CHAPTER 8 #2
“What, you don’t want me to find out you’re a bishop who’s wanted by the FBI because they found three women chained up in your basement?”
Uhm… I don’t know how to respond. “That was specific.”
She laughs. “I don’t know why, but when I was in high school, I was obsessed with true-crime stories.
I even did a report on this creep, Barry Sloshmyer.
He claimed to be a bishop, but he kept women chained up in his basement until he unalived them.
Anyway, ever since then, when my friend and I see a creepy guy, we say he looks like a bishop. It’s our code for hard pass.”
I’ve never heard of this Sloshmyer guy, but what she just told me turns my stomach. “Geez, what do you do with a guy like that?”
Her hands fly into the air. “I know, right? You can’t rehabilitate a guy like that.”
What follows is the most random, craziest, unexpected, yet surprisingly fun conversation about what would be a fitting punishment for degenerate reprobates who are beyond saving, and the whole time I’m taken aback at how easy she is to talk to.
I love how the corners of her eyes crinkle when she laughs.
And when I bring up the infamous Jeffrey Dahmer, the way her lower lip protrudes out when she’s disgusted is as cute as it gets.
I also find it strange, albeit in a comforting way, how talking with her feels so effortless, like we’ve known each other for years. A guy could get used to this.
“So,” she says holding her phone up. “What’s your last name?”
Reluctantly, I give it. “Dwyer. Riggs Dwyer.”
Here we go. She’s going to look it up then see me as something I’m not. Happens every time.
Her thumbs move with lightning speed, and I know what comes next… And there it is. Her eyes go wide.
“You look good in a suit,” she mutters softly, more to herself than to me.
She just saw the first thing that comes up, an article about Elsie’s company, Triumph Inc.
Technically, all three of us have equal shares, but Ash and I think of it as her business.
Regardless of who owns what, I’m sure Blondie is looking at the accompanying photo.
It’s the three of us standing in front of a high-rise office building that’s sporting a giant silver sign that reads TRIUMPH.
Underneath it, a smaller sign reads, “Fortune favors the bold.” Unfortunately, the article begins with, “New startup signs military contracts worth fourteen billion putting founder, Elsie Dwyer, on the list of billionaires under thirty. Thanks to her now equally rich older brothers, the internet-famous Riggs and Ash, Elsie’s company appears to be just getting started and investors are lining up hoping she’ll take Triumph Inc public. ”
Needless to say, I’ve seen the article a few times, so I know how it begins.
I wait patiently while Blondie reads the entire thing. Finally, she looks up with an unimpressed, “So, you’re a YouTuber?”
That draws a chuckle from me. I don’t think that article has ever been summed up in such simple terms. The typical response is a series of questions about the business, specifically how solvent it is, followed by nothing short of idolizing the three of us, like Ash and I are also some sort of financial wizards.
That’s Elsie’s department, and as for the solvency, the company has zero debt.
But Blondie didn’t go there. She read it and accurately surmised that my brother and I are, in fact, just YouTubers.
She even ignored the part about us being billionaires. That never happens.
“Yep, you nailed it. Ash and I are YouTubers.”
Still staring at her phone as if what I just said was of zero interest to her, she’s typing something else. A second later she stops and asks, “What’s the name of your channel? Wait, let me guess. Riggs and Ash, right? Oh, here it is.”
Her eyes go even wider as her mouth falls open. “Holy crap!”
“What?”
“Is this for real?” She’s still staring at her phone. “It says you guys have 412 million subscribers.”
“I didn’t realize it had gotten that high. I don’t know much about it, other than it’s less than Mr. Beast, and the only reason I know that is Elsie isn’t happy about it. She’s very competitive that way.”
Blondie’s gaze flicks to mine. This is the part where I usually see stars in a girl’s eyes like I’m some sort of prize they could win if they’re willing to abandon all self-respect.
The things women have whispered in my ear would make a porn star blush.
I hate that, if for no other reason than it’s disingenuous.
They’re not interested in me. They’re interested in an imaginary lifestyle that includes shopping sprees with no-limit credit cards, luxury travel in private jets, and an over-the-top yacht the size of a small city.
If they knew anything about me, they’d know I’m not about any of that. My yacht is a kayak I built myself.
But fortunately, it’s not what I’m seeing in her. If anything, there’s a look of amusement in her eyes as she says, “You didn’t realize? Something tells me you’re the kind of guy who’s oblivious to what’s going on around him.”
I’m not sure what to make of that. I mean, when it comes to things like the business and how many subscribers our channel has, yeah, I don’t really care.
My focus is elsewhere, but I’m not sure I would call it oblivious.
Then again, what else would you call it?
Maybe she’s right, maybe I am willfully oblivious. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not necessarily.”
The warmest smile in her eyes ignites an odd feeling in my chest. She’s so, I don’t know, different—cute beyond words, sassy, fun, easy to talk to, and smart. I want to know everything about her.
But I know better.
I’d only end up hurting her.