Julia

I unlock the door to my apartment, and I’m greeted with the cool air and nagging whine of my window unit working hard against the summer heat that seems to have won the battle in the musty hallway. I check over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. I can’t shake the feeling that someone knows I have Sebastian Rich’s wallet, and he’s going to jump out at any moment to take it.

In my imagination, he isn’t exactly nice about it.

I close and lock my door behind me, checking through the peephole to make sure no one has appeared. I make sure all of my blinds and curtains are drawn closed so that no one can see inside the apartment.

A soft meow greets me, and I reach down to pet my cat, Samson. I found him in a Dumpster when he was a tiny kitten, and he decided to keep me. He’s sleek and black, with large yellow eyes. Sometimes he likes to hide in shadowy corners of my apartment, and all I see are those eyes peering at me, which can be pretty darn freaky.

Samson follows me farther into the apartment, which is a tiny one-bedroom with random furniture I’ve collected. A rickety coffee table in the living room with magazines and glasses scattered across it. A TV that’s seen better days; a side table with a dying plant drooping on it. None of the furniture I bought myself; I either inherited it or found it for free on Craigslist (thank God for the free stuff section—otherwise I’d have nothing to sit on).

I plop down on my couch. It’s the same tired old couch that’s in everyone’s first apartment, the hand-me-down of dubious origin. It’s gray and brown…I think. It might’ve had some kind of floral pattern on it, but now it’s just dingy and faded. And while this was and still is my first apartment, the couch should have been replaced several times over at this point. If I’d had the money to spend on something nicer, that is. Which I don’t.

After returning to Cooper’s and profusely apologizing to She-Hulk for running out on her, I finished out my shift. She-Hulk seemed like she wanted to fire me right then, but instead I got a glare and a lecture before being sent off to my station.

Now, still sitting on the couch, I set my purse down on the floor next to me and fish out the wallet with one hand. My fingers wrap around its satisfying girth and weight, and the interior lures me like a piece of forbidden fruit. I’m itching to learn more about Sebastian, but I don’t want to invade his privacy more than necessary. Then again, there’s probably a medical card inside his wallet that might help me track down what hospital he’s at, or a business card with his phone number. He’d appreciate me checking in on him, wouldn’t he? Telling him I have his wallet and have every intention of getting it to him?

I open the folded piece of leather and once again see his driver’s license photo sticking out from the pocket that hides his personal information. Slowly, I slip it out of the pocket and stare at his picture. I see more than his gorgeous features this time. Maybe it’s because he’d looked so vulnerable lying on the grocery store floor, but now I imagine I can see so much more to him than bedroom eyes, a firm jawline, and silky hair that would feel heavenly as I ran my fingers through it. I fancy I see courage in that stubborn chin. Honor in his sharp cheekbones. Passion and humor and kindness in his golden eyes.

I feel like I know him all of a sudden, that we share an intimate connection, and I’m filled with the deep-seated knowledge that Sebastian Rich is worth getting to know not because he’s Big Sexy, but because he’s a good man. And damn if that doesn’t make him even more attractive to me than before.

Finally, I put the license on the table beside the open wallet. Then I hesitate.

I clear my throat, then flip through the credit cards. I open the pocket where his cash is kept and pull out the stack, in case he’s stuck something in with the bills, which is what I’d do. Nothing. I lay the money out on the table and let my fingers work into the crevices of the soft leather, looking to find what else is hiding deep inside. I can tell there’s something behind the credit cards, but I can’t get it to come out. My fingers catch a slit in the fabric, spread open the compartment, and shake the wallet lightly. Two square packets fall out onto the table with the telltale ring of the condoms inside. I feel my face flare, set the wallet down on the table, and out of sheer curiosity, I flip the wrappers over to see what Mr. Rich uses to wrap himself up for the ladies.

“Oh, Mr. Rich,” I exclaim as I see the size of the condoms–XL. “I guess all those vitamins and supplements do work.” I force my eyes off the condoms so I can keep digging through his wallet, but I can’t force my mind off the bulge I saw in his jeans when he was in the store earlier today. I imagine how well he fills those extra-large condoms, and that leads to thoughts of how well he would fill me.

So much for being attracted to his inner goodness.

Desire sparks inside me at the thought of Sebastian’s thick, hard manhood stretching my insides taut. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, letting the wave of desire wash over me and away.

