Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 1)

by Lola Silverman

  Chapter 3

  “You know, you really didn’t have to drive me,” I said, enjoying the feel of the leather seat beneath me all the same. Public transit would never be able to measure up to this.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Patrick said. “You’re the one doing me the favor.”

  “By making you get up early and drive across the city?” I threw my head back and laughed. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

  “At computers only, I assure you. Everything else, definitely not.”

  I took advantage of the mixture of his casual driving attitude and attentiveness toward the road to examine him. He hadn’t bothered shaving, and a fine grit of stubble covered his face like sandpaper. I wondered, involuntarily, what it would feel like to rub my cheek against his. If it would hurt.

  His green eyes took on a lighter shade in the diffused gray of dawn, turning them almost sea foam. I wondered if he’d ever noticed that before.

  I couldn’t help but think back to last night, to our faces drawing together as if invisible puppet strings pulled them. What had caused us to do that? Whatever it was had made me sweep on a layer of mascara this morning before he picked me up, in hopes of something I couldn’t give a name to.

  Patrick laughed suddenly and glanced at me. “You’re supposed to assure me that I’m smart in other things, Loren, geez.”

  “Ignorant and insecure,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Mr. Paulson, just how did you make your money again?”

  “You wound me,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “Thank God—here’s the bridge.”

  We parked at the base of it, and I immediately got out of the car, breathless, forgetting that Patrick was with me.

  The bridge looked surreal, protruding from the dense fog like some kind of ancient beast, slung low from the sky to take us all. It was the bridge like I’d never seen it before. I supposed I’d been lucky enough to always come across it in fair weather. I could hardly even discern its color in the dimness, and even the water below was a dark steel.

  I started snapping photos immediately, cursing myself that I hadn’t the foresight to lie about needing a department camera. These weren’t going to come out as well as I hoped, but the important thing was that I was here, witnessing this, trying to understand the reality of the bridge.

  Some people I’d come across talked about this place in quiet, hesitant tones, and now I was starting to understand why. This was the bridge that haunted some people’s dreams, the one shrouded in ghosts. The one that beckoned you to be done with it.

  I lowered my camera and shuddered.

  “Loren?”

  I jumped, finally remembering that Patrick was the one who’d brought me here, and flushed at just how absorbed I’d been. I bet I was making a stupid face; I tended to bite my lower lip when I was trying to concentrate.

  “Sorry,” I said, laughing and shaking my head. My laughter didn’t ring out like it usually did. The fog muffled it…strangled it.

  “Are you chilly?” he asked. “Here.” He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders.

  “That’s really not necessary,” I said, making a move to hand it back to him before I realized that it smelled like him—piney and fresh and good. Oh, no. That was staying right where it was, still warmed by his body. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

  “I’m hot-blooded,” he said, smiling. “And I’ll be just fine. Getting some good photos?”

  I looked back at the bridge, still foreign, foreboding. “I wish I had one of the school’s cameras instead of mine,” I said, continuing to shoot all the same. Who knew? I might get lucky.

  “Well, can I give you something?”

  I looked over my shoulder, then turned, as Patrick walked to the back of the car, popping open the trunk. When he removed a large, black camera bag, I gasped.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in photography,” I said, nearly snatching it from him and unzipping it.

  “I was, but I’m not, really,” he said almost sheepishly. “I thought it might be a good hobby. You make it look so easy, and I love the stuff you do, but I guess I never got the poetry of it.”

  “This is a really nice camera,” I said, hefting it.

  “Fully charged,” Patrick said, as I screwed on a lens. “All yours.”

  “I’ll give it right back,” I promised, quickly scrolling to the setting to get the shots I really wanted.

  “There’s no need to,” he said, making me pause. “It’s all yours.”

  “For now,” I said slowly, trying to understand.

  “Loren, I’m hopeless at photography,” he said. “If you don’t take it, it’ll go to waste. It’ll just sit on a shelf, unused, and I’d hate that for it. I want it to be used to take amazing photos, and you’re the one who could give it a good home.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said, holding the device gingerly.

  “You probably shouldn’t say anything,” he said, pointing at the bridge. “You probably should just shoot.”

  I turned and my breath caught in my throat. The fog was still there, but with the sun trying to come up and establish itself in the sky, it lit all of the lingering water vapor in the air with a pale gold gloss, like fine silk. The bridge was casting off its foreboding cloak and emerging in its gown, promising hope to everyone afraid of it. Of themselves.

  I took photos from every angle I could imagine, documenting the moment the fog broke and the sun’s rays enveloped the entire structure and recolored the scene in jewel tones—the ruby of the bridge, the sapphire of the water. Everything was in vivid flame, as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, illuminating the world below. I was just a witness, taking photo after photo, getting my shoes wet at the water’s edge, not caring about anything except for this amazing privilege, and the fantastic shots I was capturing.

  I tripped over a mound I hadn’t taken notice of and nearly fell; a strong hand on my elbow was the only thing that kept me upright.

