by Anne Marsh
“Item three, it’s your fault my phone’s blowing up and since there’s no way I’ll come by a date honestly for the foreseeable future, you owe me.”
“I want to fuck you again,” I agree. “And you know I don’t do boyfriend/girlfriend gigs. I don’t know how.”
“So we hook up exclusively. The best of both worlds. Awesome. We’re agreed. I’m glad we had this conversation.” She swings off my lap. “I need to head back to the city now.”
A few minutes and a whole lot of kisses later, she’s fully dressed and headed out the door. I sort of want to pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. Let my caveman act out because he’s feeling...possessive.
I’m sure that’s why I follow her out the door to the waiting car.
Because I can’t help it.
Because I sort of miss her already.
“Call me,” I say.
She winks as she hops into the car. “Maybe.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Max
I FIND MYSELF having a hard time focusing. The week after I make Maple come on my beach and in my shower is a long one. I jog from meeting to meeting. I stand to make a phenomenal amount of money this year, as do the members of my team. My engineering team plays the what-if game every day. What if the stock goes to forty? What if it goes to eighty? What if we hit triple digits? My what-ifs are different.
What if Maple and I hooked up again?
What if once wasn’t enough?
What if once is all I get?
Maple is conspicuously silent despite the multiple orgasms I gave her. She doesn’t text. Or call. Or barge into my life, my office or my bed.
As if having sex had been my idea.
Naked Maple was amazing. My brain replays over and over the moment she yanked her dress over her head. She tossed it aside like she didn’t give a fuck. That was hot. Her body? Also hot. The way she rode me and made sure she got her happy ending? Hottest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.
I don’t know how often Maple likes to have sex, so when Monday passes without a call or text, I’m not particularly alarmed. A twenty-four hour no-text window after sex isn’t that unusual. Okay, so maybe I’m not as calm as I pretend I am. And I look at my phone more often than a normal, sane person should. I blame the sex. You ladies are right. We guys should call when we say we’re going to. This is the first time it’s happened to me and let me tell you: ghosting sucks.
By Friday, I’ve written an app that automatically checks my Maple messages for me and intones nada, boss after each unsuccessful poll. We’ve officially gone 123 hours without contact. I’m touring a penthouse condo in a new San Francisco high-rise when I finally cave to this inexplicable need I have to see Maple again. I’ve been thinking about buying a place to crash at when I don’t feel like driving back to Santa Cruz. Part of me wonders if Maple would like it. I walk through a living room—big enough to park a small plane in—that is accessorized with sweeping views of the San Francisco business district. There are more city views from the bedroom, while the dining room offers a peek at the Bay Bridge. I suspect that if I go out on the terrace, I’ll be able to finish my sightseeing with Alcatraz Island or something equally postcard-worthy.
The bathroom is the only private place. When I flick on the lights, I discover it’s all gray stone and maple wood. Chic, upscale, contemporary. Check, check and check. It’s also more than a little boring. In fact, the only thing colorful in the entire condo is the powder room where the designer went nuts. One entire wall is covered with these little gold triangle tiles and there’s a gold faucet. The hot and cold water taps are gold loops. I can just imagine Midas taking a shit here.
I’m still not sure what to say to Maple, so I text her a picture of the bathroom. It’s not the sexiest thing (I’m not stupid enough to include my naked dick or any other body part), but I’m genuinely curious to hear what she’s got to say. I shoot her a quick text.
Too much?
At first, all I get is radio silence. Then typing bubbles. More bubbles. When her text finally hits my phone, it’s entirely unsatisfactory.
Why?
What does that even mean? I send her a close-up of the gold tiles. It’s like King Midas was set loose in a decorating showroom. I’m half-scared she’ll love it, half-worried she’ll think my own taste is suspect. Whatever. It’s the stupidest text ever, so of course I have to push it.
Thinking of buying a place in San Francisco. You think we need one bedroom or two for the kids?
This time her response comes much faster: What if we have triplets? Do they have to share? Are you going to play favorites? One bedroom—three teenage girls. Do the math.
She makes a good point. I wander out of the bathroom and text: We should take parenting classes. I’m free tomorrow.
Like the guy I am, thinking about babies makes me think about making babies. Except for Maple, I haven’t hooked up with anyone since she busted into my office.
I feel like I’m wearing a goddamned chastity belt.
I check out the bedroom while I consider my next steps. Like the rest of the condo, the bedroom’s tastefully decorated in modern minimalist chic—whatever that is. As far as I can tell, it means gray. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is awesome, though, so I snap a picture of that and hit Send.
Max: See that window? Me too. I have some thoughts.
Maple: ?
Max: You. Naked. Legs spread, tits on the glass, me taking you from behind. Hands over your head, my fingers laced through yours. How many people see you come besides me?
This is what the listing agent should have included in the property description: luxury penthouse condo with great views and six rooms to have sex in. Do it outside on the terrace, up against the windows where the world can watch or move inside for some soundproofed fun. Bonus room for use as wine cellar or sex dungeon. No one cares about the two bedroom, three bathroom parts—it’s all about how you’re going to live in the space. Square footage? Does it matter?
