Page 29 of The Bet
I reach into my pocket and find the edge of her panties, just to make sure they’re still there.
They are.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that there is no way I’m letting her go.
I release the panties,slow and deliberate. They stick to my finger for a second, glued by some old trace of her vaginal nectar, and the animal part of me wants to bring them to my face, to inhale. But I’m a man with rules. I don’t break them for anyone.
Or, I didn’t, until now.
The logic of it is simple, almost laughably so: For women who want a lifetime of luxury, my sperm is currency. Every ejaculation is a possible heir, a potential lawsuit, a vector for eighteen years of child support and Sunday visitation. There’s not a trust in the world that can out-lawyer a vindictive ex with a DNA test and a copy of my tax return. I’ve had my share—more than my share—of women who thought they’d found a shortcut to a lifetime of passive income. Some were brazen: “Oops, I forgot my pills!” Some played the long con, waited until I was just drunk enough to think it was a good idea. I paid them offwith sapphires, with condos, with untraceable wires, but the one thing I couldn’t buy back was my own DNA.
So I learned. I set limits. I made it a point of pride to keep my legacy under lock and key. If a woman wanted something from me, she had to beg for it—and even then, I’d finish where it couldn’t possibly matter. On her tits, on her tongue, most often in her ass, because there’s a kind of psychological beauty in watching a good girl surrender that final inch of herself. In the stories, that’s where the devil gets you: one tiny, filthy compromise at the end of a list of good intentions.
Which is why, as I watch Andie across the table, I know I’m fucked. She’s not like the other women, who were Machiavellian schemers. She doesn’t even know what Machiavellian means, most likely. She sits there, blue dress riding high on her thighs, hair wild and untamed, her face as naked as the first day of summer, and I want to ruin her all over again.
I’m suddenly conscious of our size difference, how small she looks across the table. She’s tucked her hair behind both ears, but it won’t stay, strands falling into her face and making her look younger, messier, more real. It would be so easy for me to completely ruin her … and that’s exactly what I plan to do.
We both reach for our coffees at the same time, then both pull back, smiling in a way that’s more grimace than grin.
“So,” I say.
“So,” she echoes. She stares at the little spoon beside her saucer, then looks up, determined. “Do we do this the normal way? Or just, you know, pretend last week was a weird dream?”
I laugh. “Whatever makes you comfortable. I’m adaptable.”
She considers. “Normal, then. For now.”
We start with the basics, pretending we’re people who don’t already know the shape of each other’s shadows. I give her my name, full and unabridged. “Thomas Moreland,” I say, watching her for a reaction. “I’m on the Board of Visitors here. I used to go to Century, but I graduated years ago. Now I run a little company that eats other companies for breakfast.”
Her eyes go wide, but then she recovers and giggles a little. “That’s a yummy breakfast. I’m Andie,” she says, and I can tell she’s weighing whether to give me her last name. She doesn’t, and I respect it. “I’m a senior. English major. Probably going to need a fifth year, though.”
“Work-study?” I guess, and she nods.
“I do catering as my work-study. Plus I live in the dorms, so it ends up being a lot.” She pauses, then adds, “But not as bad as some. There’s a girl down the hall juggling three jobs and organic chemistry. I just serve canapés to rich people.”
“Rich people can be the worst,” I say, and she laughs. It’s a good sound, a little rough, like gravel under sugar. I want to make her do it again.
She sips her coffee, eyes darting to my hands, then back to my face. “So what brings you to this part of campus? Other than the world’s worst espresso?”
I shrug. “I have a soft spot for lost causes. This café, for instance. It’ll be bankrupt by December, but I like the vibe.”
She grins, and for a second I think she’s going to call me on my bullshit, but then she just says, “You must get bored of all the fancy stuff.”
“Anything can get boring when it’s all the same. I like things that surprise me.” I let my voice go low, deliberate. “You surprised me.”
Her cheeks flush, and she picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. “You surprised me, too. I mean—” She glances up, eyes wide. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugs, shoulders curling in. “Not this, I guess. Not…” Her voice fades, but her eyes linger on my mouth, and I know what she’s thinking. I know, because I’m thinking it too.
There’s a silence, but it’s not hostile. It’s heavy, like a thunderhead.
I decide to burst it. “Look, I should say this up front: I know who you are. I heard someone call your name at the fundraiser. It stuck in my head.”
She blinks, startled. “You did?”
“Hard to forget a name like Andie for a woman.” I say it with a little smile, just enough to let her know it’s meant as a compliment.