  “Careful,” Patrick rumbled, and something about his closeness made me shudder, intensely self-aware. I once again gave thanks that Shawn hadn’t been able to drive me to the bridge today, that Patrick had insisted on taking me himself, and on the fact that I’d even had the good fortune to meet Patrick in the first place. Just being around him, alone, was amazing.

  I continued to shoot until the sun was well overhead. When traffic had increased audibly on the bridge above, I forced myself to be present to the act of shooting photos. The camera itself helped magnificently. It was hard not to be present for the awesome power I wielded with it.

  There was a scuffling noise behind me, and I whirled around just in time to see Patrick stumble on a bit of gravel. I laughed outright; I wasn’t the only one who was clumsy, apparently, but he’d surprised me. I’d once again forgotten that he was here, even though he was trying to gift me with the nicest camera I’d ever held.

  “I can’t accept this,” I said, holding it out to him.

  “I will be offended if you don’t take it,” he said, his arms at his sides, his palms upward, imploring. “Loren, I’ve never seen anything like that before, and I work with people passionate about what they’re doing. When you’re shooting photos, you give yourself over completely to the moment. You were in full squat for more than five minutes. I timed you. And your legs didn’t so much as shake.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to the fact that Patrick had watched me like a hawk during this entire thing.

  “You are the truest artist I’ve ever known,” he said. “You immerse yourself in beauty. You walk in it. You see it in the ugliest of things. When we first got here, I wish you could’ve seen your face. The bridge wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t that wonder of the world everyone takes pictures of. It was alive. Writhing. And yet you took photos and took photos, and I know without looking that they’re going to be amazing. Amazing, just like you. That camera stays with you, and that’s final. You’re going to do amazing things with i
t.”

  I meant to thank him, to say something offhandedly that would distract from the nicest compliment I’d ever received, to be witty, and to diffuse what I felt in this moment, with the light so bright it was hard not to squint.

  Instead, I took Patrick by the front of the shirt, angled my face up, and kissed him, slow and languid, attraction a roiling thing in my chest, nuzzling his cheek for a moment to feel that grit of stubble, then kissing him again. He tasted like the orange juice he must’ve chugged before picking me up; he smelled like the jacket that still clung to me even though the air was warming.

  I broke the kiss and looked into those green eyes until he tangled a hand in my hair and kissed me again. Our bodies together, coupled with the jacket over my shoulders, made sweat prickle on my forehead, our shared heat rising and rising, and his hot mouth on mine.

  I gasped when Patrick’s lips left mine, my chest heaving like I’d been running somewhere.

  We looked at each other for a long time, then he lowered his eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “What can you possibly be sorry for?”

  “For…that. That…was a mistake.”

  “I kissed you first.”

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you again,” he said, raking a hand through his short hair. I noticed, in a glint of light, that one of my long, blond hairs was still intertwined with his fingers.

  “I liked it,” I said, my face flushing. “I wanted to kiss you, so I did, and I liked it.”

  “I should get you back to your apartment,” he said, looking at the bridge. “I don’t know how long we’ve been out here. Time sort of seemed to stop.”

  It was an effective description, but a puzzling one. How could he regret that kiss? That kiss had been everything. I’d felt it to the very tips of my toes, and I had more than a passing suspicion that he had, too.

  There was something here, something I didn’t quite understand. What I did understand, however, was what I’d felt for him. That was real.

  We rode in silence, all the way back to my apartment, with me clutching the camera in my lap, trying to figure out what to say. It wasn’t until we were already there that I took a chance, my heart pounding.

  “Patrick…,” I trailed off, and then I forced myself to open my mouth again before I lost my nerve. “You can come inside…um…inside my apartment. If you want.”

  “I can’t.” He didn’t look at me; he kept his eyes straight forward, concentrating on the road ahead of him even though we were parked in front of my complex.

  I swallowed hard and took him by the chin, forcing him to look at me. “You can,” I said slowly. “I want you to.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to,” he said, those green eyes downcast. “But the truth is, I can’t, Loren. I’m sorry.”

  “You can,” I said with such force that he met my gaze. “We’re two consenting adults, Patrick, who are obviously attracted to each other. There’s not one damn reason you can’t come inside my apartment so we can explore that fact.”

  “One damn reason is that I need to be at a meeting in Palo Alto in an hour.”

  I flushed. “I’m sorry. I’m holding you up. I’ll get out.” I shrugged off his jacket, which had remained over my shoulders for the entire ride. I was embarrassed. Gutted.

  “Loren.” His voice made me pause, my fingers in the door handle, my other hand clutching the camera he’d given me—despite the fact that it hung securely around my neck on its strap. “I really, really do want to come inside,” he said almost wistfully.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I muttered, throwing the door open and nearly hitting a pedestrian with it. “You don’t have to make excuses. Thanks again for the camera.”

  I forced myself to march down the sidewalk, under the walkways that crossed above me and threw me into shade. I forced myself not to turn back, even when I didn’t hear the rising purr of the engine that signaled Patrick was racing off to make his Palo Alto meeting in time. He probably wouldn’t, not with traffic, and definitely not if he stopped at the house to throw on a suit. I could imagine the way he would explain it to his distinguished colleagues, each richer than the next: “Sorry, boys, but some young thing was throwing herself at me…worse than a mosquito.”

