The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  That has to be the vodka talking. So why are my ears starting to burn?

  “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Devon Wakefield?” I joke.

  She shakes her head. “Cassie, I swear…”

  There’s a commotion over by the side door to the balcony, and I realize that the boys from Broken Machine are on their way in.

  I stand up quickly, smoothing my sheath dress over my hips. I expect security to make us form an orderly line, but they seem mostly content with leaning against the railings, checking their phones. A group of women quickly leave the bar and push past me, rushing Matt and the other guys as they walk into the room.

  “Oh my goooood,” the tall blonde one effuses, going in for a hug immediately. Matt smiles, clearly enjoying himself as she presses her chest against him. “I can’t believe this is really happening! Can you believe this is really happening?”

  One of her friends lets out a little shriek, recording the whole encounter on her phone.

  I can already tell that if someone doesn’t enforce some kind of take-a-number system, the rest of us will never get a chance to have our boobs signed. I walk over to the most authoritative-looking security worker and clear my throat several times.

  “Excuse me, it looks like the band is here. Are we supposed to line up for our photo ops, or…?”

  Sighing heavily, he shuffles over to the band without saying a word to me. He inserts himself between the women and Matt, speaking quietly in his ear and grabbing his elbow to guide him over to the other side of the room. Matt looks incredibly annoyed.

  When it’s clear they’ve chosen their spot, I walk over and stand a few feet away. The rest of the VIP concertgoers start lining up behind me.

  Finally, the security guy steps back and motions me forward.

  I walk up to Matt. He’s shorter than I would’ve imagined. He smells like Red Bull and weed.

  “Hi,” I blurt out. “It’s really great to meet you.”

  “Yeah?” he says, his eyes glancing off of me, and immediately focusing on something or someone over my shoulder. “Cool.”

  I’d like to tell myself he’s just doped-up, he’s just tired from performing - but I know that’s not it. He was animated enough with the leggy blonde and her friends, I’m just not on his radar. Because he doesn’t want to fuck me, I don’t really exist.

  “I’m a big fan,” I hear myself say. I might as well be talking to a brick wall. “Have been since junior high. ‘Bitter Sugar’ was the soundtrack to my eighth grade…”

  Once again, his eyes slide right over me, settling on some of the other women in line. “Uh huh,” he says. “You got something for me to sign?”

  I was so deflated by his reaction, I almost forgot. “Oh…yeah…I have the copy of your first album that I bought when it came out. I kept it this whole time.” I offer a small, self-deprecating smile as I pull it out of my purse.

  “You got a pen?” he asks, still not looking at me.

  “Um…” Shit. I assumed they’d have them, I didn’t even think to pack a Sharpie. “I’m sorry, I…”

  Matt rolls his eyes, letting out a sharp sigh. “Wanting an autograph, doesn’t even have a pen. ‘Cause that makes a lot of fucking sense.”

  My cheeks are burning. Of all the things I thought would happen here, I didn’t anticipate this.

  “You know what?” I shove the CD back in my purse. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I can see you’re very busy.”

  There’s a roaring sound in my ears as I walk away. If he says something in response, which I doubt, there’s no way I would hear it.

  “Are you okay?” Becca rushes to me as soon as I get clear of the crowd. “You look pale. What was he like? Did you get a picture?”

  “I’m okay,” I respond, without thinking. When she asks, I’m always okay. I’m the oldest. Being not-okay isn’t an option.

  But then, I realize it’s true.

  I really am okay. I’ve built up a carefully-constructed fortress against anything the world could sling at me, but if I had one remaining Achilles heel, it was my body image. It’s not about wanting to look like a model. It’s about wanting to be sleek and effortlessly gorgeous like those other women, the ones who can lose twenty pounds just by cutting out soda and hitting the gym, who look at women like me and disdainfully suggest we should lay off the cheesecake. I’ve always wished I could switch places with somebody like that, just once. Just for long enough to live their life, and for them to live mine. To understand it’s not so fucking easy.