Maple must be reading my mind, because she doesn’t make me wait.
Maple: Forget class. You busy tonight?
Max: Might buy the furniture too. You like this table?
Maple: Answer mine first.
Max: Greedy girl. Tell me where you want me and when. Can start in any room, but definitely recommending the bedroom.
The link Maple texts me leads me to the home page for the San Francisco Opera. Apparently, four-million-dollar penthouses aren’t her thing—she’d rather spend Friday night surrounded by Doric columns and designer evening gowns. She’s bound to get bored, so it’s a good thing she has me.
Max: You want a mausoleum for Christmas? A life-size replica of the Greek Parthenon for your front lawn?
Her response is some kind of emoji. I can’t tell if the yellow happy face with the pink tongue and the manga eyeballs is happy, sad or about to vomit. I make a note to ask my engineering team on Monday—one of them will know.
Dress code is black-tie, she texts.
She’s so narrow-minded. Naked is better.
She fires back right away. Charity event. Clothes required. Come with me?
In my experience, charities are interested in the size of your checkbook. Give enough and showing up naked is on the table. Also? She’s left the door wide-open to jokes with that last question. I imagine her cradling her phone, that impish smile lighting up her pretty face. I don’t think that question was an accident. On the other hand, she’s also just asked me out on a date.
I try and fail to remember the last time I went on a second date.
Max: I’m a giver, you’ve got that right, but I prefer to do my giving one-on-one. I’m a special donor. Tell me where to come.
Too much? I couldn’t resist. We spend a few more minutes hammering out the logistics for our date night. Maple wants to meet up in front of the opera house,
while I’d like to pick her up and am willing to go as far as to meet her in bed. For the moment, we compromise on door-to-door service.
The Realtor sticks her head in the door. She’s a young redhead with legs for miles and a sleek gray suit that matches the bedroom decor. She’s already offered to program her number into my phone so I can call her anytime if I have questions about the property. When I pointed out that all her contact info was on the listing, she countered with an offer of special services. A month ago, I would have suggested we discuss the property details over drinks, but now I just text my financial team to handle everything.
“Are you interested?” she asks.
In her? No.
I take a moment to let that sink in.
I turn my gaze back to my phone. Yes or no?
Maple: I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.
Max: Live a little. Pick one.
Maple: Then yes.
Have I mentioned that yes is my favorite word? I nod at the Realtor. “We’ll take it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Max
BEING A BILLIONAIRE has its perks.
Yes, yes, I started as a code geek and a software engineer, but I didn’t get where I am today by being pretty or by not pushing. You do it this way? I’ll find a better, faster, cheaper way to do it and then I’ll sell my way. Knowing when to dig in and when to let go is critical. Case in point? I started both Kinkster and Billionaire Bachelors in my college dorm room. The dot-com world works from anywhere—some of our most famous success stories were birthed in garages and spare bedrooms. Where there’s electricity, hardware and a whole lot of will, there’s a path to better software engineering and millions or billions of dollars. We can make shit happen from a manger in Bethlehem—we don’t need Herod’s palace.
What does a software engineer do? Well, on the days I’m wearing my halo and am a good boy, I figure out how to make a computer fix a particular problem you’ve got and I do that by translating your commands into bits and bytes. The brake lights on your car and the ice maker in your fridge, the streetlights that come on when the sun sets, proactive parking meters that give you shit when you’ve overstayed, and shoes that talk to your smartphone—that’s the superhero code, out there saving the world and making life easier.
Some days, though, the devil’s sitting on my shoulder and I like to mess with things. The felonies teenage boys can get up to? Trespassing, vandalism, petty theft, joyriding and some old-fashioned underage drinking? There’s a computer version of that, too. Some hackers like to use their powers for evil and exploit whatever vulnerabilities they find in a system, running amok in other people’s systems. The best part of being older and smarter, however, is realizing that now people will pay me to do this stuff. White-hat security hackers figure out how to breach a company’s software defenses and identify their weaknesses.
Does Maple have a weakness? A small one. She’s nice.
She watches carefully and figures out what other people like—and then she serves it up.
You want to argue that’s a good thing?
It can be. She’s the neighbor you want, the one who will water your plants and feed your demon puppy when you decide to make a last-minute trip out of town and all the reputable dog sitters are booked or you’re broke. She likes making people happy and she’s good at it.
Why does this matter?
I’m so happy you asked. Because I want a second shot—and then a third and possibly a fourth—with Maple, so I need her to trust me. To let me come around. Come in her. On her.
Bottom line? I plan to be the best hookup she’s never had so that she’ll keep calling me.
A few hours after making an offer on the San Francisco penthouse, I arrive at the address she texted me. I’ve opted for a car service tonight and I’m ready to make a good second-date impression. I’m wearing black-tie and I look good. No, I’m not that arrogant. Every guy looks good in a tux. If we were smarter as a species, we’d opt for dress blacks instead of jeans and T-shirts.
I hop out of the car because I need to get on top of this date. It already feels like the grown-up version of high school prom. Which I skipped because not only did I graduate two years early but I was a stretched-out, skinny kid and it wasn’t a good look. A six-two, 120-pound teenage boy doesn’t exactly rock the high school dating lists.
