Fuck. I am fucked AF.
Two shots of tequila aren’t going to fix even a fraction of this mess I just got myself into.
CHAPTER 4
Gabriel
I’m not sure what to expect when I arrive at the chosen coffee shop, a little place I’d term hipster. I like that the outside is brick, and the side has a huge mural of a unicorn fighting with a coffee bean. It’s kind of trendy.
I push open the glass door of the little place. I’m immediately greeted with bookshelves off to my left and a coffee counter, equipment, menus on the wall, and a smiling barista off to my right. The girl—and I hate to call her a girl because what exactly do you term a person who looks to be in their early twenties—has a genuine smile, warm blue eyes, and sandy hued hair. She reminds me of Sebastien a little, just in her lighter features.
Sebastien thought this was all great fun when I explained it to him after Pearl—I only found out her name late last night when she texted me the coffee shop’s address and included her name, almost like an afterthought—ditched me. Since she was still hovering around with her friend, although only briefly before she obviously convinced him to bail, Sebastien tried to get me to go strike up another conversation, but I refused.
He can’t wait to hear all about how today goes. He can’t believe I’m doing this. I guess that makes two of us. I think he might be thinking I’m possessed all of a sudden. That also makes two of us. I’ve been possessed by the curse of bad judgment. Wild risk-taking? Most probably.
I’m not sure why, but last night, in the heat of the moment, I was suddenly bombarded with the fact that though I’ve made a couple of billion dollars, I haven’t really done anything with my life. I didn’t want to die of apparent boredom. Not that it would kill me. I just didn’t want to die and have them write on my headstone, ‘here lies a guy who made a piss pile of money and did nothing with it.’
Not that this is going to cost me anything.
I’m actually getting paid by Pearl for doing it.
But something like this could cost me everything. It kind of feels a little bit like a soul contract or something.
If I thought I was nervous, Pearl, who suddenly jumps up from a table in the middle of all those scattered bookshelves, looks like she’s about to hurl. I’d guess she’s seriously hungover from last night, but I know that’s probably not true. Maybe. Maybe she’s hungover and nervous. It looks horrible. Not that Pearl could ever look anything less than gorgeous, because she really can’t. Even with that sour, I just sniffed a really raunchy fart expression she has going on, she is still captivating.
She also has a pair of tight skinny jeans and a cropped t-shirt with a cat riding a shark on, and let me just say I now have a new appreciation for both jeans and t-shirts.
“Hey,” Pearl says softly. Her voice would have betrayed her nerves even if her face hadn’t already. “I’m glad you came.”
“I did. I’m here.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Are you buying?” I can’t help being a dick. I just want to see what she says. I can’t remember the last time anyone ever tried to buy me anything.
As soon as I made even a little bit of money, and by little, I mean my first million, I bought Ted and my mom a new house and two new cars. I paid for a condo for Sebastien because it’s what he wanted, and I bought him a new car as well. I then paid off all their debt and Sebastien’s student loans. Not only that, but I also bought them some shares and stock, and I made investments on their behalf so the money in those accounts could make them money for when they’re ready to use it.
I bought myself a few things too. The whole new house, new car deal, but I made sure it wasn’t anything crazy or even fancy. It was more practical than anything as I didn’t want to be singled out. I hate crowds, and I imagine any kind of fame would be even worse. I like that I have a ton of money and not many people even know my name. Anonymity is seriously underrated. You don’t appreciate it until you lose it.
“Yes, certainly.” Pearl frantically nods like I might turn around and walk out of there if she doesn’t buy me a drink.
Now I feel a little bit guilty. I slide my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans. Before coming, I did debate wearing something nicer but in the end, I just went for the good old jeans and t-shirt combo that I prefer. I work from home most of the time now, so it’s my go-to outfit and my favorite one unless walking around the house in my gotch counts. Then that’s definitely my favorite.
“No. I was kidding. Let me get it. Whatever you want.”
Pearl eyes me, then slowly eyes the menu. “Really?”
“My treat. I’m not officially working for you yet.”
I’m not sure Pearl is naturally given to blushing, but at that, her face goes scarlet again. She’s pretty when she’s flustered. Like, really pretty. I have to remind myself that she thinks I’m gay. I feel like I haven’t done enough good things in my life, and life has been pretty good to me. I can do Pearl this solid favor—go to the wedding with her, meet her parents, and get the heck out, all while not ever hitting on her. I can do that.
Pearl spins around and turns to the barista, who is eyeing us both with open curiosity. I feel like as soon as we pick a table, she’s going to be lurking around with her phone out, recording the whole conversation to playback and laugh about with all her friends later. Or maybe she’ll be nice and just eavesdrop like the good old days before technology dominated everyone’s life. That’s how out of place I feel with Pearl.
“Can I get a matcha latte, the blended one? The cold one, I mean. Blended. Yes, uh, with whipped cream?”
“Certainly.” The barista smiles back at us. “I know exactly the one.” She presses a button on the register.
“And a muffin? The orange cranberry?” Pearl asks.
“Sure.” Another button press later, and the barista is smiling at me expectantly.
I’m not exactly anything but a black coffee type of guy. Yeah. Whatever. Being rich doesn’t make you fussy. At least not when you weren’t rich from when you were little. I debate about ordering a black coffee, but it’s hot out, so I rattle off something about iced coffee with whip something since it’s the first thing I read off the menu.
I pull out a few bills then deposit all the change into the tip jar at the front of the counter. The girl gets to work, and a few minutes later, we have our drinks and the muffin. I try a tentative sip through the orange straw and immediately decide I like iced coffee whatever with whatever whip. It’s better than regular black coffee, even if it is a little sweet.
Pearl takes her drink and muffin before spinning around and leading the way to a table near the back. I guess she doesn’t want to be listened in on either. Somehow that little shop is deeper than it looks, and as we pass by rows and rows of books, I get to spend a good deal of time admiring Pearl’s tight ass in jeans that aren’t so much tight as they are stretchy. Anyway, it’s nice, and I like it. A lot. More than I should. Damn it. Does checking out her ass already count as hitting on her?
“So.” Pearl barely waits for me to sit down before she starts talking. She studies her drink intently, which she’s gripping with both hands. I imagine it’s cold. She’s probably going to frostbite herself, but that’s obviously the least of her worries. “I really didn’t think you’d come. Thank you for showing up to hear even more about this crazy plan.”