Bad Billionaire (Bad Billionaires 1)

sp; “Yeah, you are,” I replied.

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” He was ranting now. Max had always had a temper—it was hard to get going, and it burned slow, but it burned hot, like mine. “I don’t need five million fucking dollars!”

“You have medical bills,” I said. “I know for a fact that you do, and that there are leftover debts from when your piece-of-shit dad died. I also know you’ve cut back on your therapy because your veteran’s pay can’t afford it.”

There was silence on the line. “I was dealing with it,” he said. “I was paying the debts down.”

“Max, you were going to be a million years old before those medical debts were paid off. You’ve been my friend since we were six. What would you do in my place? If you were sitting in this house, and I had medical bills to pay? Tell me. What the hell would you do?”

The silence was choked. I was right, and he knew it, and he hated it. “It’s too much,” he managed at last. “I don’t need this much money.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you do with the rest of it after your debts are paid,” I said. “Invest it. Donate it. Give it to some other vet to pay his bills. I’m sure you know a lot of guys who could use the help.”

“This is bullshit,” he said again. “I should just leave that money to rot in my bank account.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then when you kick the bucket, your kids will get it.”

“I don’t have any goddamn kids, you moron!” he shouted again. Once he was mad, it was hard to cool Max off. “I’m missing a leg and I haven’t even been laid in four years!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Max had never talked about his dry spell, but it would take an idiot not to figure it out. When your best friend never mentions a woman, barely ever leaves his house, and is grumpy as a bear all the damn time, it’s sort of obvious. “No wonder you’re so pissed off,” I said calmly. “Maybe buy some nice clothes and go get yourself a girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole,” he said, but the fury was draining out of his voice. “Jesus, Devon. You could have warned me or something.”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “Sorry.”

“And now I feel like a jerk, which makes me even more pissed off. So I’ll just tell you about Olivia and then I’m going to go work out until I feel better.”

I felt my back straighten. “What about Olivia?”

“I just saw her leave her apartment across the way. She was dressed nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, nice. And I know she got that art gallery job, but it’s after hours, and she had this nice dress on that has these thin straps, and it kind of clings to her ass—”

“You are so dead.”

“Okay, okay. So I chatted up one of the neighbors and found out that Olivia was on her way to a cocktail party at the gallery she works at. Some kind of swanky fundraising event.”

I licked my lip, ideas churning in my head. “Swanky fundraising event, huh?”

“Yeah. So I’m thinking that if anyone can probably get into one of these things, it’s San Francisco’s latest billionaire. Am I right?”

I stood from the bed. “Forget probably,” I told him. “I’m getting in.”

“Well, at least one of us can get laid,” Reilly said. “Jesus, man. Go get your woman back.”

Thirty

Olivia

The Pedersen Gallery was small but up-and-coming, specializing in artists who hadn’t yet hit it big enough to get into places like SFMOMA. It was a small space on Market Street, half dedicated to the permanent collection—which was growing—and half dedicated to time-limited special collections.

I’d been here less than a week, and I already knew I was going to love it. The staff was small, the ideas creative. I was head of the graphic design department, in charge of creating the ads, brochures, gallery maps, and guides to the special collections that were handed out to ticket holders. It should have felt like a career disappointment, doing graphic design for a living instead of creating art, but it was just the opposite. My job, my whole job, every day, was to promote great art alongside people who were as passionate as I was. No more Jelly Bread or l’Orifice. I already felt inspired when I got home every day, itching to create and to try out the new ideas I was being exposed to. It was like a free master class every day, with pay.

Tonight was a fundraiser, the first I’d been invited to. It was featuring a hot new artist who worked with oils. I’d bought a new dress for the occasion, new heels. I’d taken care to tame my curly hair. I’d put on makeup. And I’d picked up my phone at least ten times to call Devon Wilder and ask him to come with me.

In the end, I had chickened out. What if he was mad at me? What if he thought I was just after his money? I hadn’t offered to see him since coming back to town. What if he was looking for someone else? What if he wasn’t interested in a boring art gallery event? What if he said no?