As if in response, my phone beeps and a message pops up. It’s my accountant, and my heart skips like three beats when I see the text:
Good news! One of your smaller accounts just popped back online! Hopefully the others will be back soon! The bank’s cybercrime team is working with the FBI, and hopefully it’s just a glitch that’ll be fixed by end of day. By sunset, the lead FBI person says.
I’m relieved at the message, but at the same time a weird tension tugs at me from the inside. I read the message again, frowning when I see the word “sunset” at the end. Weird. What kind of FBI agent would give an estimated timeframe for solving a case and set the deadline at sunset?
And then I get it.
I get the message.
Not the message from my accountant, but the message that’s hidden in there. The secret message from Mother and Father. That the clock is ticking. The deadline is looming. What are you going to do, India? Say yes to an arranged marriage and no to your wealth?
I think about the way Ingram smelled, the way he touched me, the way he looked at me. I imagine our children, with his eyes and my skin. I imagine . . . ohmygod, stop!
“Stop!” I shriek in horror when I realize that I’m actually scared of saying no! I’m actually considering letting him win his bet and seeing what happens! No way. Just . . . no. Stop. Reset. Breathe. “I’ve dedicated my entire life to earning those millions! I paid the price! How can I somehow be thinking about marriage and togetherness and a future with a man when my entire past just got stolen from me?! I can’t do this. I need to talk to someone about this before I do something I can’t undo, before I know why I feel this way.”
2
INGRAM
“Yeah, why not,” I slur to the bartender as he points at my empty scotch glass. But when he tops it off I stare at the whiskey and then push the glass away.
A sloppy grin breaks on my face, and I almost laugh when I realize that India got to me with that frowny comment about my drinking. It’s fucking ridiculous that I let a woman exert her will on me like that, but a part of me loves it even though another part is pissed off.
“Where is she, anyway,” I grunt, looking at my watch again and then glancing over towards the hallway. I grin as I remember how I stared at her ass like a pervert who hasn’t seen a woman in years.
Fuck, but India makes me feel like I haven’t seen a woman in years—not a woman like that, at least. So damned pretty, with that angelic round face and those dynamite brown eyes that ooze intelligence and wisdom. This woman is a keeper, and I want to keep her.
Keep her forever.
“That settles it—you’re drunk like a monk,” I mutter, the memory of India’s hips swaying through in my head. My cock hardens as I indulge in the fantasy of pulling that red dress off her, seeing what lies beneath that thin satin. Fuck, how I’d love to take my time exploring her body, touching her in ways I bet she’s never been touched, making her feel things no man would even dare imagine.
Soon I’m lost in the fantasy, my head in the clouds, a goofy grin on my face, India’s aroma filling my senses. I can almost feel her smooth skin on my palms, her silky hair between my fingers, her warm cunt sheathing my cock as I place her on my lap and bounce her up and down while I suck those boobs, bite those nipples that I bet are big like saucers. And then I’d lose myself in those eyes when I come, kiss those lips as she comes, pull her close and tell her she’s mine, all mine, fucking mine!
I almost slide my ass off the barstool, and when I come to my senses I realize I’ve drooled down my chin. I glance down at myself, hoping to hell I didn’t just explode in my pants like a frustrated teen having a wet dream in his bunk-bed. Nope. Although my cock is stretching the seams of my tailored trousers, clearly it’s holding out hope that I’m gonna make good on that fantasy.
“It’s not that simple, buddy,” I whisper to my cock before quickly glancing around to make sure nobody’s close enough to see that Ingram’s lost his fucking mind. Lost his mind over a woman in a red dress.
Now I’m on my feet, and I start to pace around the mostly empty lobby. I feel warm and feverish, uncharacteristically uncool, my emotions swinging between mad arousal for India and wild anger at the situation.
But as I pace like a tiger in a cage, it occurs to me that I’m barely thinking about the money situation, about potentially losing my billions, about being broke, wiped out, my life’s work stolen. For some reason that seems like the least of my worries right now. The situation that’s driving me nuts isn’t about wealth. It’s about a woman.