I can’t get caught up in fantasies right now. I need to know who this man is. I mean I know who he is, but I want to know who he is.

“I could just drive over there right now,” I say, looking at Samson. “I could drive over there, climb in a window, and wait for him to find me in his bed. It will turn out he’d just been a bit dehydrated, but he’ll be grateful that I came to his rescue, once by calling 911 and then again by returning his stuff. He’ll be so grateful he’ll want to give me a reward, something far more precious than cash. Oh, it would be perfect. If I didn’t end up giving him a heart attack or wind up in the slammer first.”

I pick up the driver’s license while I’m talking to myself and flip it around in my hand. Then I shove it back into its pocket. I do the same with the condoms. I’m closing the wallet back up when I notice a hint of white sticking out from behind the license. How many pockets does this thing have? I sit back down and commence to work two pieces of paper out slowly, vigorously.

One of them is smooth, like photo paper. The other looks textured, like a business card. Once I get them out far enough, I pinch the pieces of paper and pull them out all the way.

“So much for that idea.”

I’m holding a photo of Sebastian Rich and a beautiful blonde with eyes as blue as a cloudless summer sky. They’re standing in front of a house with a For Sale sign in front of it. They’re both smiling, and Sebastian has his arm around the woman’s shoulder.

He’s wearing a blue dress shirt and gray slacks with his signature smile. Next to him, the thin blonde is wearing a tight black skirt that stops just above her knees, exposing her perfect legs beneath it. She’s got a black blazer on over a white blouse tucked into her skirt. Her body is perfect. She has narrow hips that are only slightly curvy, yet the curves of her generous breasts are enviable. She has the most beautiful golden hair, and a smile that is friendly and contagious.

It’s pretty obvious I’m looking at a house they bought, though I don’t see a wedding ring on anyone’s finger. But, hey, times have changed. I’ve seen a lot of married couples who don’t wear rings. Or more likely, they’re cohabitating. Either way, unless I delve into Fatal Attraction territory, Rich is definitely off the market. Not that a man like him was ever lining my shelves to begin with.

I look at the business card, expecting to find the name of the realtor who sold them the house.

Ashley Rich, Realtor.

I look back at the picture. The blonde is obviously Ashley. She is just as obviously his wife.

“And I’ve been sitting here fantasizing about a married man,” I groan, letting the photo and the card drop from my hands. I already feel like the other woman, and the extent of our relationship has consisted of him passing out, me stalking him both in person and through the contents of his wallets, and bam, a brick wall. “Time to forget about Mr. Rich.”

But I realize I can’t. Not yet. I slump back on my couch, the cool air pumping out of my dying window unit. Samson hops up onto my lap and beings purring.

“No, we’re too far in it now,” I tell the cat. I take another look at the house in the picture. It’s a small, quaint little one-story house with a nicely trimmed yard. It looks like the perfect little home to raise a perfect little family.

And for some reason, I’m overcome by such a cloud of depression that I stand up—Samson lets out an annoyed meow—leave the wallet where it is, go into my bedroom, fall into bed, and cover my head with a pillow. Maybe I even scream.

According to the searches I’ve done on my laptop in the café near my apartment, Sebastian Rich goes by Bastian.

Bastian.

It would be obnoxious if he didn’t look like a Bastian, sexy and mysterious, with eyes that sparkle with vitality when he’s not passed out cold on a grocery store floor.

I’ve only been on my laptop for fourteen minutes so I can’t claim to be an expert on all things Mr. Rich, but I’ve gleaned enough to know some of my speculations were right.

And some of them were wrong.

He comes from money. He works in a high-rise building downtown. He often wears a suit and tie to work.

And yes, he’s most definitely out of my league.

But he’s not married. Ashley Rich, it turns out, is his sister.

I almost wish he were married.

Then, at least, I’d only have to imagine him in a serious relationship with one woman, as opposed to engaging in a string of sexual encounters with one woman after another.

Turns out, Bastian Rich is a playboy. At least, if you believe the evidence online, of which there is plenty.

It’s currently the second busiest time for cafés in this city—a time when white-collar workers need shots of caffeine adrenaline before hitting the night scene after work. I have internet service on my phone but not my in apartment—too costly—which is why after moping at home for a while, I headed to this café.

