While They Watch

by Khloe Summers

  While They Watch

  A Billionaire Bucket List Novel

  Book One

  Khloe Summers

  Chapter One

  Moonlight filtered in through the vertical shades as Daniel climbed on top of me. His eyes, dark and ragged as he thrust—while I formulated a grocery list. Forcing myself to focus, I studied his large, knobby nose, now flaring and dripping sweat onto my chest. He looked as though he may pass out from exertion.

  Shifting his weight onto one arm, he grabbed at my breast, squeezing at my supple flesh like a stress ball at the desk of a highly pressured lawyer. I shrank, turning my head to the side in displeasure. His weight was rough, his movements angry and purposeful, void of love, and care. Swiftly, he corrected my action, turning my chin back towards his face. A lock of my blonde hair tangled with the sweat from his cracked fingers, causing bursts of pain as he tensed, then released in a shallow burst of melodramatic glory.

  “Night,” he mumbled, kissing my cheek before he rolled onto his pillow. Moments like these felt justified to him, earned, in some primitive way. For me, they were a reminder. A quick, pounding notice that I was a tool. A built-in device that he used whenever he liked because I was his wife, a wife that had become nothing more than a houseplant. A withering vine settled into the cracks of his heart, holding him together while he tore me to pieces. It hadn’t always been this way. At one point, it was he who held me in comfort each night as I cried myself to sleep, reminding me of a purpose I no longer saw.

  I was eighteen when my parents died, about to go off to college. Then, the accident. A moment in time that changed my life forever. It was Daniel who pulled me up and brought me back from that. We married that summer and moved from the mountains near Lake Tahoe, down into the valley, settling into a three-bedroom house between the sagebrush, and the dry rolling hills of Northern Nevada. He found a job selling insurance, and I went to work for the wildlife center. We were content. Happy even. I suppose it was me who started the ball, the ball of problems that eventually took over our lives. At first, it was about sex. Admittedly, it was me that was bored. I’d flirt playfully, trying to coax him from the television in a sexy nurse outfit—using some sultry accent I’d concocted on the spot.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I think you have a temperature.”

  He sat unaffected, turning the moment into a battle of finance, asking how much I’d paid for such an outfit.

  When that didn’t work, I offered to share my fantasies and hear his, desperately trying to spice things up. But he wasn’t interested. After multiple attempts and seemingly no response, I conceded—ready to spend life with boring sex. Sex that wouldn’t be exciting but would give us the children I’d hoped to have. Except he didn’t want that either.

  “It’s not part of the plan, I want to do things, be with you,” he’d maintain, as he continued with his phone or the tv. At times, I got angry, enraged with fury at the thought of living such a one-dimensional existence. This was too much for him. He wouldn’t have anyone questioning his decisions. So, he would throw out bombs that twisted my reality, “Why do you love some unborn kids more than you love me?”

  The trouble is, I believed every word he said. As though it were gospel from God himself, calling down from the heavens to impart divine wisdom. After all, I had chosen to love him, why would I choose not to because of unborn children? So, as with sex, I put the idea of kids to rest and let our life amble on. Years went by, but the days stayed the same. Stagnant and still. Unmoving, unexciting, unwavering in a chorus of repeated tones. Work, dinner, sleep. Work, dinner, sleep. Like robots programed to tedium.

  I suppose that’s what brought us to June 10th, my 32nd birthday, a day I will never forget. Mostly because Daniel touched me in a way, no one had ever touched me before. His fingers, running through my long blonde hair, pulling as hard as he could, ripping at the tiny fibers of silk as he screamed and spat in my face.

  “I give you everything and you act like you don’t get shit!”

  I sank deeper into the plush, brown couch watching his face knot and contort with rage. He reached his free hand up and screwed it tightly around my neck, chocking out any possible response.

  “You have to learn your fucking lesson. I’m so sick of this shit. I want to be left the fuck alone,” he growled, pushing further into my throat.

