The Billionaire’s Savior

Chapter 3

The room she entered was framed mostly in glass so the light came in from three sides. The windows were open and she could smell the winter air wafting in. She shivered a bit.

“I’m sorry. There’s a draft in here. Would you prefer somewhere more air conditioned?”

“No I’m fine,” Robyn said not wanting to look like a wuss.

Chris leaned down and snagged a shawl that lay sprawled on the couch. He flicked it around Robyn’s neck much to her surprise and then gestured for her to sit.

“Gracias,” she said curiously gratified by his gesture. She sat down, glancing out at the bleak garden; devoid of vegetation this winter but still beautiful in its starkness.

“I’m guessing your garden is very beautiful in spring,” she said.

Chris shrugged, “Well…for a man who can’t go out, I thought I might as well be able to look at something nice.”

Robyn opened her mouth to ask about the agoraphobia but then closed it again. They weren’t there yet. She watched Chris watch her struggle then he looked down at his beer.

“This canned beer is appalling,” he said setting it aside.

Robyn took the change of subject gladly, “Oh yeah? I’m a Budweiser girl myself so I can’t really comment.”

“I don’t drink much; I might do a blunt on 420 if I’m feeling sufficiently adventurous and Cleo gets me some…” Chris replied, then raising his voice, he yelled, “right Cleo?”

“Yes sir,” Cleo said and her British accent was more apparent, as well as her apparent boredom with the topic. Her voice came from much closer than Robyn expected. Was she eavesdropping?

“So what kind of beer do you like to have?” Robyn asked.

“Surely they still produce ale in this country,” Chris inquired. “It’s been a while since I was in a bar but I used to enjoy a pint. Probably Cleo’s fault that.”

“qué estás tratando de dar a entender con el nombre cayendo otras hembras” she murmured to herself; Though he didn’t seem to get it.”So, how many other candidates are you interviewing?” she asked.

“You…and two others. Although if I’m being totally honest, my money is on you,” Chris said.

“Apuesto a que lo dices a todas las chicas,” Robyn replied, with clenched teeth. “Hey listen could we maybe come to an agreement? Nothing but honesty between us?”

“We do have nothing between us…but honesty if we so agree,” Chris said with a nod.

“So we do agree?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’m game.”

Chris took another sip of his beer and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He pushed the offending can away from him. “So, Miss Andrews, what do you do with friends you invite over for dinner?”

“It depends,” she replied, sitting back in her chair. “Sometimes we just, you know talk. But if there’s a game on, sometimes we watch that. Or we play Xbox. It depends on the friend.”

“I’ve never played that,” Chris said suddenly looking crestfallen. “I have played super Mario though. Is it similar?”

Robyn laughed. “But why haven’t you? I mean aren’t you some computer geek or something?”

“Legit inventions, not video games,” Chris qualified. “I’ve never been the wasting time with playing stuff type.”

Robyn sighed. “You gotta try. Next time I’m coming with my game.”

Chris smiled, “No need to wait until next time. I have the game; one of my cousins gifted it to me on my birthday. I just put it on the shelf intending to get around to figuring it out but I haven’t had the motivation yet. Maybe today’s the day.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They walked over to the living room and sat down on his couch. She fired up the console while Chris sat with his arms crossed, waiting to be impressed. The menu screen popped up, and Robyn put in an avatar for herself.

“Is that meant to be you, Robyn?” Chris asked. “Or should I say, ‘RobzScorcese’?”

“Yes it is,” Robyn replied, grinning. She held up the controller. “Joysticks move you around, these buttons do different things—this one to jump, this one to shoot.” She toggled the options on the screen until she’d highlighted Call of Duty: Ghosts. “This is Call of Duty, the greatest game in existence. You’re a Special Ops agent doing different things behind enemy lines, like stopping the bad guys from using an apocalyptic super weapon.”

“You could be describing my entire life, Robyn,” Chris interjected wryly.

Robyn gave him a look, but ignored his words. “The first Call of Duty was set during World War II, but I like the Modern Warfare ones. The best thing about the Call of Duty games is multiplayer. You get together with some friends and go up against another team. The objective is to beat them.”

She toggled through the options to multiplayer mode and loaded into the lobby. Almost immediately a virtual friend of hers messaged her and invited her to join an existing group. “All right,” she said. “Hailey girl! This will be a fun game. Hailey’s a friend of mine. We kick a lot of butt and people get mad.”

She flashed Chris a smile and winked at him. He gave her a nonplussed smile. Over the speakers, her friend chirped, “RobzScorcese, my favorite! How many ODIN Strikes are you gonna get today?”

The game started. It didn’t take long—Robyn’s team steamrolled the other, and Robyn made short work of their highest rated player several times. Chris leaned forward with a perplexed look on his face, his chin cradled in his hand. There was a chorus of infuriated screams from the other team. Robyn cackled and held up her fist towards Chris.

“Listen to them shout,” she laughed. Into her mic she asked, “You mad? Are you mad? Yeah, you are mad.”

Chris gave her a look that indicated he felt some distaste for her choice of amusement, but bumped her fist gingerly all the same. “Robyn, I’m not sure I understand the appeal of this… game.”

Robyn signed off from the multiplayer and went back to the console menu.

“It’s fun,” she shrugged. “It’s a way to blow off steam. You know? You build up all this frustration—all this tension and anxiety and fear. You feel like things are out of your control, or there’s someone who… Someone who’s pissed you off, and you want to be able to say something or do something. Like, hit them. But for whatever reason you can’t. So you can come play a game and it gets all of that out. Especially since you’re usually beating down some white trash racist or guy who just loses his sh*t because he wasn’t as good at something as a woman. So not only are you making yourself feel better—you’re putting some jerk in his place.”

Sure enough, a message popped up in the corner of the screen. Robyn opened it up.