I laugh as I stare into the mirror, looking totally fucked. “You? Look at my hair.”
“I think you look gorgeous. Are you still nervous?”
“Just about what people are going to say.”
He takes a soft paper towel, the kind rich people get in their bathrooms, and kneels to wipe his cum off from my inner thigh. Smiling, he kisses there and pushes my skirt down.
I zip him up, slick back the errant lock of hair and the happy couple exits the lady’s room…
To applause.
Yeah, I’m not kidding.
I guess someone got wind and everyone has gathered to take shots of our embarrassed faces.
“That’s why we’re getting married, people.” Grayson puts an arm around my shoulders and laughs as we walk through the crowd.
He leads me to the Bushwick table where CJ and Mel are sitting with a couple of NFL stars. Their hockey player friend Kit is there along with his wife, a Russian Olympic star. Past their table sits my mom with most of my uncles and a shit load of cousins.
Mike raises a glass to me and I smile as Grayson puts a glass of champagne in my hand. “Feeling better?”
I nod, watching as a beautiful redhead approaches on the arm of an incredibly handsome man.
“Hi, I’m Cherry.” She kisses us on both cheeks. “And this is CJ’s brother, Andy.”
Grayson chuckles. “You did ask me if he had a brother.”
“C’mon Cherry. Let me buy you a drink.” The man that looks a lot like Chance Quinn winks at us and slips a hand to her lower back.
Chuckling, I put the champagne down, walk to the bar, and order a non-alcoholic cider.
Gray’s brows raise. “Still not feeling well?”
Should I tell him?
“Never better.” I put his hand to my stomach, where a little son or daughter is growing. I know the timing sucks, but he’s been in LA and me in New York. This isn’t something to do with a call or a text and I’m just bursting to share the news.
His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open into a huge smile. “Are you pregnant? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Uh huh. But you can’t tell anyone. It’s way too soon.”
“When are you due?”
“Early December.”
He counts months on his fingers, trying to figure out when it happened. “How is that possible? I mean, I know how it happens but I thought you were on the pill.”
“Remember the whole frostbite thing. I missed a few days. Are you okay?”
“Hell no, I’m not okay.” He hugs me and twirls me, his mouth on mine. “I’m fucking awesome.”
“Hey everybody,” He grabs the DJ’s microphone. “We’ve decided to move up the wedding date. Uncle George? C’mon up here.”
My bartender-preacher uncle laughs, stands, and shouts out, “You’re going to need a license to make it legit.”
“I’ll get that taken care of right after this. Just say those words in front of everyone here. I’m not waiting until we all get together again, nor for bridesmaids, nor bachelor parties. What do you say, honey?”
I jump up and down with my thumbs up. Not only am I thrilled to be getting married, I’m happy as hell that I don’t need to do the whole walk down the aisle thing. This couldn’t be more perfect.
It may have been the oddest billionaire’s wedding in the history of such things but all I could do was look into the handsome face of my husband as he said those two sweet words, “I do.”
Then, the ceremony ends, people applaud and laugh while Grayson’s mom cries standing next to mine doing the same.
It’s not how I expected my wedding day to be, it’s way better.
As we slow dance to my favorite tune, my heart is bursting with joy. I sigh deeply and get lost in his warm gaze. “I love you, so much.”
With his forehead on mine, he pushes on my lower back until I feel his hard desire. “Me, too, babe. Me too.”
The End
The CEO’s Redemption - Forward
Grayson.
When you get right down to it, I am one mean sonovabitch and make no apologies. You can’t own a billion-dollar company and be anything less. There’s just one thing I regret. I’m turning into the person I hated most growing up.
At least he had the decency to walk out on my mom and me.
But me? No way, that’s going to happen. I fucking love my wife and kid. Even if I’m impossible to live with, I’m not giving up.
I don’t remember much of my father but what I do, sucks. I fell and scraped my knee when I was probably three or four. He grabbed my wrist, held me above the ground and smacked me on the ass until I stopped crying. He said I needed to man up.
What if I do the same? I haven’t ever lost my temper but what if?
Should I take that risk or bail out now.
Dammit.
My phone pings and it’s my wife, Isabella. Since giving birth, she texts me constantly for the oddest things. Either she makes shit up because she wants attention or she’s seriously ill. Whatever the case, I know better than to take her call in the middle of my board meeting. Already, the sharks are circling. If they find out I’m distracted, it’ll send them into a feeding frenzy.
It only takes one lift of an eyebrow to get my assistant, Cherry, to suggest a bio-break. Once outside, I light a cigarette even though I gave it up years ago and check my cell phone.
Sure, I work long hours but it’s not because I want to. People are depending on me, lots of people with families and mouths to feed. The economy sucks, jobs are going offshore and I can’t just not-give-a-shit.
However, every time I see dark circles under my Izzy’s eyes, I know what a bad husband I’ve become. I tried talking to her therapist. They both swear she’s not crazy. Shit, I’d take a bullet for her but we can’t go on like this.
Then, when I insisted she get a live-in nanny, she fired every damn one with some outlandish story how I was hitting on them.
She should fucking know I wouldn’t.
