Betting On A Billion Kisses - Chapter 1

Dylan Duke stood in front of his bathroom sink, toothbrush in hand and foam ringing his mouth, wondering how he’d become a guy with a butler.  He knew how it had happened.  He was well acquainted with his own road to success, going from obscure game designer to the creator of Sledge Ball, Wrecking Ball, and upcoming, Ball Baby.  But it was still strange, the transformation his life had undergone as the zeros at the end of his bank balance kept multiplying.  In just a few years, he’d swapped living in an apartment for owning homes in Miami, Puerto Vallarta, Hawaii, and London. It occurred to Dylan that if he were trying to be a minimalist, he was failing miserably, and he smiled before spitting into the sink, his foamy mouth reminding him of the clowns he used to watch perform at the free circus at the Auburndale flea.

That kid who played the trumpet in high school, that kid he knew. But this guy, the one with a yacht called Wager kept docked in Monaco, this guy felt like an imposter. Dylan rinsed his mouth then dabbed his face with a fresh towel as he took a long look at himself in the mirror. 

“How does it feel, Dylan, to have had all your dreams come true?” he asked, sounding like a gameshow host.

“Not all of my dreams have come true,” he said to his reflection.

“What do you mean?” he asked himself with mock surprise. “You’ve got—freaking— a hundred motorcycles! You would have fallen over from joy at sixteen if someone would have told you that was in your future.”

Dylan ran a hand through his thick brown hair while assessing the squareness of his jaw. For a guy who Garrett Buford, the bully at Auburndale High, had called a spoon chest, he’d turned out just fine. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, continuing his conversation with himself, “it’s great to be edging closer to billionaire status. Money’s cool, but it’s not…everything.”

“You’re ungrateful,” he accused.

“No, I’m mega grateful. I’m just… unfulfilled.”

“Then go build an orphanage.”

“I’ve already built three and a fourth is in the works.”

“Then help at a soup kitchen.”

“I do that on Thursdays.
“Read to kindergarteners.”

“That’s on Friday.”
“Then why do you feel unfulfilled?” he asked, raising his voice just enough to send his butler, Jameson coming.

“Is there something you need, Sir?” asked Jameson, his hint of an Irish brogue shining through.

Dylan turned to Jameson. “I’m fine,” he said as Jameson reached out a hand for the towel, probably to rush it to the laundry though it had been used just once.  Once! How had he gotten to the point where he was treated like a king? Making mega money had meant, according to his financial advisors, that he had to spend mega money and that had meant hiring people to take care of the things he’d bought, a situation which had somehow spiraled into Jameson waiting to take a clean towel to the laundry.  Resisting the urge to scream, Dylan hung the towel on the rack. “Actually, Jameson, I’m going to give you an honest answer, because you’re a nice guy and you deserve it. I’m not good, not good at all. In fact, I think I might be having a midlife crisis.”

“You’re a bit early for that,” said Jameson, not at all alarmed.

“Fair point.  Then I’m having a pre midlife crisis.”

“Would you like me to call your doctor?”

“No, but I think I’m going to drive to Atlanta.”

“But the plane is waiting,” said Jameson, almost sounding like a father reprimanding his son. Dylan knew that people, lots of people had worked to get his plane ready for the flight.

Dylan clapped Jameson on the shoulder. “Tell them thanks, but I won’t be needing it.”

Jameson’s eyebrow peaked. “Shall I bring round the Maclaren then?”

Dylan frowned as he thought. Before making millions, he hadn’t known about the British-made supercar.  His dream car had been a Honda Civic without a rusted chassis.  The Maclaren had elevated the way he thought about cars, and in his opinion, the Maclaren was worth every bit of the three hundred thousand it’d cost. The drive from Miami to Atlanta would practically be turned into an art form, the way the Maclaren hugged turns and accelerated from zero to a hundred in ten seconds.  But Dylan wanted to get away, not just from Miami and his glass beach house but from a life that was seeming less and less real to him. He’d just been invited to Krisha Patel’s wedding, a pediatrician in Atlanta.  He didn’t even know her! She was a huge Wrecking Ball fan and had sent him an invitation along with a note gushing about his game and telling him how she and her fiancé, Michael Jones, had played it on their first date.  Before he knew it, he was dictating a letter to his secretary, thanking Krisha for the invitation, and letting her know he would be happy to attend her wedding—a five-day event!