When I get to the front door, however, I realize I don’t have the access code. I work around it by punching the button for the intercom. Maple answers and we’re back in business.
“Rapunzel, let down your hair!”
“Why?”
“I can come up,” I offer.
There’s a reason most hookups happen somewhere public. You know what it is—your place, whether it’s a full-blown mansion or a tiny studio you share with three cats and a potted plant, is yours and who likes sharing? And even if you’re trusting a random stranger to bring the orgasms, do you really want to trust him with your stuff?
I didn’t think so.
For hookups, I generally prefer a nice hotel room. Having sex in a hotel is also scientifically proven to be better than at home. Don’t believe me? I read a study once that claimed our bodies put out more endorphins and dopamine when we are having ourselves an adventure. Orgasms and hotel points—it’s like the ultimate two-for-one. Maple tempts me to try something different, however. I’d like to see where she lives and hold her in her own bed. I’d like to think that then she’ll remember me when she goes to sleep or does whatever it is she does when she’s home alone.
“I’m coming down.” Maple disconnects and I wait.
There’s a homeless guy camped out in the tiny, sloping slice of driveway in front of her house. San Francisco has a huge problem with homeless residents. Shit happens, life happens, PTSD happens, drugs happen—and sometimes it’s all of the above, but it’s a problem. No one should be sleeping outside on the sidewalk unless it’s truly a choice and most of us would pick a mattress, four walls and a ceiling. I hand him a twenty, which is like slapping a Band-Aid over an amputated limb, but it’s also a start. We strike up a brief conversation while I wait, during which I learn that Lieutenant Bob served in the US military (he won’t say which branch), he’s got a brother in Toledo (we both agree that’s nuts), and he keeps an eye out for Maple when she’s coming home late or taking out the trash. He’s a good man.
Maple is standing on the steps behind me when I turn back around, a smile lighting up her face. Her hair’s scooped up on top of her head in sleek, smooth loops, and her eyes are smoky dark and mysterious. She’s clearly dug deep into her makeup drawer and she looks fabulous.
My gaze automatically drops down to appreciate the rest of her and that’s when my mouth pops open and gets stuck. A lemon yellow sparkly dress hugs her rack and hips, stopping a few inches south of paradise. The skirt is made out of this see-through gauzy stuff that floats around her long bare legs as she dances down the stairs. And because I must have been a very, very good boy (in a previous life, obviously), she’s wearing heels, a pair of three-inch strappy shoes that I’d like to see wrapped around my waist next.
I meet her at the bottom, settling my hands on her waist and twirling her in a slo-mo circle. Her skirt flies out around us. “You look fantastic.”
Let’s be honest. She looks all the things.
“Hey.” She curls an arm around my neck and lets me whirl her around. “I look like a hot dog with mustard.”
She hums a few bars of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Maple’s always playing a soundtrack.
“Did I mention I love hot dogs and that mustard tops my all-time favorite condiments list?” I drop a kiss on the end of her nose. “I brought you something.”
“You already donated 946 roses to the cause.” Maple turns a little pink as she says this and looks uncertain. It’s the cutest thing ever.
“It was 937, but this is
more fun.”
I want to kiss her for real when I hand her the bright blue box. So badly.
Instead, I watch her pop open the box. She looks surprised—and pleased. I went with the gold charm bracelet so that I have an excuse to keep giving her little souvenirs. The first charm is a tiny, diamond-studded car. I slip it on her wrist.
Lieutenant Bob shouts after us. “Bring back dessert!”
Maple flashes him a wide grin. “Two of everything!”
Frankly, I think Lieutenant Bob deserves to eat everything twice.
When we reach the curb, I have a brief debate with myself. Do I slip in next to her? Perch on the opposite seat? Or just cut to the chase and pull her into my lap? Out of respect for her pretty dress, I slide in next to her. During the ride to the San Francisco Opera, I show her pictures of my new penthouse. It’s fun but it’s also awkward. That’s why I stick to hookups. Relationships with a clearly defined expiration date are so much easier. I thought about giving her a key charm or even a real key, but that would be weird.
“So hit me with the plan for tonight?”
“It’s a charity performance,” she says. “Members of the San Francisco Opera are going to reprise Puccini’s Madame Butterfly.”
I wave my phone at her. “You want to give me the highlights, or should I figure it out for myself?”
She makes a face at me. “Butterfly is a fifteen-year-old geisha who is ‘married’ off to a visiting American naval officer. He promises to return for her when the robins nest, even though he really sees her as a hookup—he’s got big time marriage plans involving a real marriage to the right kind of woman, an American woman. Needless to say it all ends badly, particularly for Butterfly, but the music’s amazing, the fundraising cause is important, and it’s an opportunity for me to meet a few people.”
Yes, it’s a free performance where at the end of the night, after watching a tragedy unfold onstage where no one gets a happy ending, you’re expected to write a check that’s hundreds of times more than purchasing actual tickets would cost. It’s a good thing I’m loaded.
