by Melinda Minx
“I think I am going to have green curry, but not chicken,” he says as if the topic is closed.
I grab the menu out of his hand and lay it flat on the table.
“Maybe I am,” I say honestly. “At least I think I am, but if you’re not, just tell me now.”
“You’re going to have the green curry too?” he asks, flashing me the most insufferable grin I’ve ever seen.
I consider just getting up and walking out now, before I waste more time on this.
Actually, I will walk out right now.
I slide my chair back and stand up.
But Eric grabs my hand, holding me in place.
“Let go,” I mutter.
“I’m interested,” he says. “Now sit back down.”
I hesitate for a moment, but the flutter in my stomach feels too good, and I sit back down. I’m sure I’ll regret it, but I can’t help myself.
“Even if you’re no fun,” he says. “Don’t you like boxing?”
What in the world does boxing have to do with anything? I’m considering leaving, but curiosity gets the best of me so I decide to see where he’s going with this.
“No, I don’t like boxing,” I say, staring at the tablecloth rather than him.
“Okay,” he says, “But you’ve at least seen the video of Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear, right?”
That has me questioning again what this has to do with anything?
I shrug. “Yeah, I saw it, I think.”
Eric leans back like he’s about to tell a story. I find myself listening even though I’m annoyed with him. With his whiskey smooth voice, it’s easy to give in to humoring him.
“I’d just turned 13,” he says. “My dad was old school New York working class, and he loved his boxing. As a younger kid, I used to pretend to be a boxer while my dad and uncle watched the matches. To me, it mostly just looked like two guys punching each other—”
“It is just two guys punching each other,” I interrupt.
He holds up a finger indicating he’s about to prove me wrong. “To the untrained eye. Anyway, that whole spring my dad had me take boxing lessons. I didn’t like it at first, but after a few months it all clicked for me. Suddenly I was into it, I understood that it was way more than just two guys punching each other.”
“Were you good?” I ask.
“I thought I was,” he says, grinning. “Of course I wasn’t, not yet at least. That wasn’t the point though. The point was that I understood what the commentators were talking about now, and I could talk to my dad and uncle about it, bond with them, all that kind of shit. The first big match I really got excited about was Tyson and Holyfield’s rematch. Holyfield was an underdog, at least until he’d knocked out Tyson several months before. This was their big rematch, and everyone—especially me—was excited as hell.
“My uncle ordered it on Pay-per-view, and a bunch of guys went over there to watch it. My dad brought me. Finally, I felt like one of the guys rather than just a kid tagging along. I remember we grilled steaks before the fight, and everyone was predicting how the fight might go down. We all wanted a big drawn-out thing, seven rounds or more.”
He smiles, losing himself a bit in his story, like he’s back there as a 13-year-old boy. It’s kind of endearing, though I still have no clue where he’s going with this story.
He pauses as if to add suspense to the end of the story. “So you can imagine our disappointment when—”
Then it hits me, and I blurt out the first thing I’m thinking. “Wait a minute, I just bit off your ear!”
He looks at me with wide eyes, he seems disappointed I ruined the end of his story, but then he laughs.
“I’m Mike Tyson,” I say. “You wanted a boxing match with me, but when I just straight up asked you if you liked me on our first date—uh—I mean whatever this is... that was me going for the throat—or ear…”
“Look,” he says, holding up both hands. “Maybe that was the point I was trying to make, but it’s like you said, you don’t like boxing.”
I grin sheepishly. “I don’t. Every time I box for seven rounds, my opponent tells me ‘Hey Ruth, thanks for training with me, now get out of the ring because my real opponent is here.’”
Eric frowns, and I realize that probably sounded super pathetic.
“I’m exaggerating, of course,” I add quickly.
“Of course,” he says, grinning, clearly not believing me.
“You can finish the story,” I say, blushing, “I was enjoying it.”
Eric laughs. “My cousin threw the remote at the TV when they called the fight short. It was one of those old big screen TVs with the kind of soft projection screen. The remote put a weird misshapen dent into the thing. My uncle was furious.”
“So your family is all working class?” I ask. “You too?”
He gives me a somewhat evasive look, then just says, “Yeah, my family’s all working class. Yours?”
“We’re from Queens,” I say. “My mom wanted me to be the first one in our family to go to college.”
“Did you?” He asks.
“Yes, and she was proud. She didn’t even question me getting a philosophy degree. You know how it was for our parents... go to college and you were set.”
“So I take it she’s not a fan of the Fixed Gear?” Eric asks. “Want me to tell her how good a job you do there?”
I roll my eyes at him, then say in my mom’s nagging voice, “Ruth, I didn’t save up my whole life so you could work in a bike shop. You’re a college graduate for God’s sake!”
“Must get annoying to hear,” he says.
“Fortunately I moved out,” I say. “And I’m studying for the LSAT…”
He laughs.