  But I’m okay.

  It stings, but I’m okay. I don’t need his approval now. I never did, of course, but there were still those little lingering parts of my teenage psyche, that insecure little girl who just wanted to be accepted by the passionate singer with the jet-black hair and guyliner.

  “What happened?” Becca prods. I realize I’ve been silent for way too long.

  “Nothing.” I smile down at her. “I had a great night with my sister, and now we’re gonna go home. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she says, wrapping her arm around me as we walk down to the stairs together.

  ***

  The taxi line is a thousand miles long.

  Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. But not by much. It’s been so long since I’ve gone to an event like this, I’d forgotten what a pain in the ass it can be to leave. There’s thousands of people all crowding the exits at once, and we’re all stuck in the same line.

  Becca is fading fast. She’s always been a sleepy drunk, and now she’s leaning heavily against me. I wonder if she’ll be snoring by the time we manage to get into a cab. We’re going in opposite directions, but it seems more efficient to just share and worry about the impractical bill later.

  “Becca! BECCA!”

  She doesn’t notice, but I do. There’s a group of women much closer to the front of the line, about three rows up, waving frantically through a gap in the throngs of people.

  I nudge her. “Hey. Do you know them?”

  Finally, she shakes herself back to reality. “Oh. Hi guys!” She waves back happily. “Yeah, they’re from spin class.”

  “Hey, don’t you live right up the street from Kimberly?” one of them asks.

  “Oh, yeah! You do!” says the one I assume is Kimberly. She gestures to us. “Why don’t you guys share with us? You’ll get home faster. I bet we can all squeeze into a minivan.”

  “Go ahead,” I tell Becca, nudging her towards them. “I’ll be fine, guys. Thanks for the offer. I’m going uptown anyway. I was only going to share so I could keep an eye on her, I think it’s a little past her bedtime.”

  Kimberly snort-laughs adorably. “We’ll take good care of her, don’t worry!”

  Honestly, I need some time alone with my thoughts. I’m glad she’s safely on her way home, and I can breathe a little.

  Well. Sort of. The packed crowd is starting to make me claustrophobic. After a few more minutes, I duck out under the rope and start walking towards home.

  I’m not in the mood to walk the entire three miles, but I can catch a ride in a few blocks where things are a little big calmer. For now, it feels good just to be away from the crowd.

  I keep thinking about what Becca said. How Devon seemed to light up when he said my name.

  She had to be imagining things. Or just trying to mess with me. Not that she’s ever been much of a prankster, but what other explanation is there? That he’s actually, genuinely interested in me? That he has feelings for me, the way I have for him?

  That’s impossible.

  Right?

  It has to be impossible.

  I dig out my phone. Shit, it’s later than I thought. I walk a little bit faster, suddenly hyper-aware of how the crowd has thinned out. I shouldn’t have taken that alleyway shortcut, no matter how many times I’ve been through here. It’s a bad idea to be so brazen in the city.

  As I continue on my way, I keep my phone clutched in my hand, ready to hit the emergency call but
ton if anything happens. Where the hell are all the cabs? Is this the city that never sleeps, or what?

  I slowly become aware of footsteps behind me. They’re keeping an even pace, slowing when I slow, speeding up when I speed up. I force myself not to turn around and look. Instead, I scroll up Becca’s name on my phone and call her.

  “Hey,” she mutters sleepily, after way too many rings. The footsteps are still there. Still steady. Still following. “What’s up? I’m like, halfway home. Are you still in line?”

  “Becca, listen,” I mutter, as softly as I can. “I know I’m probably just being paranoid, but I think someone’s following me. I think - I think I’d better stay on the phone with somebody just in case. Okay? Do you understand?”

  Instantly, she’s awake. “Okay. Okay. What’s going on? Where -”

  The footsteps start to come up behind me. I begin to quicken my pace even further, and they match. I glance over to make sure it’s safe to cross the street. Something hard jabs into my ribs.

