Beauty and the Billionaire

I don’t know. It’s in the past and I guess it doesn’t really matter from an objective standpoint. Mason’s not the first man I’ve been with, and while I don’t think my own history, even were it to be exaggerated, would hold a candle to his, I also don’t think it would be fair for him to judge me by the people I’ve been with in the past.

At least I know he’s clean.

Mason’s got a fight coming up, the first one of the tournament, and so he had to go in for a blood test before they’d let him enter the ring. I went with him and the guy’s clean as a whistle. I got one too, just for the hell of it. No surprises: I’m clean, too.

Still, if he does have the kind of past it sounds like he did, is he really going to be able to handle a real, serious relationship?

I almost don’t notice when class ends.

“Hey, Ash,” Nyla, one of my acquaintances from class says, walking over to me. “Got anything going right now?”

I’m so lost in my thoughts it takes me a few seconds to process that I’m being talked to, a few more to process what she’s asking.

“Uh,” I say, pulling out my phone to check the time. “No, I’m free. What’s up?”

I don’t know why I had to check my watch. I know what time my class gets out. I’ve really got to figure out a way through the clutter.

“Wanna grab some lunch?” she asks. “We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk over the last little while. You’ve been pretty busy with your boyfriend.”

Not in the last week or so.

“Sure,” I tell her. “I could eat.”

“Great!” she beams.

Nyla and I don’t know each other very well, but after we hit it off in a class we had together last year, we’ve tried to get together every once in a while for food and a chat.

We chat a bit about classes and professors and current events on campus at first, but once we’ve gotten our food and we’re sitting down, the conversation stalls.

I’m eating my watery penne pasta with its flavorless marinara sauce on top and Nyla’s looking away every time I glance in her direction.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” she says. “Well, kinda.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You just look like you’re totally somewhere else,” she says.

Yeah. I suppose I am.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “So, what’s new with you?”

She starts talking about a new boyfriend and I’m tuned out again. I start to get a little nervous as it sounds like she’s in the middle of asking me a question I wasn’t listening to, but an incoming text saves me.

“Sorry,” I tell her. “I really have to check this.”

“It’s fine,” she says, and I check the message.

It’s from Mason.

It says, “We need to talk.”

Okay.

Everyone knows that phrase only means one thing. It’s the pre-breakup breakup that kind of softens the blow when the axe comes down.

“Nyla, I’m sorry,” I tell my classmate. “I’ve got to go. Something’s come up, and I—”