Page 22 of Billionaire Romance

The blonde looks up at me kindly. “It’s a wonder you’re even related to him. Make sure he gets home safe. I relish the thought of the hangover he’ll have in the morning.”

Laughing, we say goodbye, and I walk over to Ryan, who’s wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

“It wasn’t that funny, asshole,” I say, and reach into Ryan’s jacket pocket for his wallet. I take out his card and throw it to the bartender.

Ryan’s completely unaffected. He’s finishing his drink, and I can tell by his posture and expression that he’s looking over the bar’s patrons, trying to see if there’s another woman he can hit on. He really disgusts me, in part because he reminds me of myself, once I graduated from college. I went right to work for my grandfather traveling, under my older brother Martin’s supervision. Martin was already dating his wife at the time, but I always found a client or an old college friend to hit the town with no matter what city I was in. London, New Orleans, Vienna. I’d black out and wake up in bed with a different woman in each city. Luckily that lifestyle didn’t even last a year before I realized it was a miserable existence. So often, I realized in retrospect, I thought I was the big man of the night while the women I was with thought I was a fool: racking up drinks on my tab and sniggering behind my back at the pipsqueak who thought he was God’s gift just because he had an unlimited expense account.

After I gave that all up, I started spending more down time with Martin, and he taught me more about the business, and got me to a level where I was traveling on my own to meetings by my second year. He also helped me discover my love of the outdoors, and the time I spent with him and Millie hiking, skiing and fishing, gave me lots of hobbies to replace drinking and women.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I guess I’m moving into another chapter of my life again. I’m ready to find someone to share my life with. Maybe it’s time to curtail the traveling, and settle down, like Martin did with Millie. I wonder if my attitude shifted because I met Weaver, or if it was just the right time, right place.

Ryan belches, and I look down on him with disgust. Once I get him back to his hotel and through the meeting tomorrow morning, I’m going to find a way to limit our interactions. He’s fine at family holidays, but I don’t want to end up on the road with him again.

“Let’s go, pal,” I say as I clap him on the back. “It’s time to get back to the hotel. Early morning tomorrow.”

I feel him start to stand, and even though he’s unsteady, I’m relieved. I thought I’d have to sling him over my shoulder and drag him outside.

“Seriously,” he growls once we hit the sidewalk, “women in New York are the biggest bitches. No sense of humor.”

Not a cab in sight. Shit.

“Actually,” I remind him, “those women were based out of Cincinnati. You’d know that if you ever shut up long enough to listen. And they did have a good sense of humor. We all had a good laugh at your pathetic ass.”

I whistle through two fingers as a cab goes by. The sharp sound pierces the street’s silence and does the trick. The cab stops halfway down the block. I start walking, hoping Ryan will just follow me.

“Fuck you, Chris,” Ryan says defensively. “You think you’re so special.” His voice is just a few feet behind me, so I’m relieved he’ll actually get in the car with me. There’s nothing I want more than to say goodbye to my brother right now, but I won’t leave him here, in the middle of Manhattan alone and loaded.

“Hey, man,” I say to the cabbie as I slide in. “We’ll be making two stops. I’m at The Plaza and my brother here is at the…Ryan,” I shout, trying to get his attention. “Where are you staying?”

I glance down and see he’s opened Tinder and is swiping past pictures of women. I poke him in the ribs to get his attention.

“Standard. East village,” he mumbles, without even looking up.

We drive in relative silence except for Ryan’s occasional remarks: “Whoa look at those tits,” “dog,” “she’d have to wear a bag on her head.” Listening to him is making me angry. I’m angry he has no respect for these women, but I’m also angry he has no respect for himself or the family name.

“Can you shut up, Ryan?” I say. “Just stop it. I can’t listen to you.”

“When did you get so stuck up, Chris?” he spits out the words and they sound as if they’re laced in poison. “Everybody thinks you’re so perfect. The golden child of this family. And it’s gone to your head. You think you’re like Pop, like Martin, but you aren’t. You’re no better than me deep down. So just stop being a God damned pussy all the time.”

I stare out the window and ignore him. After all, we have to present a united front at our meeting in the morning. I can tell he’s looking for a fight. If he can’t find some random woman to debase for the night, a knock-down-drag-out fight with me will take second place. I won’t bite. Because I’m not like him. I’m nothing like him.

We pull up to The Standard and he gets out without even saying goodbye. It’s probably better that way. The car door closes with a loud bang, and as the cabbie pulls away, I see him giving me the finger. As we turn the corner, I see that he’s walking away from the hotel, probably to the bar up the street.

I take out my phone and pull up my text exchange with Weaver from earlier in the day. I promised her space, but right now, I really want to hear her voice, to talk to her. Normally, if I had a shitty night or stressful meeting, I’d hit her up on the Sugar Girl app. Sometimes just a quick “Hi, how are you doing” was enough for me, to connect with her, with Echo. But now that she knows who I am, it’s not simple, and suddenly I realize how much I’ve depended on her companionship, even if it has been over the internet in bytes, rather than sitting side by side, talking to each other.

And after having her last night, I need more. More of her body. I want to feel her skin, taste her. My jacket feels too tight. I hate this feeling, not having control, not being able to get what I want, when I want it. I type.

Please Weaver. Talk to me?

I stare at the screen but there’s nothing to look at. She’s not texting back. My hand hurts from squeezing it so tight, imagining her seeing my message and ignoring me. I’m angry at myself. There are so many mistakes I’ve made, and what if Weaver decides I’m too much trouble? Greater than the anger, though, is desperation. My mind is racing, thinking of ways to persuade her to be with me, to just answer my fucking text. But I don’t know what to do.

The cab jolts to a stop and I realize we’re in front of The Plaza. I hand the cabbie my money and walk up to the hotel. I make it all the way up the elevator and into my room without making eye contact with a single person. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lost, at a loss for what to do. If I can’t talk to Weaver, all I want is to sleep, to turn off my brain for a few hours and hopefully wake up to find a message from her. I send her one last message before I get under the covers.

Good night.

I strip off my clothes down to my boxers and splash cold water on my face. I’m across the room, in the bathroom, brushing my teeth when I hear my phone come to life. I don’t dash across the room this time to see who it is. I’ve given up hope and I worry it’s my brother, texting me inappropriate pictures or just his general brand of harassment. When I see Weaver’s name on the phone, I feel weightless.

Meet me in our room?

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