  “Hang up,” hisses an all-too-familiar voice in my ear.

  My heart stops beating.

  I hit “end call.” I unclench my hand, and my phone shatters to the ground.

  “Move,” Pizelle grunts, pushing me into the closest alleyway, until we’re out of sight in the shadows. I stumble away from him, just barely regaining my balance to stand and face him.

  His eyes are wild and angry, his hand shaking. He is holding a gun, and his finger’s on the trigger.

  This is not happening.

  This can’t be happening.

  Not now. Not to me. Not here.

  This isn’t where I die.

  I’m not ready.

  I stare at him, as he stares at me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice amazingly steady. So calm. How do I sound so calm?

  “Teaching you a lesson,” he spits out. “All you fucking bitches need to learn. I’ve tried being nice. I’ve tried giving you everything I’ve got to offer. They tell you, just be yourself, just be authentic. Well, that’s not what you fucking want, is it? Not from somebody like me. I have to be the one to change. Well, I’m fucking done with that. Maybe you need to change.”

  I swallow heavily, trying to control my breathing. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I understand. It must be very frustrating.”

  Hours wasted watching true crime documentaries taught me something, after all - I remember how people who survived killers talk about their experiences. I remember how they got sympathy. Calmed them down. Pizelle might not be a killer. I might be able to make him rethink whatever it is he’s planning, but I have to pretend to be sympathetic.

  “No, you don’t understand!” he shouts, his eyes flashing. Desperately, I hope his raised voice will bring someone running. Or at least inspire a phone call to the police. Things have changed since the days of Kitty Genovese, right?

  Right?

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Help me understand. I really want to.”

  His nostrils flare as he tries to catch his breath. “No, you don’t. You don’t care. None of you care.”

  “Please,” I beg him. “Please, help me understand.”

  I can’t die tonight. I won’t.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Devon

  Bzzt bzzt bzzt. Bzzt bzzt bzzt.

  I flop my arm over to the bedside table and grope blindly for my phone. Who the hell's calling my private number while it's still dark outside? Is it still dark outside? Maybe my new blackout curtains are working a little too well.

  The glow of my phone screen is almost blinding. I squint and blink furiously until the words on the screen stop looking like hieroglyphs.

  Ten missed calls from a number I don't recognize. Christ.

  I tap on the oldest voicemail notification, hoping to work my way through whatever-this-is chronologically.

  "Devon, Devon, I'm so sorry - I didn't know who else to call, but I can't - I can't -" The voice dissolves into sobs. I don't recognize it immediately, although it sounds vaguely familiar, the hysterical tone makes it a bit difficult to recognize.

  "I can't find her," she sobs. "Cassie. She called me, she sounded scared, said somebody was following her. Then we got cut off. I called and called and I went to her place. She's not there. I don't know what happened to her, but it's something bad."

  Shit. Becca.

  Heart thumping, I jump out of bed and pull on the closest pair of pants while tapping one of the missed call notifications. Becca’s phone only rings once before she picks up.

  "Becca, what's going on? You sure she wasn't playing a prank on you?"

  "I'm sure," she sobs. "She would never do that."

  "Okay, okay," I tell her. "Take some deep breaths. I'll figure this out, okay? I'll find her."

  I know exactly what I have to do. Becca might not have known it, but she called one of the only people in the world who can actually find her sister almost instantly. No warrants, no 48 hour waiting periods, no muss, no fuss. It's one of those things people hate me for. Cassie herself wouldn't approve. But if there's even the slightest chance she's in trouble, and I don't do something about it? I'd never forgive myself.

  I drive over to the Fine People offices in record time, blowing through two red lights on the way. I'll probably get tickets in the mail. Right now, I couldn't care less.

  It's always been a policy of mine to stay hands-on with everything we do. Some people call it "control freak" behavior, but since I'm a billionaire, it more often gets described as "eccentrically brilliant." It's amazing how a few extra zeroes behind your bank balance can change everyone's perspective.