“What?” I say, annoyed that he’s laughing at the one thing I actually have going for me in my life.
“I know that voice. You’re studying for it, but not getting anywhere. I’ve been there.”
I frown, “So you’re a lawyer?”
“Oh,” he says, “God no. I just mean I’ve told myself I’m going to do something, then flaked out on it—”
“I’m not flaking out on it, Eric,” I say. “I just... I’m worn down every day, and I need to find some reserve of motivation to carry me through. I’ll get it soon.”
“It’s cool,” he says, “I gave up on it. I was going to take the USMLE—be a doctor. I never even took the thing, studied for two years.”
He looks at me seriously, “I can tell you’ll find the motivation, and that you’ll do it. You won’t give up like I did.”
7
Eric
Why am I hiding what I do? Ever since I became rich, I’ve used my money and status to get dates. I realize I’ve never been on a date where the woman didn’t know I’m loaded.
Since Ruth has no idea, it feels almost like I can’t tell her. I’m worried it will scare her off.
And here I am telling her about how I bombed out of the whole doctor thing, as if I failed at life and know exactly where she’s coming from. The truth of it is, my business kind of took over, until I was only spending a few minutes a day skimming my study materials. After I had my first million in the bank, I forgot all about being a doctor.
I never really wanted to be a doctor, I just wanted to be rich.
Mission accomplished.
“So what do you do now then?” She asks.
“Business,” I mumble.
Not a lie, but far from the truth.
“Oh,” she says, “Like, what kind—”
The waitress arrives with our food, saving me from having to answer.
As we eat, I wonder why I’m so concerned about being less than honest. The whole reason I sought this woman out was because of a bet.
A sharp feeling hits my gut—not pain exactly, but…
Guilt. Shit, I haven’t felt that in forever. You don’t become a billionaire by feeling sorry for people. Guilt is a liability in my line of work.
So why the
hell am I doing this? Winning New York’s Best Couple could easily achieved with the normal kind of woman I sleep with. Is it the bet? Is that why I’m sticking with Ruth even though it’s turning out to be way more work and risk than is wise?
It couldn’t be her, right? I’m not doing this because of her, right? There’s something oddly endearing about her, but nothing that would risk me breaking my steel resolve.
No, it’s just the bet. That’s why I can’t back down. I never back down from a challenge. I’m testing myself, making myself stronger. I probably only felt guilty because I was just thinking about my childhood. It’s not like I’m actually interested in Ruth. Right?
Ruth looks at her phone, and then up at me. “I really need to go. I’m still on the clock.”
Without thinking, I slap a few hundred dollars down onto the table and stand up.
I realize my mistake when Ruth stares wide-eyed at it. “We didn’t even get the bill…”
“You said you needed to go,” I add.
“You’re like... rich, aren’t you?” She says. “Sorry, I know that’s a rude question, but you’ve been really evasive about—”
“I don’t like to talk about money,” I say, sounding much more curt and short than I meant to.
She presses her lips together and looks down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to sound more empathetic. “We’re two people, and if we were on an island with nothing, then money wouldn’t be a thing, right?”
“We are on an island,” she says, “Manhattan island. And money is a thing. A thing I don’t have.”
“You get my point though,” I say.
“You’re worried I’m a gold digger?” she asks. “You’re the one that asked me to lunch in the first place.”
I look at her, trying to peer through those thick glasses and really see her eyes. Seeing her stand up to me like this, I realize that I’ve only ever been with spineless women for the last five years.
Guys like Dmitri—and hell, guys like me—we see some beautiful, tall model with perfect teeth and golden blonde hair, and we think she’s confident. She’d have to be, because she can get pretty much any guy she wants, right?
Then a woman like Ruth comes along. Dmitri sees her and thinks she looks like she fell into the bargain bin at a flea market, so she must be a nervous wreck. Okay, she is a bit of a nervous wreck at times, but then there’s moments like this, where she just stands up where any other woman would kneel down.
She’s still looking at me, waiting for me to respond. If only I could really see her eyes.
“Can I take off your glasses?” I ask.
She frowns and backs away. “No.”
“Look,” I say, “I just... I want to see your eyes.”
“These are my eyes,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Unless you’ve got twelve-thousand dollars for specialized laser…”
She trails off, realizing that twelve grand is literally nothing to me.
“It’s not fair,” she says. “If I take off my glasses, then I can’t see you, but you can see me.”
“Alright,” I say, “It’s too early for that to be fair to you.”
She furrows her brows at me. “I really need to go.”
“Let’s go then,” I say, and we walk out together.
“You were the only one who showed?” Dmitri asks, laughing.
“Worked in my favor. I got some one-on-one time with her,” I retort.
“So you fucked her already?” He asks, “You’d do anything for a dare man, even her.”
