Page 47 of The Billionaire

13

The only timeI’ve ever seen the inside of a luxury private jet were from seeing photos of them in the USWeekly magazines my roommate and best friend in the world, Shelly, would leave strewn here and there in our apartment or in the Forbes magazines where she unabashedly circled a few “potentials” with a sharpie and hung in her room.

Don’t ask. She’s obsessed with marrying a billionaire. In fact, it’s her who should be in the position I was in. Not me. Not small town girl, Stanford medical student from east Texas who isn’t the “swoon over money” type.

My whole life, I’ve envisioned going to medical school, being a surgeon and making my own way in the world. I finally made it. I had class in the morning and here I was ditching class one month into medical school.

Never in a million years did I ever envision a gorgeous man whisking me away on a private jet.

I met my gorgeous lover in a—cough— secret elite sex club. I was invited to attend via an elaborate invitation. I was told that if I attended that night, my entire first year of medical school would be paid in full. So I went. I saw the invitation as divine providence since my funding had just fallen through and my dreams were in jeopardy of being crushed. I didn’t have the slightest clue what I was getting myself into when the limo pulled up to take me away for the night. But alas, that’s where I met him—Kyle McMaster. One taste of him...and well...I never wanted something or someone so badly.

So damn bad.

And now here we were. Together at last. He saved me from a night of absolute terror with a creepy-overweight-mustache-man who was about to have his way with me during my second attendance at the club months later from our first meeting. He swept in and saved me and as he pressed me against the brick cool wall in an estate somewhere in the Redwoods, us both hot in need, he invited me to have breakfast with him in the morning.

Breakfast being, oh yeah, in Maui. As in Hawaii. As in, “hop on a private jet and have effing breakfast with me.”

Who does that?

People who have endless money at their disposal and their reciprocates—us, me, who have it very bad—in very deep, elbow deep, tingly infatuation and incredible lust bad. The kind of bad where you daydream of the person night and day and feel a gaping hole in your heart because you are apart.

I knew I had class in the morning and responsible McKenzie, the one who always had all her ducks in a row, almost said no to him. Not because I wasn’t crazy about him, but, because I had a problem. I was a tad bit analytical and had a major problem with going with the flow, and steering off course. Okay, tad bit is an understatement.

But I made a choice that it was damn time to live a little. Screw everything having to be in its perfect place. I could miss a day of class and take an extended weekend.

As I sat in the oversized plush leather chair flying thousands of miles in the sky with him, I thought about how nothing could have prepared me for feeling…well, different. I’ve seen “wealthy” before on The Real Housewives... that—yes—Shelly always watched. I saw reality shows but never, ever, ever experienced the luxury life of a billionaire. Hell, a billionaire. Shit that’s a lot of money!

I could care less that he’s rich though. It’s just icing on the cake that I’m not sure I can even taste and enjoy because I feel uncomfortable with that much wealth. No, I don’t see dollar signs when I see this man. I see past the exterior and feel an intense connection when we are together unlike any other experience I’ve had with any man in my entire twenty-two and a half years of life.

When we are together.

Ah, big squeal. There he sat in front of me, still dressed in his tux and I in my Oscar worthy dress. I ached for him so badly. He fulfilled a hot fantasy of mine months ago in the club and well, what’s the saying, once you go black you never go back? He’s my black even though he’s white with tan skinned. I’m addicted.

“Champagne?” A male flight attendant dressed impeccably in a suit asked. It was one of those expensive bottles—Cristal brut from 1990, and I was just about to answer when Kyle—oh just knowing his name and knowing he was next to me, we were actually going away together!—This didn’t feel real!—answered for me.

“Yes, she’ll have some champagne.”

I watched as he removed the cork and poured it into gold-rimmed crystal glasses and I couldn’t help but laugh on the inside that this is exactly what Shelly always wanted. Life is funny sometimes.

I felt a little sleepy as the fizz tickled my nose. After all, it was something like two thirty in the morning, but there was no way in hell I was missing a single hour spent with—sigh—him.

He sat across from me in his dashing tuxedo and I felt my insides just melt. How anyone was that handsome, and that rich, and has substance on the inside—from the conversation we had about him loving theology and helping the poor—well, I was just beside myself. I was waiting for someone to just pinch me.

I didn’t even recognize myself in this setting and felt like an imposter. But, none-the-less, he genuinely, genuinely, genuinely showed sincere interest in me and I believed him. If this was his life, I had to comply.

He took a sip from his flute.

“Do you like Maui?”

“I’ve . . . I honestly can’t say. I’ve never been.”

His eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face.

“Oh, I have so much to show you.” He brushed the bottom of his jaw. “It’s a shame you have medical school in the…“ Then he stopped his words probably at the change of my facial expression.

“I mean, what I’m saying is, we could have so much fun together. And when was the last time you had some fun? Besides the club that is?” He winked. His tone wasn’t derogatory. It wasn’t demeaning. It was honest.

I smiled politely and looked down at my dress.

---