Leaning back with my hands clasped behind my head, I kick my boots up on the table. As heat from the fire warms my feet, I close my eyes and draw in the crisp air through my nose. It’s perfect and every muscle in my body begins to relax. “This is what it’s allabout,” I groan.
“Yeah,” Blondie mutters with her furry boots on the table next to mine. “I could stay out here all night.”
All night? Great, now it’s all I can think about, the two of us alone out here until sunrise. It just keeps getting worse.
A few minutes of comfortable silence pass before she turns her head my way. “I can’t believe you get paid to do this. Must be nice.”
A few stars appear in the twilight. It’ll be dark soon. “It’s not a bad life for the most part.”
“For the most part? What’s the downside?”
Okay, she’s quick and doesn’t miss a thing. I like that. It’s so much better than when they think acting dumb and ditsy is sexy. Maybe it is for an insecure guy, but I’ve never been accused of being insecure. “I’d say the biggest downside is being recognized all the time, like with those boys earlier. I’ve never liked the attention.”
“How famous are you? Those boys are friends of mine. I couldn’t believe they knew who you were and I’ve never heard of you.” She turns to face the evening sky as she pulls out her phone. “What’s your last name?”
“That’s a bad idea.” I hate it when people look me up, especially women.
Then again, men can be just as bad. They either treat me like a celebrity, or they react with some sort of dick-measuring contest, like three weeks ago when Elsie brought in a guy to install some new sound equipment in her editing studio. Someone must have said something because I’d known the guy for less than ten minutes when he decided to look me up. A minute later he felt the need to tell me he was a defensive end on his state-champion high-school football team back in 2012, and he even felt the need to inform methat he could bench 250 pounds.
Somewhere on Elsie’s company website there’s a photo of me benching 425. It was a charity event for a children’s hospital where patrons pledged ten dollars for every pound Ash and I could bench and squat. I didn’t tell the guy about the photo. That would have been a dick move. Instead, I did what I always do in those situations. Out of politeness I acted like I was impressed. Whatever.
But women are worse. As soon as they see what’s been reported about me, suddenly they see a solid-gold sugar-daddy halo hovering over my head.
“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 fordegenerate 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 takeTriumph 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!”