More than once, he’d come close to canceling, but now, it felt like he needed a distraction and what better distraction could there be than a five-day wedding?  He would drive to the wedding but not in the Maclaren. He wanted to blend in on the road, just be Dylan, not Dylan Duke. “I’ll be taking Marjorie,” he said.

Jameson’s mouth fell open.  “But Sir, I thought Marjorie was a museum piece.”

“Nope.  A car just like Marjorie got me from point A to point B in high school (usually) and will get me from Miami to Atlanta.” Dylan knocked on a burled wood cabinet.

Jameson inhaled, looking like he wanted to argue against the idea, but he knew it was no use. Dylan Duke was polite and friendly, an excellent boss, but he had an iron will.  Not that it was a negative trait. Jameson was certain it played a big role in him amassing such a fortune, but it also meant there would be no talking the young man out of doing what Jameson considered stupid. “Very well, I shall call for Marjorie, but I do remember you mentioning the brakes felt spongey the last time you took it out.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said, thinking that if life had gone the way he’d expected, a car like Marjorie would have been his daily driver.  Marjorie was a rusty 1992 Honda Civic with interior so shredded it looked like it had been used to transport a tiger. Dylan had found it online. It was almost exactly like the Honda he’d drove in high school. He paid six hundred for it and had almost felt sorry for the guy selling it. He could have asked ten times the amount and Dylan would have paid it.  That was the thing about being able to buy anything you want. After a while, what you want to buy is nostalgia.

Jameson notified the garage and as the two men stepped outside, a low, sputtering rumble could be heard approaching. The Honda, which wasn’t easy on the eyes, came jerking up the gravel path. Rubio, a nice kid with Formula One racing dreams, smiled as he climbed out of the driver’s seat, “Here you go, Boss,” he said, rubbing the faded hood with a cloth from his pocket, not that it made a lick of difference.

Idling, the car shook, a thing Dylan figured wasn’t a good sign, but he chose to ignore it. “Marjorie and I will see you all in a week.”

Jameson gave Dylan a long look. “Would you like your bags before you leave?” he asked.

Dylan slapped his forehead then ran to the back of the car and began trying to prop open the trunk with a yardstick left there. “Almost forgot!” he said as the yardstick slipped out of place again and again. By the time Dylan got it to stay, Jameson and Rubio had brought him his Hermes bags to him, each one worth far more than the car they were about to be transported in.  “Well, wish me luck.”

Rubio screwed up his face. “Maybe you should wear a helmet, just in case.”

Jameson nodded. “Not a bad idea.”

Dylan threw his hands in the air. “Come on! It’s not in that bad of shape.”

Rubio and Jameson exchanged a knowing look.

Dylan climbed in and revved the engine. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asked the men.

“Stowed in your private jet,” said Jameson dryly.

“Would you like my rosary?” asked Rubio, he asked, pulling it from his neck.

Dylan cupped his hand and accepted the beaded necklace, placing it around his rear-view mirror. “Ten bucks says I have way more fun this next week than the two of you.”

“Of course, you will,” said Jameson, “I’ll be working on your eulogy.”

Rubio looked at Jameson, “What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you what that is,” said Dylan, putting the Civic into first, “that is a gloomy butler.”  Dylan floored it, and Marjorie, making just as much noise as speed, zoomed down the gravel drive toward Atlanta.

A couple hours in, Dylan cranked the radio, hoping to hear it over the roar of the engine and the wind noise from having to roll down the windows. The air conditioning wasn’t working which Dylan tried to tell himself was exactly what he needed. He was sick of luxury! While this was true, it was also true that it was a hot October afternoon in Central Florida and his legs were sticking to the slashed upholstery.  As sweat trickled down the back of his neck, he wondered if he should have taken the Maclaren.  Its air was cold enough to make penguins happy. But, no! He reminded himself why he had decided on Marjorie. He wanted to blend in, be his old self again—just a guy with nothing but a bunch of dreams.  He’d forgotten what it was like to deal with something like no air conditioning.  Old Dylan knew that situation well and was okay with it. It felt like he had gone soft.  Maybe driving Marjorie was like lifting weights, toughening him, making him less of a snob.  The last thing he would ever want to be was a snob.

