CATCHING THE BILLIONAIRE

Chapter 2

My shift ended at nine, while I hadn’t spoken to any more billionaires, I’d actually done okay.

Somehow, my conversation with Matthew Bloomberg had given me more confidence in what I was doing and my own ability. He’d said I was doing a good job, after all. And, coming from him, that had to mean something.

In any case, I’d even started to enjoy myself once I got the hang of things. Nearly everyone had memories to share or stories to tell, and as I made my way back to my dorm room, I found myself wondering what my story was.

I’d done so well from primary to high school that I’d come to university fully prepared to be called a genius. Except I wasn’t like that at all. That I'm just normal, like everybody else.

And here I was, three and a half years later, finals looming and…

Fuuuck.

I climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to my room. I’d come bottom of the ballot, which meant I should have been living in a dustbin round the back of college, but Beny had come near the top, and since he needed someone to share a room with, that had hiked me up.

He was huddled on the sofa under a duvet, looking tragic.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“Blah.”

“I’m sorry.”

I gave him a sympathetic pat in the shoulder and went into my bedroom to slip into something less socially acceptable, emerging a few seconds later in my boxers and my Favorite Little Pink T-shirt.

We’d been roommates long enough to have established our designated chairs—though, unfortunately, mine was currently a make-do revision station, consisting of my laptop, a pile of books, and a half-drunk bottle of Gatorade.

Mooching over, I grabbed the nearest book and curled up, reading in earnest. Expecting a miracle that the words would stuck into my brain. Because that was totally how it worked.

Beny stirred in his duvet cocoon. “How’s it going?”

“Terrible.”

“What have you got to worry about? It’s English lit.”

He wasn’t actually being mean. My course had a reputation for being easy—probably deservedly, since the earliest lectures started at eleven and, while they weren’t presented as optional, hardly anyone went to them anyway.

“Yes, but how am I supposed to revise every book written in English from 650's to the present day. That’s completely impossible.”

“Can’t you prioritize the important ones or something?”

I only looked at him with raised brows.

“Okay. Okay. I'm just saying...”

I could have explained to him in grand details why I thought that's completely impossible but nobody deserved that long talk. And Beny, was my best and oldest friend. We’d been on the same table in Algebra 101 at my first year and stuck together ever since, despite having nothing in common, except maybe that one time when he’d been drunk enough to let me wank him off.

He was brilliant in everything. Constantly getting internships at MIT. He played in the University's football for the men’s team until his second year, and had recently returned from Uganda, where he’d been part of a team that was repairing a health center. All of which made him the perfect person to do fund-raising thingy…except he's down with the flu.

“In Stephen Fry’s autobiography—” I began.

“Which one? The man’s written more autobiographies than you’ve written essays.”

I just give him a stinky eye, and added. "He said he did well at Cambridge by memorizing a set of first-quality essays and then shoehorning them into whatever question happened to be on the paper.”

Beny nodded. “Sounds like you have a good plan.”

“With one minor drawback.”

“And what would that be?”

“I haven’t written any first-quality essays.” They were mostly seconds and upper seconds, and one returned to sender because I’d written it stoned at half four in the morning when the book had taken on this terrible clarity and I’d been briefly convinced that maybe I was brilliant after all.

“You can still memorize what you’ve got.”

“Except they’re so banal and half-arsed it hardly seems worth it.” I sighed. Then dramatically wailed. “…Oh my God, I’ve wasted three years of my life...”

“You haven’t wasted them,” Beny said consolingly. “You just haven’t done any work in them.”

My wails grew more hysterically.

“Seriously, it’ll be fine. Worst-case scenario is you get a two-two.”

“Worst-case scenario is I fail or get a third.”

“And imagine how glamorous that’ll be.”

“I won’t look like a loser?”

“No, you’ll look like a misunderstood genius.”

Beny's voice was getting even more sinister and whispery. Great, I was essentially making a sick person comfort me. “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking. Does it hurt?”

“No, but it’s weird as hell. It’s like my voice has just disappeared.”

