Page 7 of The Billionaires

By saguaro’s juices, this sucks really bad.

I sneak a glance at the hottie—I mean, asshole.

What would he say about someone with dyslexia wanting a college degree? Probably that I’d need a university that uses coloring books. In truth, even coloring books wouldn’t help that much—I can never stay inside those stupid lines.

I sigh and look away, increasingly worried. My dreams aside, what if the elevator stays stuck for a while?

The most immediate problem is my growing need to pee—but paradoxically, a longer-term worry will be finding liquids to drink.

I wonder… If you’re thirsty enough, does your body reabsorb the water from the bladder? Also, could I MacGyver a filter to reclaim the water in my urine with what I have on me? Maybe through cat hair?

I shiver, and only partially from the insane AC that’s somehow reaching me even in here. In the short term, it would be so much better if it were hot instead of cold. I’d sweat out the liquids and not need to pee, though I guess I’d die of thirst sooner. I sneak an envious glance at the large stranger. I bet he has a bladder the size of a blimp. He also has a stainless-steel bottle that’s probably filled with water that he likely won’t share.

There’s also the question of food. I don’t have anything edible with me, apart from a can of cat food… and, theoretically, the cat herself.

No. I’d sooner eat this stranger than poor Atonic.

As if psychic, the stranger’s stomach growls.

Crap. With this guy being so big and mean, he’d probably eat the cat. After that, he’d eat me… and not in a fun way.

I’m so, so screwed.

CHAPTER 5

LUCIUS

Why is she prancing around like that? Is she trying to be annoying? Probably, and it’s working—to the point where my eyes are feeling itchy from watching her zoom back and forth in this tiny space.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the guitar riffs in my headphones, but somehow, I still feel her presence.

Probably because of how her scent moves around.

She smells like freshly cut grass and sunshine.

I peek through my eyelashes just as she pulls out a CD player from her purse and attaches it to wired headphones.

A CD player? Should I tell her it predates even the antique she calls a phone?

No. Better not to engage. She might sniff out the dissonance of me being so into tech and Ancient Rome, and remark that instead of an iPhone, my favorite calculating device should be an abacus.

I sneak another peek. She stops pacing and carefully sets down her huge purse in the corner. The thing looks heavy. I wonder what she keeps in there. A small horror-movie clown/demon, It style? A Chucky-esque killer doll?

I rub my increasingly itchy eyes. Another possibility is that she uses the purse as a makeshift sleeping bag. I’m pretty sure she’s small enough to fit inside it.

As she resumes her pacing, she fiddles with the controls of the CD player.

I pause my own music to hear what she’s listening to.

Hmm. It’s just some woman’s voice talking.

An audiobook? Do they still make those on CDs?

The one positive thing I can say about my partner-in-jam is that she’s done a good job of keeping my mind away from the clusterfuck that is my real estate meeting.

Until now, that is.

Fuck. If I don’t get that land, Novus Rome will have another setback, the first one being when those tree huggers raised a stink about deforestation at the original location I chose.

---