I’m a heartless, unfeeling, bastard, but not when it comes to her.
But what am I supposed to do?
What if she needs to be on meds?
What if this is just some crazy scheme to make me leave her?
My fist clenches around my cell phone and when it pings again, the case cracks.
See what I mean?
I need to fix this.
Chapter 1
Isabella Patten
I switch on the two-story, crystal chandelier hanging over my foyer.
“Go.”
“Crazy bitch.” The young Russian twirls an index finger around her temple.
After firing the last two nannies, I’m prepared with a pre-paid debit card. “Here’s five-hundred dollars. When you get settled, text me your new address and I’ll send your things.”
“You no shut me up so easy. I call police. I tell agency. Your husband is… monster.” She curses so I push her out the door, shut it, and sigh.
There has to be some explanation for the girl’s strange behavior, for all of them for that matter. Grayson couldn’t possibly have done what they claim.
Outside, Slate, my husband’s driver-slash-bodyguard holds the girl’s elbow and escorts her to our limo, shaking his head back and forth. Is his exasperation for me or for her?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
People always try to extort money from the wealthy and I understand. But three nannies in that many months? Three different agencies? And all the girls with the same damn story. What are the odds?
Actually, it’s been escalating. This one’s accusations are much worse.
I lean back against the wall and press my palms to my eyes in an attempt to stop the throbbing. Then, I turn around on the pristine marble floor and enter the vast open space of the living room. My footsteps echo off the vaulted ceiling and tiled floors.
Think, Izzy, think.
It has to be some kind of setup.
Her accusations sounded pretty
damn convincing.
She described his intense gray eyes as they darkened with desire, his hand on the back of her neck, and his hard need pressing into her. It’s not possible.
Then how the hell did she know about the tattoo on his upper thigh? It’s only been there since Skye was born.
Oh fuck. I hate these niggling doubts. Fucking hormones. Fucking gigantic house. Fucking everything. Why can’t it be like it was before we got married?
We’ve only known each other for a little over a year. I kept telling Grayson to slow down, we needed more time to get to know each other. He insisted his feelings would never change and I believed him.
My chest constricts and I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back tears. I’ve talked to six doctors and they all say the same thing. I need to chill out, take some drugs but I’m not like that. Besides, I’m still nursing and won’t put shit into my baby’s milk.
I can change my thinking. I know I can.
Most people would die for what I have. For one, there’s this mansion, an estate, really. I got a gorgeous husband and the most beautiful baby in the world. Sure, the house is a mausoleum, he’s moody, and Skye wants to stay up all night. Alright, it’s not paradise but it’s pretty damn close.
So, what the hell is wrong with me?
My husband would not make unwanted advances. Not ever. Period.
These women must have some agenda.
I hike between the leather sectionals in the living room, past the kitchen islands, and the sunroom. Then, I climb three sets of stairs to the first hallway of bedrooms where I crack open the closest door. Inside, six-month-old Skye plays in her crib instead of napping but I leave her be as the pediatrician instructed.
I tiptoe down the long upstairs hallway and my mind races. All I need to do is to pick up the phone, call my husband, and duke it out. My therapist has insisted I think before I open my stupid mouth. Really? This is the third live-in helper who has claimed Gray hit on her.
He would never…
Shit. I need to stop arguing with myself.
I wander into the master bedroom, sit on the king-sized mattress and scowl into the full-length mirror. According to the interior designer, it’s baroque and terribly expensive but I hate it. I hate everything in this house. I especially hate the woman who stares back at me.
My shoulder-length blond hair is pulled back in an elastic band. The blue eyes my husband used to say sparkled are sunk into my face, zombie-like. I haven’t had a moment to pluck my brows, let alone put on makeup. And my former trim figure? I got twenty pounds of ugly baby-weight to lose.
Let’s face it, Izzy. You’re a mess. It shouldn’t surprise you if your gorgeous husband has started to stray.
Turning away from the mirror, I stifle a childish urge to throw an antique paperweight into my reflection and watch it splinter. Then, the mirror will really be baroque.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
My feet take me down to the kitchen where I open the stainless-steel refrigerator and stare.
You’re not really hungry, Izzy. You’re angry, frustrated, and hormonal.
Shut the fuck up, self. I have a cheating husband, I look like shit, and can’t do one damn thing about it.
A pod goes into the Keurig and I pretend it’s caffeinated. What I wouldn’t give for an espresso! Instead, I sit on a stool by a granite-topped island and look out the arched window where our acreage spreads for over a mile.
When Grayson suggested New Jersey for our new home, I was thrilled. I had pictured us playing ball together, taking long walks, and lazy evenings of making love in front of the fireplace. I never imagined I’d wander around all by myself, hour after hour, with no one to talk to except for the fucking young women who swear my husband can’t keep his fucking hands to himself.
I didn’t even want a god-damned nanny but Grayson insisted and maybe now I know why.
Shit, no, no, no.
This is stupid-think. I know better. Grayson would not cheat on me. He would never make advances on any women. Not one, and certainly, not three.
But why do they all have the same story?
I pick up my cell phone, text my husband, and pray he has some kind of explanation.
