The Billionaire Throuple

Andreas Santiago

I'm sitting up front with Officer Ray Payne. He's a round, old guy with a backward visor worth of white hair on his head and a Colonel Sanders goatee, but it's salt and pepper.

I can tell he's on the brink of retirement. He has that permanent glazed over look in his eyes like he's less worried about keeping people safe and more about making it home himself. I can't blame him. How messed up would it be to survive all the crap they do for nineteen years just to get popped before they pop into their pension? I'd be coasting too.

Thank God he's nothing like his name might suggest. He's actually really sweet and funny, but in an old, grandpa kind of way. He told me this terrible joke—I think it was a joke—about how everyone at the force was so terrified of him coming out of the academy that they called him reign of pain until he started bringing around donuts.

Then, he became Payne who makes it rain in Dane(-ish). I didn't laugh, but I cringed so hard I stop thinking about my panic attack and everything else that happened, so it was a win.

I've never been in a police cruiser before and I definitely thought my first time would be in the back. Not for anything horrible like what Cam did or drunk driving, but public intoxication or having too many unpaid parking tickets.

The dashboard in this thing looks like a cockpit for a fighter pilot. I'm intrigued as hell, but Officer Payne won't let me touch anything.

"Can you turn on the cherries to get through the light?" I ask, laughing. He shakes his head. "But you'd do if I wasn't here, wouldn't you?" He doesn't deny it. I look down at the center console. My phone is setting there in the cup holder, tempting me. "Any way I can get my phone back just for the ride, while you're watching me?"

"Nope, I have to keep my eyes on the road."

I purse my lips because he's already looking at four screens on a black swivel bar in between us. What's one more? "Can you at least put it in one of those plastic baggies or something, so it doesn't get ten years worth of coffee stains wedged into the speaker?"

He laughs, a good-old belly one. "This ain't the movies, kiddo."

I cut my fake laugh short and slump down into my seat, half-tempted to snatch my phone, tuck and roll out of his life forever. I don't. If this was only about me, I could let Cam slide as long as my pictures never got out, but after seeing him beat up on Samuel the Third, he has to get what's coming to him.

He had me fooled though, hard too.

After our heart to heart, I thought he was a lovesick romantic. Turns out he's just sick. When he first sent it anonymously, I didn't want to believe it. Even though he was the only one who could've taken it, I gave him excuses: stolen phone, hacked, sent on accident.

Then, I realized it couldn't exist unless he took it. I know the picture, the angle, the bed, even what we were talking about when it was taken. Not even magic can change that.

No, his ugly ass is guilty. I'm done. I won't deny the truth to turn a scumbag into a decent human being, just like you won't ever catch me spit shining a piece of shit. I wasn't out to ruin anyone's life. I get it. We all make mistakes and Samuel the Third can press charges himself.

Then, I thought about the printouts of Nemo and I knew I had an obligation. All week, I've felt like I couldn't breathe. I don't want anyone else to feel like that because of Cam.

Officer Payne stops his cruiser underneath the awning at the emergency room entrance. He clicks his tongue and shoots an air pistol at me, which is kind of tactless coming from him, but I smile anyway. "Here you are, San Andreas. Be sure to sign in and out at the lobby."

My mouth drops open. "Why? Am I suspect? Should I cancel any plans of leaving town?"

He laughs and waves me down. "No, no no. It's so I'll know you're if here when I swing by to drop off your phone."

"Oh, right!" I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and whistle out air. "Thank you."

I get out of his cruiser, wave to my phone, not to him and stroll through the automatic doors, into the waiting room. I walk over to the front desk in the lobby where a receptionist hands me a clipboard without so much as looking up.

The blonde ball of French curls says, "Take a seat, fill it out, bring it back up."

I turn around and feel her pain. The lobby is packed to the brim. I might have to sit on someone's lap. I find a pole to lean on instead. The last thing I want to do is find a seat only to have it stolen when I turn the clipboard in.

As I'm filling out the form, I come across a box asking me to check whether I get motion sickness and have an epiphany. Since Cam had nudes of Nemo, the roller coaster analogy had to be about him coming out as gay.

Cam was going to come out with my pictures at midnight to—in a messed up way—take my advice. When Nemo rushed to leave, he was going to see him. Cam probably wanted to tell Nemo before he did it, to see if it would matter.

Why come out if you're single as fuck?

Damn, I'm good. This is all still very messed up, but I feel like a genius for figuring it out, motive and all. I want to walk into one of those dark interrogation rooms like a top detective and watch Cam break as I 'spill the goods', Scooby-fucking-Doo style.

I hand the clipboard back up to the blonde loofah behind the counter. I spot an empty seat between two big hairy guys wearing hard hats. I won't be sitting there. Construction workers are gassy and they show mad, ass cleavage. It's not a good mix. I get it, tool belts and fast food will do that, but I won't be sitting there.

My legs don't hurt that bad. I go back to my pole to wait for a spot to open up. Someone will be called up to get healed soon enough and I'll snag their spot, unless the lady at the desk is supposed to be doing the calling.

She's too busy playing Tetris. In that case, I'll be here waiting until a bunch of doctors head out to dinner and lose their shit. That might be worth the wait. A nurse comes strolling out of a set of swinging doors and calls, "Bert Greeley!"

I scan the room as I'm getting down in a stance like I'm about to sprint off starting blocks for an open seat. I don't have to for two reasons. One, no one else is waiting to sit down and two, ten people stand up and start heading to the swinging doors.

I can't believe the nurse is about to let that many people back there. Who brings their entire bloodline to the ER? I feel bad for the nurse, but I mind my business and shimmy past them to snatch up a seat.

I guess my Tetris theory was wrong, but one for two isn't bad. It took sitting down to remember how much I hate hospitals and sitting in warm chairs. I guess I should be more specific.

I don't mind heated seats, but butt-warmed ones gross me out. I know it doesn't magically become any more or less sanitary when it cools down, but I don't like being so aware of the fact that I'm sitting on fabric that has weathered decades worth of emergency room farts; wet, gross, sickest-of-the-sick farts.

The reason I hate hospitals runs deeper.

They remind of a time when I trusted someone enough to be alone with them—away from family. They took advantage of me the first chance they got.