Page 30 of The Billionaire

On the outside, it looked like a lost cause. But on the inside, when you’ve been taken home, you know what it feels like when everything else seems foreign. When you feel lost. And that was me. Every day. Feeling a bit of me lost.

It was the morning of my big race, in attempt to clear my crazed mind and to find centering, I was at the local Starbucks bright and early, ready to order my oatmeal and venti coffee. As I stood in line I saw a woman who looked extremely familiar. I stared at her under my baseball cap that kept my long blonde wavy hair in check and studied her profile as she spoke.

That chin, the way her black shiny hair curled perfectly above her shoulders.

And then she spoke.

“No thank you, keep the change.”

That British accent.

It was the woman from the club who had warned me in the restroom to stay away from the dangerous men in the club.

She wasn’t smartly dressed like she was the night we met. She wore a baseball cap, sweats and running shoes.

Ah, she must be running! Like me! I just had to speak with her.

I quickly and discreetly exited the line to speak to her at the coffee fixing area.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly. I looked around to see if anyone was staring. No one noticed.

“It’s you. Isn’t it?”

She looked up at me behind her dark sunglasses and stopped stirring. She nearly spilled her coffee. She quickly reached for the lid and firmly placed it back over the piping hot liquid. She looked frantic.

“Wait, I’m terribly sorry. I don’t’ mean to alarm you. I just—“

She then ignored me and fled the Starbucks like a maniac. Like a lost puppy, I followed her.

“Hey! Don’t you recognize me? I know I look different without the hair and make up but—”

She turned around and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were pale, dark swollen circles hung underneath, and she looked exhausted.

“Are you running in the race, too?”

“Those men are dangerous. This is the only way for me to escape today in the middle of the race. They won’t ever . . . I’ve said too much.”

She looked around studying bystanders and those reading their paper. No one seemed to notice.

“Run your ass off away from them. Away from here. Trust me.” Her British accent sounded.

She pushed her glasses back up against her nose and hastily brushed passed me.

I watched her pace fast.

Cautiously, yet purposely, I followed her down the sidewalk that led to a shopping center with a lush green courtyard and fountain with a beautiful stone clock. The time was 6:15am. The race would begin in 45 minutes.

She sat down on a bench and put earphones on.

“But I, . . . have medical school.” I sat next to her.

“Then go somewhere else.”

“Somewhere . . . else? I don’t think you understand how hard it was to get into this school.”

“Don’t you know that those men are probably the head of the board of your school. They know who you are, trust me. Those men are men in high places. You think you just earned your first year medical tuition free and clear because you serviced a few men? But it’s not how it works. It’s not how they work. When they want something, they’ll come after you again, except this time, there will not be money exchanged, there will be consequences. Loved ones. Your reputation.”

“I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense.” I shook my head and turned to look at her.

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