He thought about that as Marjorie rumbled into Christmas, Florida.  He read about Christmas online and had wanted to see it.  Established in the thirties, Christmas was close to bankruptcy in 2016 when its mayor, a man who had changed his name to Good King Wenceslas, decided that if Christmas was to be saved, the town would have to be the most Christmassy place in the world. That changed everything for the town.  It went from limping along to super successful, sort of, thought Dylan, like himself.

He knew stopping in Christmas would mean not making it to Atlanta that night, but that was fine. The wedding didn’t start until the next evening.  He would look around Christmas, grab a bite to eat, find a place to sleep, and leave for the wedding in the morning.  Dylan smiled as he looked at shops with roofs that appeared capped with fresh snow.  He passed Donner’s Drive-In, Blitzen’s Bowling, and Scrooge Bank all on Bethlehem Boulevard.  The town was over-the-top, and he loved it.  Dylan had just started to think about whether he should buy a property in Christmas, or possibly the entire town, when his brakes, which had definitely felt spongey, stopped working all together.

Dylan’s heart raced. He slammed the brake pedal to the floor, pumped it, but nothing.  He was heading for the rear end of a Camry stopped at a red light.  “Come on! Come on!” he cried, trying the hand brake. It helped, but not enough to keep Marjorie from banging into the Camry’s fender before sputtering to a stop and dying.

“Are you insane?” cried the driver of the Camry, storming toward Dylan in Santa covered scrubs. “That is clearly a red light!”

“I’m so sorry!” he said too embarrassed to look her in the eye.

“You should be sorry!” The driver pressed her hands to her eyes. “That last thing I need is for my car to be in the shop!”

Dylan still couldn’t bear the thought of looking this woman in the eye. “Like I said, I’m so sorry. I’ll get you a new one.”

“You, get me a new car?” she scoffed, and for the first time Dylan had the courage to glance up enough to notice she had strawberry blonde hair. “Look pal,” she said, “I don’t know you, but I’m pretty sure I got you figured out. You spend all day gaming—”

“You got that much right,” he said, his voice low.

“-- in your parent’s basement, living off pizza.  And no matter how often they ask you to take out the trash you never get around to it. So, here’s the thing, Before you get me a new car, grow up! And then get yourself a car that isn’t a death trap! And make no mistake, you will for sure be paying for my fender, you stupid loafer. Some of us need transportation because we work for a living…”

Humiliation smacked him like a pie to the face as she continued to rant, but just like a pie, he realized his humiliation had a sweet aftertaste.  It took him a moment to realize it, but he knew that shrieky voice, and he knew that strawberry blonde hair, and the petite frame. It had been years, but one look confirmed what he had begun to suspect. The person Marjorie had bumped into was Jill Caruthers, his secret crush at Auburndale High.  She looked the same.  Well, not exactly the same. She had a stethoscope hanging from her neck, her hair was shorter, and she looked tired. Not tired, exhausted, or whatever tired times a thousand was. “Let me get you my insurance info,” he said.

“You better believe it!” she shouted as he reached for his Louis Vuitton wallet. Jill didn’t notice the fine leather. “I just get off a twelve-hour shift at Ho Ho Hospital and run into…” She looked at the insurance info Dylan handed her.  “Dylan Duke.  Weird, I knew a guy by that name in high school and now he’s a bazillionaire or something,” she said, pulling out her phone to take a photo of his card.

“Multi-millionaire would be more accurate.”

Jill looked from the card up to Dylan’s face.  Cars whooshed by on Bethlehem Boulevard making pieces of her tumbling hair that had fallen out of her clip, slip into her gaping mouth. “Dylan Duke,” she said, sounding a little breathless.

“That would be me,” he said. “That would be me.”