  He hadn’t wanted to come inside my apartment, I realized, fumbling with my keys before jamming the correct one into the door. He hadn’t wanted to kiss me, either, but that had happened. I was more than throwing myself at him. I was forcing myself upon him. He didn’t want me. He was only being nice because I was his son’s best friend.

  It made sense, really. I flicked on the light before slamming the door behind me. Why would Patrick, when he could have anyone he wanted in the entire world, want to be with me? I hadn’t graduated college yet; I didn’t have a job; I couldn’t pick my real parents out of a lineup; and I couldn’t pay for anything beyond my transit pass and the occasional takeout.

  He’d told me he wanted to come inside out of pity. He hadn’t wanted to hurt my feelings, which made it sting even more.

  I comforted myself by picking a few clothing items off the carpet and couch, tossing them in the hamper for the next time I did laundry. See? If Patrick had come inside, he would’ve seen what a slob I could be. It would probably be a huge turnoff for someone who could more than afford his own maid.

  The entirety of my apartment wasn’t even as big as Shawn’s room, I realized, pacing from the carpet to the linoleum of the tiny kitchen, then to the carpet of the shoebox bedroom and the linoleum of the bathroom. When I sat on the toilet, my knees knocked against the cabinet beneath the sink.

  When I’d first moved in, helping my foster dad heft the secondhand couch we’d bought for the joke of a living room, it had been everything. I was thrilled to be in San Francisco, at my own place, striking out all by myself—with a little bit of help. Even though my foster parents were gearing up to take in another kid, they’d urged me to take my bed to college, gifting me with an arsenal of plastic dishes and cheap cutlery to equip my kitchen.

  We’d all cried when the final box was inside, my foster mom insisting on staying long enough to help me unpack and organize, my foster dad shooing her outside, saying that they were my things to put where I wanted, my wings to spread.

  It was Patrick’s wealth on display with his fleet of cars and ostentatious house that made me feel like my apartment wasn’t worth a damn. It was a terrible realization. There was nothing wrong with this place, and it was idiocy to compare it to a billionaire’s home.

  I flopped down on the bed and examined my camera. It was easily worth more than every item in this apartment combined. It was a model even more advanced than the small army of cameras the photography department loaned out on a project-by-project basis. In addition to the soft leather bag and actual body of the camera, there were three different lenses I could attach, depending on the nature of what I was shooting. There was a flash—what else was down there? I dug deeper into the bag and found a set of memory cards, a USB cable, an extra battery with charger, a cleaning kit, and a tripod, all folded up and compact enough to take with me everywhere.

  I heaved a sigh and studied the bag, which had absolutely no signs of wear and tear, not a speck of dust or dirt on it. Had he even ever opened it? Even the USB cable still had a twisty tie, arranged perfectly in a figure eight. What was it like to have more money than you knew what to do with? I would always know what to do with my money, if I ever got any. I had goals.

  But strangely enough, the goal that always remained at the top of my list had just been completed.

  Get nicest camera money could buy? Check.

  Chapter 4

  I carried the bag to my photography class later that week, tripod and all, to see what my professor thought about it. I’d spent the better part of the beginning of my day in the library, gobbling down everything I could find about the model. The strangest fact—it wasn’t even out on the market yet. I had to rely on a slim manual
I’d located in yet another pocket of the bag I’d neglected to discover last night.

  Patrick had a dazzling amount of money, and I knew he had to be well connected, but the fact that I’d benefited directly from it was a little mind boggling as an understatement. I almost felt like a criminal ushering the bag and its contents across campus. But most of me felt like I imagined a new mother might behave, cradling the bag to my side, taking care not to jostle it too much as I walked, and eyeing everyone I passed like they might want to try to steal it from me. They couldn’t have it. Patrick had given it to me. It was mine.

  I’d considered tossing my little digital camera once and for all, once I’d seen the power of the photos that my new camera could produce, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It had been a gift from my foster parents, something they’d had to sacrifice to give me, and it would still do in a pinch. I instead tucked it into a drawer. This could be the beginning of its happy retirement. It had gotten me through college, nearly.

  The photography studio was bright and airy, large windows partially obscured by blinds that could be shut so the room would be darkened if we were watching a presentation or reviewing one another’s work. All around the walls, students—past and present—had posted their favorite works. Being in this classroom never failed to inspire me.

  We met once a week for class. Shawn liked to tease me that it was a fluff course—that I could goof around without having to actually show up like he did for his visual art studio time. But the truth of the matter was that a majority of the learning took place outside of the classroom. We applied the suggestions and criticisms we received from one another and the professor outside, taking photos in the real world.

  “Let’s begin.”

  We all found our seats and focused our attention toward the center of the room, where a tiny, nut-brown, old woman stood. Despite her stature, Mercedes Valdez commanded the room at all times. She had a strange energy that crackled around her, making everyone pay attention—whether they wanted to or not. It was as if all of the most essential and important parts of a regular person had been boiled down, distilled into a tiny, powerfully concentrated package.