I stop pacing so abruptly I almost fall over, and I stare down at the silk paisley carpet and rub the back of my head. I’m shocked that I’d actually forgotten about the money for the few minutes when I imagined being with India, tasting her lips, smelling her hair, feeling her skin against mine. Hell, now I’m doing it again!
And then suddenly I roar with laughter, pump my fists in joy, hop up and down like a lunatic at the beach. “Motherfucker!” I shout, grinning wildly as the most liberating thought blasts me off to outer space in a love-rocket drawn by unicorns.
Then I bound towards the women’s room as the bartender shakes his head and tries to pretend he didn’t see that. Somehow I manage to stop myself from barging in headlong and probably getting pepper-sprayed and then arrested. But I need to see India, tell her that I just saw the light, figured it out, realized that Mother and Father wanted to show us how easily we could forget about wealth when presented with a future full of love for a person instead of love for money.
Suddenly I’m certain India came to the same realization, that she’s imagining being with me, being loved by me, claimed by me. She’s probably shocked at how easily she could forget about a lifetime’s worth of wealth when presented with a lifetime’s worth of love.
“Of course, we won’t need to choose between wealth and each other,” I say to myself as I straighten my tie and glance down at my crotch to make sure it doesn’t look too obscene. “Mother and Father just wanted to force us into a situation where we had to face parts of ourselves we’ve been denying for decades. Just like God teaches lessons by creating events in the world of men and women and seeing how His kids navigate the situation.”
I bang on the door and wait, but there’s no answer. I frown and cock my head, but just as I’m about to walk in and tell India that she’s mine and once we’re married Mother and Father will turn the lights back on with our wealth, a waiter calls out to me from the kitchen door at the end of the hall.
“That’s the women’s room, Mister Ingram,” he says nervously.
“I know,” I growl. “My wife . . . I mean fiancée . . . I mean girlfriend . . . I mean . . . hell, I don’t know what I mean. I just need to talk to the woman in red, OK?”
I wave the freckle-faced waiter back to the kitchens, but he stands there gulping like a goldfish.
“She . . . she left, Mister Ingram,” he stammers. “Walked out through the kitchen. Right out the loading dock.”
I blink and raise an eyebrow, and then I’m running like my life depends on it. I don’t know why I’m running, but it’s too late to stop.
Luckily the waiter leaps out of the way, and I slam through the swinging doors, plough through the sous chef, and blast through the open loading dock like a superhero about to save the day.
The sunlight startles me, and when I see how low the sun is, I realize that sunset is looming like a ticking timebomb. Suddenly all that clarity I had about Mother and Father and learning lessons and getting our money back disappears, and I stumble through the street looking around like a shell-shocked soldier.
“India!” I shout, my mind whipping itself up into a frenzy as I try to figure out where the fuck she went and why the fuck she went! Does she not see that Mother and Father put us together for a reason? Does she not see that the situation was designed just for us? Why did she run? How does that make any fucking sense?!
Now I start to panic, wondering if something happened, i
f Mother and Father aren’t our Fairy Godmother and Godfather but instead exactly what they appear to be: Crazy cult leaders who like to toy with their victims before crushing them with the death-blow. Either that or they’re demons—and they’ve taken my angel from me.
Finally I get a hold of myself and stop my frantic search so I can think. I didn’t become a billionaire by freaking out and losing my shit at every setback or obstacle. If Mother and Father just wanted to steal our money, they would have done it without saying a word. Clearly this is a game, and clearly I haven’t won yet.
I glance over at the sun again, and I feel my competitiveness spark up, sense my confidence swell, my belief in my own power come back. I smile when I realize that all the adrenaline got me sober like a sundial. And my smile breaks to a wide grin when I also realize that I still don’t give a fuck about the money. If I had to start from scratch, I could claw my way back to the Big B again. Mother and Father can stuff that money up their gloryholes for all I care. I’m going after the one thing that can’t be replicated, can’t be duplicated, has no substitute in this world.