I keep a poker face. Dmitri doesn’t need to know what I’ve done—or in this case, haven’t done with her—as long as I win best couple with her, I win the bet. Whatever happens along the way isn’t his problem.
“She have any weird, freaky fetishes?” he asks.
“Ear biting…” I mumble.
“Vanilla as fuck,” Dmitri says. “I still think you’re crazy. I’d put your chances of winning this bet at... ten percent or less.”
“You realize we never actually set terms,” I say. “If you think I only have a ten percent chance, then the terms should reflect that.”
Dmitri grins and stands up.
We’re waiting for a client to arrive, and he goes to pour each of us another glass of scotch. He puts the glasses down on the table, but neither of us drink. These drinks are to seal the terms of the bet.
“That’s a fair point,” he says. “You thinking money then? Like you only have to pay ten mil if you lose, but you get a hundred mil from me if you win?”
“That would be fair,” I say. “Though certainly a bit dull.”
Even a hundred million dollars wouldn’t make much of a difference to either of us. When you get a certain amount of money, it all becomes somewhat abstract.
“If you lose,” Dmitri says. “Watching you out in public with that freak and then face planting is reward enough for me.”
“You sure?” I ask.
He considers it, then says, “No, it’s not actually. Even if you lose, I assume you’ll at least have gained some publicity with her by then. So when you lose, I want you to dump her publically. Really humiliate her.”
I feel anger flare up inside me. How is it fair for her to suffer because I lose a bet? But I know Dmitri, I can’t squabble over terms this late in.
“If I win,” I say, “then I get to pick the next woman you date. And you promise not to fuck up my image.”
What I mean by that last part is that he doesn’t tell Ruth about the bet. I’m starting to think I should just date her for real, bet or no. The last thing I need is Dmitri coming in after I’ve won and telling her how this all started.
He points a finger at me and gets a big grin on his face. “Ah, you’re a tricky fucker, Eric. You’re hungry to give me a taste of my own medicine, huh?”
I nod. “And publically date, Dmitri. No hiding her away on your yacht.”
“I’d never tarnish the spirit of a bet,” he says. “Let’s drink on it.”
We clink our glasses together, then down the scotch. It tastes good, but another pang of fucking guilt hits my gut at the same time as the alcohol.
What would Ruth think if she knew about this bet? And what will happen if I fulfill the stipulation that I publicly dump her? I shake my head, trying to physically shake the thoughts away, and mostly failing.
“What’s your strategy then?” Dmitri asks. “Even if you get her to agree to some kind of world-class makeover, I don’t think you can cover up what she really is.”
I feel the guilt flare up to anger. Who is Dmitri to talk so much shit about her? She’s my... my what?
I grit my teeth and glare at him.
He cackles. “No plan then, huh?”
I realize he’s wrong though. If Ruth cleaned up a bit, that resolve she’s got, the ability to stand up to people—to stand up for herself—it will play really well with the New York’s Best Couple panel of judges. She’s working hard while studying for the LSAT, from working-class roots, just like me…
“I’ve got a strategy,” I finally say, “A winning one. You peg my chances at only ten percent success rate, but you’re underestimating me.”
“I never underestimate you, bro,” he says. “But I’m sure as hell not underestimating her.”
The anger hits me again, but I swallow it back. All I have to do is prove him wrong by winning. Convincing him now achieves nothing—it’s a waste of my breath.
8
Ruth
Tracy knocks on my door, but doesn’t wait for my response before pushing in. She’s holding her iPad, and she shoves it into my face. “This isn’t your guy, is it?”
I look at the screen and see two images divided by a diagonal line. The first is of Eric with a blonde supermodel on his arm, the second is also of Eric, but with a brunette supermodel sitting across from him, his hand on her wrist as she smiles.
The headline plastered across the whole thing reads
: “Infamous Playboy Eric Prince Spotted With Two Different Women On One Day!”
My stomach sinks, and I lean closer in to make sure it’s the same Eric that I was just out with.
“Oh my God,” Tracy says. “It is him, isn’t it?”
I grab the iPad from her. The date on the article is back in 2015. Maybe he’s changed…
Wait, Billionaire? And Eric Prince, shit, I’ve heard that name before! And it is him.
“Eric fucking Prince,” Tracy says, “With you—”
I look up at her, my mouth hanging open.
“God, Ruth, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I—”
“No,” I say, studying the headline. The word ‘billionaire’ hitting me like a bag of bricks. “You’re right... what the hell is he doing with me?”
“His reputation is really shit,” Tracy says. “These gossip rags are a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine. Don’t tell anyone.”
“No problem,” I say. “As long as you don’t tell anyone that I’m dating—”
“God!” Tracy says, eyes bulging, “You are dating! You said it was just lunch!”
“It was just lunch,” I say hastily. “I just threw the d-word out there carelessly, I didn’t mean it—Tracy, if you like gossip magazines, please tell me you can avoid gossiping about this.”