I offered a sheepish smile by way of apology for being self-absorbed and selfish. “Did you make a dodgy deal with a sea witch? Don’t you know, you’ve gotta kiss de girl.”

“I’m worried I’ll give de girl a throat infection.”

Maybe my memorable conversation before with Matthew Bloomberg had left me in a funny mood but I found myself wondering how I’d feel when I looked back on this: another night with my best friend in a dreamy, golden city, talking about my shitty academics and all. I wondered if I’d still understand or if I’d think I was being ridiculous. Or if I’d feel some sense of loss.

Beny tried to say something, but it came out like a rusty gate in a gale.

I winced for him and eyed my Gatorade guiltily. “Um, can I get you something? You sound... not okay...”

“Sounds worse than it is.” He shrugged in this noble I’m going out for a walk and may be some time sort of way. “I just feel bad for letting the other volunteers down.”

“We’re doing okay. And I spoke to this guy named Matthew Bloomberg, who’s apparently super-rich. That could come to something.”

Beny's eyes went wide. “Matthew Bloomberg? Seriously?”

I just shrugged at him.

“You don’t know who he is, do you?”

“Of course I do! It said on the sheet. He’s like a finance guy or something.”

“Niel, he’s a big deal and famously unapproachable. He’s the second youngest self-made billionaire on the Forbes list. He’s been on the cover of TIME and everything.”

“Well, y’know, so’s Donald Trump.”

“And,” Beny added resignedly, “he’s really hot.”

Ah. That was more like it. I put down the Gatorade and reached for my laptop.

“I mean, if you’re into d***s. Literally and metaphorically.”

“He wasn’t a d**k. A bit…intimidating maybe. But I guess if you’re that awesome, you would be.” My cheeks were getting warm just remembering the conversation. “He was kind to me, actually.”

“You’d have to be a monster not to be. It’d be like kicking a kitten.”

“Excuse me, I’m incredibly sexy and— Oh my God.” The results of my image search had just popped up.

“You are such a letch.”

Peeping at Beny over the top of the screen, I gave him double eyebrows. “s**t. I invited him to the dinner as well. What if I have to talk to him and look at him at the same time?”

“I guess it’ll tear a rift in the space-time continuum and we all die.”

Okay—I deserved that. I laughed, blushed a bit at my own ridiculousness. “I bet you anything I end up making a complete i***t out of myself.”

“People like that are insanely busy. He probably won’t even make it.”

Yes. That was a good point. And it would save me a lot of embarrassment.

Except I couldn’t help feeling disappointed too. I mean, not just because he was gorgeous—I was shallow, but not that shallow—but because…Meh, I was probably reading too much into it.

But it would have been nice to meet him.

Hear that soft, unexpectedly shy laugh in person.

“So”—Beny broke into my daydreaming—“are you going to be working on your paper or do you want to watch Luke Cage?”

I checked the clock on my computer—it was past ten now. Hardly worth starting revision. Although, let’s face it, it was that kind of attitude that got me into this mess in the first place. “Is there room under that duvet?”

“Always.”

I settled the laptop on the table, fired up Netflix, and snuggled in next to Nik. “You’re not contagious, are you?”

“Only if I snog you.”

“Hey, it’s possible. You might be overcome by base lust and unable to keep your tongue out of me.”

He flung an arm around and pulled me closer—he smelled slightly like an ill person, but also cozy and familiar. “Yes. That’s definitely a real danger that you’re in right now. With Mike Colter right there.”

“You mean, you’re gay for Mike Colter but not for me?”

“Shhh.”

I’d had this …almost-maybe-actual crush on Beny for basically ever. It could have damaged our relationship, but in my experience, there were two kinds of straight boys in the world: the ones who were terrified that being liked by a gay meant getting bummed the moment they let their guard down and the ones who were comfortable enough to be into it.

Beny was in the second category.

And, honestly, there were probably two kinds of queer boys as well: the ones who had wholesome, healthy relationships with other queers and the ones who preferred to be in love with people they couldn’t have because they were slutty commitmentphobes.

I was also in the second category.

We’re two peas in a pod..

Really...

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