I’m going after love.
As for marriage?
I’m going after that too. Except the deadline is meaningless now. I already know what I want out of life, who I want out of life. I want India, and if I have to wait a day to make her mine, so be it.
Yup. Since I’ve emotionally let go of my attachment to the money, Mother and Father can’t pull the puppet-strings, have no hold on me. I just won the game by changing the rules.
By making it my game.
And just as the thought completes itself, my phone beeps. It’s my accountant with an update:
Great news! A smaller account popped back online. FBI is working on the rest, and the lead guy says it should be fixed by sunset if everything goes as planned.
“Fixed by sunset if things go as planned,” I mutter as I read the message. “Is it weird that the FBI said it’ll be fixed by sunset? Why the fuck would they say that? Is this a hidden message from Mother and Father? Are they reminding me that the game is still on, that if I lose the bet I’m going to lose not just the money but something else—something more valuable?”
Suddenly it occurs to me that the very first message from Mother and Father said I’d already lost some unknown bet. If so, what if my money is already gone forever, if the wealth was the price I paid for losing the first bet?
I start to pace through the streets as a chill slithers up my back like a snake. Because if Mother and Father already took my billions for some unknown first bet that I lost, what of value do I have left to put on the line for this second bet?
“I got it wrong,” I mutter, clenching my jaw as that chill spreads to my back and around to my chest, making my heart pump cold blood through my veins. “I’ve already lost my money. It’s not coming back, no matter what I do. Which means that I’m wagering something else that’s precious to me. But what? Without my money I have nothing of value. Nothing but my cash, my clothes, my watch . . . and my life.”
Only now do I think back to what I remember about the Society, about that strange induction ceremony with a recorded message narrated by someone called Father. It was decades ago, and I sure as hell can’t remember the details. But one thing that stuck with me was how Father said joining the Society wasn’t a life membership—it was a forever membership. There was also something about sunset or sundown or twilight in that message, wasn’t there? It had seemed like over-the-top flowery stuff you see in Fraternity rituals, so Hayes and James and I had shared a good laugh after it was done.
“I should call Hayes,” I mutter, dialing his number and then sighing when it goes straight to voicemail. I shoot him a quick text to call me back, and then I call James, the only other member of the Society, far as I know at least.
James is usually upbeat and high-energy, but he sounds tense as fuck right now. Something’s clearly wrong, and I sense that Mother and Father and the Society are fucking with him too. Hell, I bet that’s why Hayes’s phone is off: He’s probably mixed up in some carnival ride of a game too!
For some reason I relax a little. Knowing all three of us Society guys are being played gives me some solace, and I decide to let James know I’m in the same shit. At first he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but I push harder and he confesses.
And what he confesses almost makes my heart stop.
“They gave me a contract,” James says. “And I have to deliver on it by sunrise, or else I lose my billions forever.”
I snort and smile. “A contract? Lemme guess: Marriage contract with a woman from the Society.”
“No,” says James. He goes silent, but I can hear him breathe. “A contract on you, Ingram. On your life.”
3
INDIA
“Not on your life,” I say to Janelle. “Marry someone after one meeting? And did I mention he drinks Scotch like water?”
“There’s your problem,” says Janelle, dropping two cubes of ice into each glass of spring water. “You’re a perfectionist. You know what they say about the obsessive search for perfection, right?”
“No. What do they say about it?” I ask, smiling as I take a sip. I called Janelle from the taxi I hailed when I snuck out through the loading dock past the Club kitchen. She was one of the three women who joined the Society a decade ago—and the only one I’m still in touch with. No idea what happened to Hannah. She might be dead, for all I know. Hell, she might be Mother, for all I know!
“Fuck if I know,” Janelle says with a shrug as she slides herself onto the teardrop shaped leather couch. “But I’m sure it’s something.”