  For a second, I thought of my parents, wondering if they’d had moments like this—moments I’d never seen. They seemed so in love, dedicated to one another, devoted to our tiny family. But relationships are complex, multifaceted with the nuance of daily grit.

  I had let my disappointment overcome me, tangling realities with fantasies as though talking would change the outcome. The truth was, Daniel was the only love I’d ever known. We’d spent fourteen years creating a life together; I should have known a conversation like this would push him to the edge.

  Pale blue lights sparkled in my vision as his weight pulled off my clavicle. “Why do you push me so far? You make me do this shit!” he said, laying his head heavy in his hands.

  Burning heat bubbled up from my scalp, I wanted to run, hide, escape; but his words held me in place. It was my fault he hurt me. I let the words ruminate, slowly taking on a life of their own. I had done this to him. I’d asked for too much. I’d made him this monster. Years of silence and unhappiness with the mundane had made me bitter, and it showed, forcing words of depression from my lips like wildfire hopping the highway.

  My voice cracked; the sentiment clogged in my throat. I coughed, forcing a clear path through my lips. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I can’t be happy.”

  “Happy Birthday,” he snarled, leaving the room — his tears now vanished from existence.

  Anxious convulsions took the place of air as I curled into a fetal position on the couch, trying to make sense of all that transpired. It was moments like these that I wished I’d had a friend — someone to talk to about what was normal.

  Chapter Two

  Morning came, and with it a chance to get away from the weight of the house.

  “Hey, Hannah! What trouble did you find for your birthday?” Lyla asked, twirling her brown ponytail. She always seemed so genuine, her tiny frame bouncing into work each day, ready for whatever happened. We’d both started as volunteers, but after the departure of many others, were promoted, becoming the sole owners and directors of the North Tahoe Wildlife Center.

  “Cake, presents, the basics. We love our relax time,” I lied, pitching my voice an octave higher than usual.

  “Nice! Did you see that special over the weekend about Prince Peter marrying Tyra Jackson?” Lyla was always going on about something celebrity related. Obsessed really, but it took me out of whatever boring shit that was happening in my life, so I indulged.

  “No, was it beautiful?”

  “St. Georges Chapel at Windsor castle… parading the streets in horse and carriage… cellists’ and choirs… my dream!” she swooned, in love with the romance of it all.

  Startling us from our conversation, a phone call.

  “An injured fox, maybe a broken leg. I’ll get the supplies for transport,” I said, gathering the go-bag.

  Lyla closed the door to the wire eagle cage and turned towards me with narrowed eyes, “But we don’t have enough funding for another rescue. And you have to stop taking it out of your check.”

  “Let’s see what kind of shape he’s in,” I answered, knowing full well it made little difference.

  Minutes later, we were in the dusty old van on our way up the mountain, switching back and forth between boulders and riverbeds, climbing up higher towards the sweet sugar pines that covered the slopes. We’d been out here a thousand times over the
last thirteen years, but the view never got old.

  Going as far as we could on the main road, we pulled over at the closest hiking trail near the injured fox, maneuvering the dense forest, following the GPS towards his last known location. Still there, curled into a half-moon beneath the canopy, was the bronze fox, shaking in fear, scared for his life. My mind flashed to the night before. To the terror I’d felt rumbling in my stomach as I laid bent in a fetal position on the couch.

  “Let’s sedate him and bring him back to the center. I’ll figure out the funding later,” I said, pulling out the capture gun. Lifting the small animal, we carefully carried him back up to the van, placing him in the crate for transport.

  Back at the center, grainy x-ray images confirmed the break. We followed up with blood work, wrapped his leg in a splint, and set up a treatment plan.

  “I’m thinking twelve weeks between recovery and rehab” I knew it would be more, but didn’t want to panic Lyla.

  She cocked her head, sympathetically. “You can’t keep going like this.”

  Truth be told, I was low on cash. Daniel made decent money, but I hadn’t seen much of it. We had different accounts, and he hated it when I logged into his. So, he covered our basic needs, and I used whatever I had left from the center to pay my cell phone bill and car payment.