  The I.T. room is littered with Hot Pocket wrappers and half-empty soda cans. I really need to call the custodial company and see if they can't cut me some kind of deal. The engineers certainly aren't going to spontaneously learn how to clean up after themselves.

  Pushing aside a pile of Doritos bags, I pull up a keyboard and type in the override password.

  This is where we keep it. All of the data, everything you've ever opted into, without reading it. When you roll your eyes and scroll past pages and pages of legalese, because you don't have time for all that bullshit, because you just don't care enough to find out the truth.

  If you're not paying for something, you're the product.

  And sometimes, even if you are paying for it, you're the product anyway.

  We collect everything we can. If I'm lucky, Cassie hasn't messed with any of the custom settings. Does she seem like the kind of person to opt out of location check-ins? Most people don't even realize. When their phone pops up a notification telling them that it's saved their parking space, they just think it's awfully convenient, and then they forget.

  I hope I'm lucky.

  I hope she's lucky.

  Look, I know how it sounds. But the truth of the matter is, you're always being watched. It's just a question of how, and by whom. No one is off the grid. Not anymore. Fine People does a better job than most of keeping data secure. When I say I'm not going to sell it, I actually mean it. We use it for our own marketing and demographics, but here's the oddly comforting truth - there is simply too much data for us to know anything meaningful about you. In amongst all the other numbers, you are as anonymous as you're ever going to be.

  It doesn’t take me long to pull up her user data. Then it’s just a matter of triangulating. Or, if I’m spectacularly lucky…

  A live signal.

  I can zoom in on a map, and see exactly where her phone is. I just have to hope she’s somewhere nearby.

  Heart pounding, I pull out my own phone, and call my friend at the local police department.

  ***

  It feels like forever by the time my friend calls me back.

  “She’s okay,” he says, characteristically gruff. “Shaken up. Some asshole held her at gunpoint in an alley. Guess he used to be a client, or he wanted to be. Got a hell of a chip on his shoulder.”

  For the first time in hours, I exh
ale all the way.

  “She’s not hurt?” I heard him the first time, but I have to make sure.

  “Scraped up knee from when she hit the ground at our orders. That’s all. Lucky as hell. Well - not lucky, smart. She talked him down, just like I would’ve done. Listened to him. Encouraged him to talk about himself. Probably why she’s still here. You sure you don’t want to come down and talk to her? I’m sure she’d be happy to have company.”

  I’m aching to see her, in fact. I want, so badly, to comfort her. But something’s holding me back, and I don’t know what it is. But I feel frozen in place. I gave the Chief strict instructions not to tell her how they found her. She’s going to assume it was Becca, making a lucky guess based on her route home from the concert. And Becca’s not going to tell.

  “Not right now. I’m…not good in a crisis.”

  The Chief grunts. “I don’t think she cares right now, Wakefield. But it’s none of my business.”

  “What about the guy?”

  “He went down without much of a fight. Not hurt. Twisted shoulder, maybe. No priors, but he’ll be going away for a long time. Apparently he’s a lawyer. Not a very good one, I guess.”

  I have to laugh.

  “Thanks, Chief. I mean it. I can’t thank you enough. Your officers saved her life.”

  “Thanks to your tip,” he says. “Take it easy, Wakefield.”

  I glance at my phone after hanging up. Still half an hour before last call. Amazing how fast the police work when a billionaire calls.

  Just because I can take advantage of it, doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed how fucking unfair it is.

  The plan last night was to turn in early, get a good night’s sleep, and get to work on my presentation for next week. Instead, I find myself pulling on a coat and walking down to the closest bar to calm my nerves.

  I know whiskey isn’t the solution to all of life’s problems, but it’s something. And right now, something is better than nothing.

  The bartender’s putting the caps back on the bottles when I walk in, but she pours a last-minute drink for me anyway. A double, without me asking. I must look as bad as I feel.