I laugh, releasing some of the nervous energy of the day. But certainly not all of it, and I feel the tension tighten my shoulders as I wait for Janelle to react to all the shit I just threw at her about the Society, Mother and Father, missing money, and some kind of game in which we don’t know the rules and don’t know what’s at stake.
Janelle looks at her phone and then sighs and puts it away. “Well, my millions are still where they’re supposed to be,” she says, taking off her glasses and smiling like she’s trying to stall long enough to decide whether I’m crazy. “Should I withdraw everything and hide the cash under my bed just in case I’m next in line?”
“I know you’re kidding—and I know you think I’m kidding—but this is fucking real, Janelle,” I say. “What the hell kind of cult did we join like airheaded idiots? We were smart enough to build business empires on our own, but somehow dumb enough to get involved in something like the Society?”
Janelle sighs and puts her glasses back on. “Well, given the situation, obviously it was a dumb thing to do. But back then it seemed exciting and kinda neat—being the first women accepted to an ancient secret society and all. And there was nothing about lifetime membership dues or anything like that.”
“Maybe because it wasn’t a lifetime membership but a forever membership—whatever the hell that means,” I say. “And why do you say it’s an ancient society? Do you know about its history? I couldn’t find anything online about it.”
Janelle shrugs. “Maybe not ancient, I guess. But I do remember during the induction ceremony recording there was something about the Society’s origins being in the world’s oldest university. What is that, Harvard? So like the 1600’s? Old, but not ancient.”
I shake my head. “Harvard might be America’s oldest university, but it’s not the oldest in the world. The first university ever is debatable, but I remember reading a theory that it’s actually in India. An ancient city of learning that was used by Buddhists and all kinds of other religions or groups. Started in 500 BC or something.”
“BC?!” says Janelle, her eyes going wide. “Huh. That is kinda ancient. India, you said? That’s an ancient country that’s now the data-center and cloud-computing capital of the world.” Her back straightens and she stares at me. “It’s also your name. Are you Indian?”
I glance down at my brown ar
ms and do a half-shrug, half-nod. “Maybe. Probably. Don’t know for sure. Never got one of those ancestry tests.” Janelle’s about to ask the obvious question about my parents, and I stop her with the not-so-obvious answer. “I was adopted. In America. No records of my birth parents—I’ve looked.”
Janelle frowns. Then she cocks her head and looks at me askance, like she’s wondering if I’m playing a trick. “You know I was adopted too, right?”
I blink and stare as a chill rises up my spine like a viper. I bite my lip so hard it almost bleeds. Both of us being adopted could be a coincidence. But what about the third woman? Hannah? Three for three would be too much to be a coincidence.
So I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, sighing when I come up empty. “Hey, do you have Hannah’s number? You remember Hannah, right?”
Janelle’s distracted by her own phone, and I figure she’s about to call Hannah to see if being adopted is a common thread. But when I see her frantically tapping on the screen and then standing up abruptly and yelling into the phone, I know it isn’t Hannah.
It’s Mother and Father.
Pretty good timing, right?
Almost like they could hear us.
Can they hear us?
I look around the room, wondering if this place is bugged. Of course, nowadays the listening bugs are the size of a pinhead, and you can’t find them without a scanning device. But then I stare at my silent phone blinking on the table, and suddenly it occurs to me that you no longer need to hide bugs in rooms anymore—not when everyone is carrying a high-definition recording and transmission device 24-7. It’s called a phone, and every tech company tracks our every move, word, and maybe even every thought. If the Society can make our millions go away, surely they can tap into the networks that feed into our phones.
I consider turning off my phone and tossing the battery away. But then I remember how one of my accounts popped back online, and I decide it might be better if they’re listening. Besides, I think as I glance out the window, I get the creepy feeling Mother and Father are watching and listening in some other way, a way I don’t even wanna think about.
Billionaire's Curvy Bet Page 2
