Page 3 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 3

Chapter 2

Iwas planning to go home. It never occurred to me to do anything else.

But when we finally come down from fucking against a window as all of Boston lies beneath us, I start to gather up my clothes, reaching for my work bag, which is still over by the door.

“What are you doing?” He asks from behind the immense marble island, where he’s busy filling two glasses with water.

“Um, well,” I start, unsure how to finish. Admitting that I’m leaving before he can kick me out seems like it would start a conversation I don’t think he’s ready to have. I don’t know if I’m ready to have it, because part of me is scared that he’ll decide maybe it’s best if we just don’t do this anymore.

And fucking Nixon Blake has become the only thing in my life that I’m sure of these days.

His voice is gruff, and for the first time, he breaks eye contact with me, his eyes dropping to the sink in front of him. “You should stay,” he says finally, his voice slightly unsure. “If you want to.”

I pause, drinking in a long breath and the expanse of this moment. Not only is Nixon Blake inviting me to stay, he’s made it a request. No demand. No taking. I’ve never seen him look so vulnerable, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs.

Instead of a response, I drop my bag back by the door, cross the cold concrete floor, and take the second glass off the marble island, where he’s placed it, waiting for me. I take a long sip, then look up at him and smile.

Something’s changed. Something is different. I have no idea what, but the ground beneath our feet has shifted.

And all I know is that I’m going to stay and see what’s left after the earthquake.

Nixon doesn’t say anything else. He simply takes me by the hand and begins walking down the expansive hall. Once again, I’m greeted by blank white walls, cold concrete floors, and rows of closed doors. At the end of the hall, we finally reach one that’s open, and inside I’m greeted by Nixon Blake’s bedroom. Though to call it a bedroom feels wrong. The word bedroom conjures up images of nightstands stacked with books waiting to be read, perhaps a dresser with a few personal items scattered on top. An alarm clock or a framed photo or a tossed bath towel. Something.

To say Nixon’s room is sparse would be a vast understatement. The room is perched on the corner of the apartment, on the corner of the building. Two of the walls are blank white, the other two are floor-to-ceiling windows, just like the rest of the apartment. These look straight out past Boston Harbor and into the inky black night of the Atlantic Ocean. I feel like if I walked into that corner, where the two walls of windows meet, I’d feel as if I were going to plummet to earth.

The only piece of furniture in the room is a king-sized mattress and box spring, centered on the floor in the middle of the room. It’s topped with white sheets and a single white blanket, a small collection of white pillows waiting for sleep.

And that’s it.

“Is something wrong?” Nixon asks, strolling towards the mattress. His voice is already growing heavy with impending sleep.

I don’t even know how to begin to answer that question. No, nothing’s wrong. But something is definitely … off.

“Can you point me to the bathroom?” I ask. He nods to an open door in the corner of the room as he collapses onto the bed. I scurry over and find the master bath. It’s nearly the size of my entire apartment, with concrete floors and a white tiled walk-in shower with immaculate glass walls. The counter is white marble, the fixtures a harsh stainless steel. While my bathroom is topped with makeup and hairbrushes and toothpaste tubes and various glasses of water that migrated in there and never left, Nixon’s bathroom is, once again, a total blank. There’s not a water spot in sight. Not a tube or jar or pot of anything. I glance over my shoulder to see if he’s watching me, and when I don’t hear anything, I cross to the sink and slowly, carefully pull open the medicine cabinet. Maybe he’s just a person who doesn’t like clutter. Maybe when I open this door, I’ll see the overflowing detritus of an actual person who lives here. But inside all I find is a single toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a single razor, and one can of shaving gel. It’s all lined up perfectly. Nothing out of place. Nothing but blank space. It looks like it’s been staged for a photo shoot.

How could someone live like this?

And, the bigger question, what happened to him for this all to seem normal in his mind?

* * *

The next morning,I creep out of bed before he does, and head for the kitchen. I open the cabinets to see he’s got all the right supplies: nonstick pans, plates, silverware, spatulas, mixing bowls. They all look like they’ve never been used, though. I wouldn’t be surprised to lift them up and find price tags still pristine and stuck to the bottom. When I open the fridge, I find nothing but bottles of water. A quick sweep of the rest of the cabinets turns up nothing but a box of granola bars that look like they were purchased during the last presidential administration. There’s actually a light coating of dust on the box.

“What do you eat?” I ask when he strolls out into the kitchen, still in nothing but his boxers. At that exact moment, the door buzzes. Nixon pulls it open, and a doorman in a uniform nicer than any of the clothes I own holds out a brown paper bag. He studiously keeps his eyes up, ignoring the fact that the man answering the door is practically naked. I’m glad I thought to throw on the sweater that he discarded, because it comes down nearly to my knees and hides the fact that I’m otherwise clad in nothing but my underwear.

“Your food delivery, sir,” he says.

“Thank you,” Nixon replies, taking the bag and shutting the door in the man’s face. I’m not entirely convinced that Nixon even realized an actual human person was standing in the foyer. For as much as he paid attention, he might have thought a robot was at his door. He comes over and places the bag on the marble island. When he opens it, the smell of bacon and eggs wafts out. My stomach growls. We worked up quite an appetite last night … and this morning (twice). “I don’t cook,” he says, passing me a foil wrapped package that turns out to be a bagel breakfast sandwich, melty smoked gouda oozing out the side.

“Ok, but you don’t even have any snacks. Unless you count those old granola bars, which I definitely do not,” I reply through a mouthful of scrambled egg goodness.

At the mention of the granola bars, he stalks over to the cabinet, pulls them from the depths where I discovered them, and promptly drops them into a trashcan hidden beneath the sink. He apparently doesn’t count them, either.

“I prefer to call out for what I need,” he says. There’s a slight edge in his voice that surprises me. It occurs to me that this is the most personal conversation we’ve ever had. And it seems like Nixon isn’t very used to it. “I don’t like clutter. And it’s a perk of being rich.”

I raise my eyebrows, because I don’t like clutter is a hell of an understatement. But he’s starting to look tense, so I let it go.

A river of awkward silence flows between us as we both pay way too much attention on eating our breakfast sandwiches. I don’t think any two egg sandwiches have ever been so doted on in the history of breakfast. Luckily they’re delicious.

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