The only table available is a small tabletop for two situated in the very center of the café. Even though there is only one empty stool at my table, I still feel like the loneliest girl in the room. There is no privacy between myself and those behind me, but even at the risk of being caught internet stalking Mr. Rich, I keep right on doing it.

I click the back button and return to his company website—RichCo.org. It has a nice, luxurious ring to it, but I suppose that’s to be expected when your surname is Rich. The About page tells me it’s a family business run by Bastian; his father, Sebastian Sr.; and his brother, Lucian. There’s a picture of all three men—each attractive, each exuding that special something that screams power and entitlement, each capable of melting my panties with a forced smile on the opposite end of a camera lens—and a younger Ashley.

The only phone number listed is for the receptionist and it ends in 6969.

Are you kidding me? There’s no way this number is legitimate, and if it is, then I’d suggest firing the PR manager for the firm. A lightbulb hovers above my head: maybe I could parlay this foul into a well-paying job as a brand manager for RichCo.

How many delusions is that today? Enough to sign the papers for a permanent stay in a psych ward.

Back to my search results.

Nothing catches my interest for the next few pages, but then a sidebar link steals my attention. RichMenExposed.com. I’m so hell-bent on learning more about this man called Bastian that I don’t even consider the consequences of clicking on the link.

I’m instantly bombarded with images of men in various states of undress. I cringe at the first set of pictures, candid photos of a socialite I’ve never heard of, but who based on the comments section is a complete asshole. Karma’s a bitch. I continue to scroll down the page until I hit a proverbial treasure trove.

Bastian, photographed like the movie star I had first pegged him to be, standing beside a window where the sun shines against his perfectly symmetrical face. A little farther down are a series of photos in which he’s shirtless. My mouth drops open at the sight of perfect abs, muscular pecs, and biceps that aren’t too big, but just right. The photo gallery begins innocent enough, but quickly spirals out of control.

At first, his zipper is tugged down, exposing a pair of stark black boxer briefs. Then, the jeans are gone altogether. Then his boxers are on the floor and he’s lying in bed, his hard cock, long and thick, resting against his thigh. Then he’s fisting his cock, and he looks like he’s about to explode.

I’m going to explode, drown in a pool of my own desires right here in the center of the café…

Oh no!

“What the hell is wrong with you?” a stranger scolds me as he rushes past my table with a young child cradled in his arms. His free hand covers the child’s eyes. “You’re sick.”

I’d protest, but I’m at a loss for words at my own behavior. I slam my laptop shut in a flurry of embarrassment and take a quick glance around the café.

All eyes are on me.

I gawked at dick pictures in the middle of a crowded café. This has got to be a new low for me, and considering my history, that bar was set incredibly low already. Yet somehow, I managed to crawl below it like a contortionist aiming for self-destruction.

I can never show my face on this side of town again, which is definitely a problem since I live one building over.

Get caught staring at a perfect stranger? Check.

When caught staring at said perfect stranger, make a complete ass out of myself when trying to pretend I wasn’t? Check.

Chase an ambulance with perfect stranger inside before causing a traffic jam via a stalled cab? Check.

Get caught salivating over dick pics in a crowded public space? Double check.

Today might just be the day I prove the theory that it’s possible to die from embarrassment. But stay strong I must; after all, it wouldn’t be fair to leave my mother childless after we’ve worked so hard to get her through her cancer treatments.

God, if she only knew the day I was having, she’d demand I move back home and give it her all to set me straight. Unfortunately for her and myself, I’m well past the point of being a lost cause.

My cellphone buzzes with another call from Kevin, but I don’t pick up. I haven’t decided if I’m going to tell him about the wallet and my impulsive car chase to return it to its owner, Bastian Rich.

I catalog what I know about him thus far. His address and vital statistics. The names of his father, brother, and sister. The fact that he’s a wealthy businessman and a playboy who apparently likes having naked pictures of himself taken and posted online or else has obviously put his trust in the wrong people’s hands.

Oh, and I know the size of his dick.

So yeah, you know, the important shit.

I look down at the number I had scribbled down before I—the whore of Babylon—was chased out of a coffee joint by a rabid mob of slut-shamers. I work up the nerve and dial the number. After one long, deep breath, I press my finger against the green button and raise the phone to my ear.