  “I’ll figure out something,” I stated, unwilling to take no for an answer. “Maybe a fundraiser would work, we could call Channel 9 and see if they would run a story for us.”

  Before I’d finished my sentence, Lyla was looking up the number. “We should ask them to send that handsome reporter… what’s his name? Oh! Christopher Jenkins!” she said, disappearing into the back room with a coy smile plastered on her face.

  Silence hung in the air like a heavy weight on my shoulders. I didn’t want to be alone today. My mind was jumping all over the place, blaming myself and blaming Daniel. All the while, feeling my stomach turn and lurch with emotion.

  Sitting at the tall desk, I let my work boots dangle from the stool, aimlessly bouncing them against the edge of the wood trim. Uninvited thoughts buried me in a thick depression. I had no idea how to fix my own life. Talking did no good, and divorce wasn’t an option. I had nothing. The only hope left was to talk again. So, I sent him a text, hoping to judge his mood from a safe distance.

  Me: Hey, hoping we can talk tonight, maybe at dinner?

  Ten minutes went by as I nervously waited for his response. Then, twenty. Lyla still hadn’t returned. I peeked my head into the office, though she didn’t notice my intrusion. Moments later, a reply from Daniel.

  Daniel: We should talk tonight. Will you be home by 5 or will you be staying late… AGAIN?

  His aggressive response said it all.

  Me: Five sounds good.

  This was my attempt at forging bridges, letting him know my guard was down.

  Trying to contain her excitement Lyla burst into the room, her voice shaking with enthusiasm. “Christopher Jenkins is doing the story! Also, billionaire Matteo De Luca is coming here today!”

  Puzzled, I shook my head. “Why is this—what?”

  “Remember that charity ad Trish ran before she left? Well apparently, Matteo’s people caught wind of it, since he’s buying property right near our center.” Lyla’s excitement picked up as she spoke, like a child telling their parents of Santa’s sleigh tracks. “So, he wants to back the center fully! Chris said it’s a thing he does wherever he buys a property. That he’s a big philanthropist or something.”

  “He hasn’t even seen the center, why would he back us?” I asked, realizing I was flattening the tone of the room.

  She rolled her eyes, “I don’t know Hannah! Who cares, they’ll be here around four.”

  Four was so close to five, how would they ever be in and out in an hour? Plus, I was wearing torn blue jeans and a grubby t-shirt. Not exactly what you’d want to meet a billionaire in. Distracted, I googled ‘Matteo De Luca,’ watching the dial spin as the results popped up.

  I read the article aloud, enunciating as though I were a fancy British reporter. “Matteo De Luca, net worth $30.9 billion. At 34, most of his fortune comes from the inherited 500-acre horse ranch in Southern Italy. However, De Luca is no stranger to the Los Angeles socialite circuit and can be seen showing off his Adonic body in Zegna bespoke suits at events all over the city. Although having beauty and billions are rare, De Luca pulls it off. Making him this year’s number one bachelor.”

  Beside the short article, a photo. Shirtless, of course, with each muscle defined and popping, rippling down his dark, olive-toned body in perfect succession. I’d expected as much after the Adonis comment, but his face was perfection. A straight nose, and full lips that sat slightly apart. His eyes a chestnut brown with thick lashes, softening his face, making him look caring, despite the overly confident facade. Short black hair splashed over to the side, only slightly grazing his forehead as he looked provocatively towards the camera.

  “It’s probably photoshopped. Or, he’s had a ton of work done. No one looks like that in real-life,” I debated, looking over at Lyla, now perched on the edge of the counter doing her makeup.

  “It’s almost four, how do I look?” she asked, pulling her small breasts up to attention in her bra.

  “Great! He’s going to love you! And when you run off to wed at Windsor Castle, don’t forget about me!”

  She glared at me from the other side of the counter, clearly serious about capturing his attention. We both shifted focus as we heard the popping stones of a caravan coming up the driveway.

