Could you ever imagine? T Two Spencer here is someone in my home. How long did Frankie say he’s away on business for? Three whole days? Maybe I could stay the weekend, playing house with the ghost of a billionaire. Peanut-scented steam curls over my cheeks, and Ifish out a lump of chicken breast. I bite my lip as I prod the noodles with my fork. Come back and see what he’s changed around the place. Those other richies could learn a thing or two from Spencer Arnoult–and maybe I’ll have to burgle him again. Sometimes I break into these penthouses and mansions, and there’s so little personality I just want to scream at the off-white walls. His couch is forest green, covered in soft but sturdy fabric and draped with a fleecy cream throw. And now I’m slurping his chicken satay noodles and sitting cross-legged on his couch, wrigglingmy sore ass against the cushions. That square jaw and the thick framed glasses. So I’ve seen his face plenty of times I’ve heard his deep, stilted voice in interviews. He’s been plastered over the twenty-four news cycle along with all those other Silicon Valley boy wonders, and though he left those roots behind when he came to this city in his mid-thirties, trading in his zip up hoodies for button-down shirts, his bank balance and billion dollar company came with him. And Spencer Arnoult has been in plenty of headlines over the last few years. It’s impossible not to be aware of them, at least on some level.
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