went from laughing to breathless in half a second, arching upward to meet his touches, feeling myself go slick between my legs. He slipped one finger into me, then two, and it still wasn’t enough. I needed more of him—much more—and he knew it. He was only teasing me, prolonging my exquisite torture, but I wouldn’t break down. I wouldn’t bend to this treatment. I would stay strong.

  “You’re not going to hold out on me, are you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, as he massaged my G-spot, making me see stars for a brief moment.

  “What do you mean—hold out?” I tried to ask, but all I did was moan thickly, unable to summon the power of speech to come to my aid.

  Patrick only smiled, withdrawing his fingers, which earned a moan of disappointment. Then, he ducked down and replaced those fingers with his tongue, working up and down my pussy until I’d forgotten all nuances of language. I was panting and whining, both hands scrambling to grasp at his head. I urged him to just keep going and tried to protest when he added his fingers again, kissing everywhere, touching everything, until I was blinded and muted by my sudden, unexpected climax. It was early to the party but still a welcome friend. As it subsided, it became only a dull ringing in my ears. I wondered if I’d shrieked my orgasm.

  “I didn’t mean to come,” I gasped out as Patrick all but smirked at me. “I wanted to save it for when we were having sex.”

  “I wanted you to come,” he said. “And I want you to come again, while we’re having sex.”

  I was wet, ready, and aching for him after that, and his cock slid easily inside of me without a single barrier. Sex after my orgasm was sticky and sweet, almost dreamlike in the way I floated through each thrust and pull. It would’ve been easy to just coast to the end, to let Patrick have his pleasure in my comfortable afterglow and call it a night, but he wasn’t having it. He tweaked my nipples, sucked my neck, and thumbed my clit until I was right on the edge again. He nev
er halted his relentless rhythm.

  My second climax was in harmony to his first, both of us reaching that magic peak almost at the same time. We were so attuned to each other that it was easy to make it happen, to hold back and then leap forward together when we were both ready. It was a beautiful thing, kissing him while we were both coming, swallowing his pleasure into mine, holding on for dear life until we sank back into the couch, sleepy and sated.

  Yes, the love was there. Love and so much more.

  Chapter 3

  I was happy with Patrick—more than happy, really—but as that relationship grew, my friendship with Shawn shriveled on the vine.

  I didn’t know how he would react to seeing me again after the confrontation with Patrick in the foyer of their house, but I needn’t have worried. Shawn stayed away from all the familiar haunts we’d shared—the cafeteria, the shady trees in one of the courtyards, his actual classes.

  I thought maybe he just needed some time away from me, some time to lay low and lick his wounds. The confrontation had been ugly, and I was sure his pride had taken a beating. Putting myself in his shoes, I could easily understand a need to hide myself away.

  I had to swallow my concern as the absence stretched into a whole week. I couldn’t remember a time when we’d gone even a whole day without at least texting each other. I felt the tangible lack of Shawn keenly, like there was a Shawn-sized hole missing from my soul. We had been together every day. There wasn’t anyone I spent more time with. I was so worried about him—and maybe just missing him selfishly—when I decided to reach out.

  “Where are you?” I typed, sending it before I could think too much about it. There were a million words I wanted to send into the atmosphere, hoping that a few would find him. “Where the hell have you been?” was a possibility that came to mind, followed closely by, “Are you okay?” Coming in third was the greedy “Are we okay?” in which I would seek to absolve myself of any lingering feelings of guilt. “I miss you,” was present in every letter, and I was sure he would read between the lines to understand, “I care about you” without me having to spell it out.