Me: Got a sec
Gray: In a meeting
Me: Nanny gone. Same as last 2
Gray: Give me 5
It’s more like a minute when he calls back. “Shit Izzy. Not again. You really need to talk to your therapist about this.”
“Gray, what am I supposed to think? I didn’t believe the first or the second one but this makes three. And her claims are far worse. What if she calls the police?”
“Baby, remember? None of the agencies have registered a complaint. We talked about this.”
“It has to be Xavier.”
My former boss would love to see us fighting and this could be the kind of thing he might orchestrate.
Grayson exhales heavily. “We discussed that, too. Even you said there were no signs of him.”
It’s true. I’ve spent hours searching on the dark web for almost a year and have come up empty. After his attempt at killing us in Minnesota, it’s like the madman disappeared off the face of the planet.
“I checked the nanny-cam, hun. There was nothing. The conversations you swear you had, never happened. Listen. I love you, sweetheart, but I got a whole room full of board members waiting for me. I’ll be home early. I love you.”
He waits for me to say it back but I don’t, even though I do. I just sit there until he exhales heavily and hangs up.
I told him the women must’ve turned off the nanny-cams during our conversations but he insisted there’s no proof. Everything points to me being one crazy bitch.
I continue to argue with myself until Skye fusses. She’s so much like my husband, I smile. She has his striking eyes, an intense personality, and his tendency to be able to stay awake for hours.
With a giggle, she gives me a wet baby kiss on the cheek. Then, I lift her out of the crib and put her on the changing table. Bought second-hand by my mom, it might be my favorite piece in a houseful of expensive, don’t-touch-me, don’t-even-look-at-me, furniture.
Skye’s fingers clutch at a breast as we head downstairs to another hand-me-down, a porch rocker. All I have to do is imagine myself in Minnesota, gaze at her gazing back at me, and my milk flows.
“Ah Skye. What’re we going to do?”
Can it be true? Am I going nuts?
I slip a finger into her mouth to release suction so she can change sides. Once I have her settled in my arms and her little mouth moves with gulping sounds, I try to think more clearly.
I love my husband. Check.
He loves me. Not sure.
We both love Skye. Check.
He is hitting on our nannies. Not sure.
I look like shit. Check.
He looks awesome. Check.
I am nuts-o. Not sure.
He is going to leave me. Probably.
Shit.
Tears well again and this time I can’t stop them from falling, wetting my cheeks. Who is the weepy, stringy-haired, overweight, possibly-crazy woman? What happened to the confident woman who stormed into Gray’s office and threatened to take him to court? Where is the woman who stood up to a murderer in her bedroom? The woman who confronted her childhood abuser?
I put Skye into the high chair and text my best friend, Melanie.
Me: Busy?
Mel: Free in 30
Me: K. Talk?
Mel: <3
“Alrighty then. Guess it’s me and you, babe. Want to try some real food?” I get out the baby-food-processor and put in some leftovers.
Skye’s eyes go wide at the grinding and she bangs her spoon on the tray to signal her annoyance.
“All done.” Sing-song, I tweak her nose, then spoon the mashed food into a bowl.
When I place some on the tip of her tongue, she makes the funniest face, giggles, and tiny fingers latch onto the edge of the bowl.
“Wh
oa there, hun. None of that.”
She pouts, I mimic her, and we both laugh until the meal is done.
When my cell phone rings, I put Skye in her playpen so I can pick up. “Hello?”
“Hey, girl. What’s up?” Mel sounds so happy.
Of course, she does. She always does.
The phone on speaker, I wash out the baby dish, and put it in the custom oak cupboard. “I just said goodbye to nanny number three.”
“Get out of town! Same story?”
“Yeah. Grayson thinks I’m friggin’ crazy, obsessed with Xavier. He sounds so fed up I think he may leave me.” My voice cracks as I pour skim milk into my coffee and sit.
“No way, hun. That man of yours loves you.”
Skye, who’s been holding onto the wall of her pen, starts bouncing up and down, an indication she’s about to start screaming.
“Just a sec… Siri, play Disney tunes.” I wait until Skye is happily baby-butt-dancing before I cradle the phone to my ear. “Okay, I’m back. How can anyone be sure that their husband loves them?”
“Are you even listening to yourself?” Mel now shouts over the music so I turn to the pod in the corner.
“Siri… turn volume down… Sorry, I’m back.”
“Damn, girl. Your husband’s eyes follow you wherever you go. He puts his arm around you when any man gets within six feet. Even CJ mentioned it and he never notices anything.”
“I know, I know. But it’s not just the nannies. This morning I looked in the mirror and broke out in tears. You looked fantastic within a few weeks of giving birth to Gabi. I look like shit.”
“Gabi slept soundly. Skye doesn’t. No mystery there.”
“True, true. I keep hoping Skye will grow out of it. It’s better but she never sleeps through the night.” I finish my coffee and crave the caffeine, the staple of my former existence, the rush that used to fire me up with energy.
“Have you thought about supplementing?”
“I have but she’s only six months old. I want to give her as many months of real milk as I can, you know?”
Busted Play: The Series (Players, Books 1-6) Page 36
