This Crazy Rich Boy

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah she's absolutely fine," Jake says to the waiter, who suddenly materialized by their table.

Jake's voice quakes with panic, but he has the presence of mind to take a swig of his red wine to calm his nerves. "She's fine. She has narcolepsy. She'll wake up in a minute."

"Are you sure?" The waiter looks like he's still in high school. "Because she's…there's foam in the corner of her mouth."

"What?" Jake grabs a wad of tissue and examines Claire's face closely. He carefully—perhaps reverentially—wipes the corner of her lips—the same lips he'll be ravishing later.

He faces the waiter, smiling. "Told you, she's fine. This is a normal part of our lives, you know."

"Is she your wife?"

"Yes, she's my wife," Jake says with conviction. "It's our anniversary dinner. Maybe the excitement prompted the narcoleptic attack. This often happens, sadly."

"Oh, I see." The waiter looks at Jake from head to toe, seemingly incredulous. "Do you have an identification card, sir, so I can verify if—"

"Listen, young man," Jake barks. "I'm already under so much stress. I don't need you questioning me, especially now that my wife is in the middle of a narcoleptic episode. If you want to be useful, can you help me do something?"

The waiter hesitates for second. "What kind of help?"

"Help me bring her to our car. She needs to rest for a while. She can't stay here looking like this, slumped over the table like some dead doll."

"Oh, uhh, sure."

Claire is completely unconscious. Her brėȧsts almost spill out of her dress, and it takes Jake and the waiter some careful maneuvering to bring her to the car in the parking lot. They carefully place her in the backseat of his sedan, tucking her legs in.

"She's alright," Jake says to the waiter, who's standing there staring at Claire. Jake closes the car door. "Thank you for your help. I'll bring my wife home now."

"You should bring her to the hospital. I can call—"

"There's no need for that. She only needs some rest. This is not an emergency. This always happens to us, especially during times of great excitement."

Jake flashes his most winsome smile—and it works, as the waiter nods and smiles back. "Well, if you need help, just call Fastidio's, sir. I'll be happy to—"

"Yes, yes," Jake snaps impatiently. "Will call you, if ever we need you. Thank you."

As Jake starts the car's engine, his mind already savors the fruition of his dream, how he'd unwrap this wonderful gift in his bed, how he'd savor every single moment he's with her. He'd make sure that when he's done with her, she'd be so embarrassed she won't ever mention anything about this. Like the other girls before her.

It's a short drive to the outskirts of the city, where his "lair" is located in a proto-suburban spread that would have seemed fashionable in the 1960s. The houses have great lawns and lots of space in between, so much that even when Jake struggles in carrying an unconscious woman to his own front door, nobody would notice. Claire's body is so heavenly to the touch, Jake thinks. She feels so soft, so…vulnerable.

Jake struggles with the key to his front door; he couldn't insert it properly. Beside him, on the short steps, Claire is still asleep, her head tilted to a side, her blonde hair half-covering her face.

When at last the door opens, Jake musters his last remaining strength, and fully carries her straight to the bedroom. He throws her on the bed.

"You really are so hot," Jake says to the sleeping figure. "Oh, my god, I don't know where to start, Bella. I could drink you all up and still be parched."

Jake starts unbuttoning his shirt and pants. He leaves nothing on but his undėrwėȧr. He crawls on all fours, panther-like, on the bed, on top of Claire's sleeping figure. Jake notes how the girl's brėȧsts heaves as she breathes; perhaps she's dreaming. "Dream on, dear Bella," Jake mutters in the dark. "Dream on. Me, I'd prefer to be in this kind of reality. With you."

Jake starts fumbling with Claire's dress. He places a trembling hand on one of her brėȧsts, feeling the flesh underneath the flimsy fabric. "I'll give this tit a ten!" Jake giggles. "You're a total babe, Bella Xavier. Now, please give her a round of applause."

Jake stops, imagining a crowd clapping to the total babe that is lying helplessly before him.

He fumbles with her bra. And just as he gets a glimpse of her nȧkėd brėȧsts, an electronic buzzing sound pierces through the house's silence.

It's the doorbell.

"Who the hell?" Jake quickly rummages through his mind for any possible answer. Did he invite someone tonight? Is this one of his cousins? At this time of the night? Who the hell could this be?

The doorbell buzzes again, and again, quite impatiently.

"Who's that?" Jake yells, his irritation rising by the second. "I didn't order anything!"

"Jake," a man's voice is heard from outside. It's a voice that's eerily familiar to him; he's heard it almost every day, in various stages of distress. "Jake Magno, open this door. Or I'll smash it open."

"Jesus Henry Christ," Jake mutters, trying to simultaneously stand up and grab the clothes strewn on the floor. "Gabriel, is that you?"