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“I know, but god, that was intense. I’m going to be as stiff as a porn star’s cock tomorrow. What did you eat for breakfast? Batteries?”
“No breakfast,” I grin. Apart from my make-believe croissants.
“Ah, you’re doing the intermittent fasting thing? Is it as good as people say?”
I hesitate to reply. Where do I even start? I link arms with my best friend and make for the café.
“Come on, Henderson,” I call as we exit the studio. “I’m buying you coffee.”
Becks makes eyes at me. I can see she’s excited and dying to know everything, and I’m desperate to tell her. I order three coffees and a glass of tap water, then we find the most private booth at the small coffee shop. Henderson grabs the table at the entrance, far enough away from us so that we can talk freely without him hearing. I take a breath.
“What the fuck?” whispers Becks. “If you leave anything out, I’ll hurt you.”
I’m not planning on leaving anything out.
“You are not going to believe this. I don’t even believe it. It’s like a dream.”
“Spill,” she demands, and I do.
I tell her everything except the most graphic details. She’s always been an excellent listener, full of oohs and aahs and asking follow-up questions as if her life depends on knowing the entire story inside out.
Mantra Marble yoga mat?
How big is the penthouse? Like, really. How big? And his cock?
Five times or more? You came five times? No way. You lucky bitch.
“I know!” I whisper back, pulling a weird face. “I’ve never had more than one!”
She puts her hands on the table as if to steady herself and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s just pull ourselves together here for a moment.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“We need to get practical.”
“Yes,” I say again, nodding.
“Now, I think we both know that this is all going to end in a complete shit-show.”
I take a breath. “Yes. It will, won’t it?”
“Definitely.”
The feel-good endorphins from the yoga give way to a rippling kind of dread. I know she’s right.
“Do you think that I should just pull out now to…” What was Alistair’s phrase? “Mitigate the risk?”
“Hell no,” Becks replies. “Only a lunatic would pass up this opportunity.”
“But it’s wrong on so many levels, right?”
“Is it, though?”
“Yes,” I say. “We hate billionaires.”
It was true. We even have matching shirts that say Turn Billionaires into Compost. Mine is old, stretched, and full of holes, but I refuse to throw it out. It makes a very comfortable sleep shirt. Probably won’t wear it at The Raven, though.
“We hate the concept of billionaires,” says Becks. “Just like we hate the concept of industrial farming and pesticides and cutting down trees. And yet, here we sit on wooden chairs drinking coffee.”