  “He’s here! Oh my god, they’re here!” I heard her heart-stopping from across the room. She’d always been excitable, but this was over the top.

  Standing beside the windows, we used our phones as periscopes to watch the reporter set up his shot but were quickly preoccupied with the elusive billionaire Lyla was so desperate to see. There was no mistaking how solidly built he was, as he straightened his gray, three-piece suit. We observed through the reversed phone on our cameras as he came closer and closer. Until a short, determined knock startled us back to actual vision. Frozen, we stayed in our spots, waving one another towards the door. Then at once, we both tripped towards the wooden entrance, greeting the wealthy stranger like creepy old ladies about to eat some children.

  “Please... come in… come in,” we intoned, motioning our guest through.

  He flashed a playful smile and tucked one hand into his pocket, slightly brushing his chin with the other. “Grazie. Thank you. I’m excited to be here. I saw your shelter and thought it was perfect for my investment.” His accent was thickly Italian, though he spoke English incredibly well.

  “Oh, we know why you’re here!” Lyla said, still sounding creepy. Matteo flashed a white smile, bending his tall body down to kiss each of us lightly on both cheeks. I looked away, as though I were meeting the Pope, feeling like I should kneel at his presence. We followed him as he wandered through the center, getting tangled in the citrus and patchouli scent that drifted from his skin.

  “I see you’re in need of repairs and space. We can do that. It’s so good what you’re doing here.” He stopped briefly at the fox enclosure and turned his broad shoulders towards me, “You help all these creatures?”

  Lyla quickly moved into his field of vision, taking over the conversation, “We do! We brought this fox in this morning; he’d be perfect for any pictures you need.” Soon, Lyla had Matteo and the news crew crammed behind the shelter near the kennels, photographing the animals and their enclosures. “This is Foxy. We brought him in this morning. We’ll repair his broken leg and prepare him for release.” Her eyes lit with fire as she spoke to Matteo, staring into his eyes as though he were the answer to every question she’d ever had. I’m sure dreaming of the 2.5 children they would have after their wedding in England.

  Remaining out of the limelight, I stood in the far corner of the breezeway, trying not to stare at the illuminati
on of power that dripped off the billionaire. He wasn’t photoshopped, not even a little. Just flawless in a way only money can make you. I followed his bulging biceps back up to his face, catching his chestnut eyes, then immediately looked away, hoping he hadn’t seen me staring.

  In the moments of my daydream, Lyla concluded the interview and moved into embarrassing herself with desperation. “I make great homemade spaghetti. You should come over tonight.” She couldn’t stop herself; she needed his attention.

  Matteo shook his head with a warm half-smile, looking towards me, his hand still lost in his pocket. “You’re quiet. No?”

  “Oh, no, not usually. Just quieter than Lyla,” I joked, playfully poking at my exuberant pixie-like friend.

  He was oddly dialed in on my purpose, shifting his eyes towards me then away, leaving me self-conscious as though something was on my face. “It’s dinner time. You will come for spaghetti too?”

  I glanced down at my phone, suddenly realizing how late it had gotten, “Oh, shit! Sorry. No. I’m late for another thing. A family thing.”

  Matteo stared back at me, shocked by my candor. “Can I get your number? I want to text you my address to go over finances and fundraising. Possibly tomorrow morning?”

  In a flustered rush, I pulled my card from the top drawer of the desk, handed it over in a panic, and yelled back as I rushed out. “Sounds great, let me know when and where.”

  I’d lost track of time and forgotten to text Daniel. It was already 4:45. It takes well over an hour to get back into Sparks. I was going to be late, and I was not looking forward to his response.

  Chapter Three

  I pulled into the driveway at 6:20, nervous and shaking. I closed the car door and dragged my feet against the concrete as I walked into the house. When I opened the door, there was an eerie silence, the curtains still drawn. Daniel was sitting at the dining room table, waiting with a cold pizza. His thinning hair in a messy tussle, framing his round face, which shot into a high voltage knot the moment we caught eyes.