The Billionaire's Club Trilogy: Deluxe Box Set

by C. L. Donley

  As a hopeless feeling threatens to overtake me, I’ve neglected my vigilant avoidance of Dale and look in his direction.

  He’s already looking at me and holds my gaze.

  He breaks into a grin, as if he knows something I don’t.

  Oh Lord. Has he ever done that before? Was it sexy, at all?

  That silly exchange in the hallway really was enough to put me in his sights.

  But is he thinking the same thing I’m thinking?

  Why not, he said. I can’t argue with that.

  It’s the same logic I’m using to lose my v-card on this trip.

  Only Dale doesn’t strike me as a “why not” kind of guy.

  What kind of guy is he, exactly?

  He sort of reminds me of my middle school biology teacher. Corny jokes, serving snacks during dissections to try and gross out the kids. Sure he had light eyes and was probably brilliant, but still. He was the biology teacher.

  But now he’s moved in my mind from Dale the biology teacher to Dale who knows “what the fuck to do.”

  Although Dale’s the type to give me that whole “your first time should be special” garbage.

  Ugh. I would literally punch him in the face if he did that. If he did that, like we’re really going to go from standing at a wedding to sex in a matter of hours.

  The bride gives me a big smile before she takes her place in front of me. I’m only faintly aware of the droning prayers of the minister.

  Should I dare another glance at him? I suddenly find I can’t resist.

  I turn my attention to Amara’s veil so that I can see him in my peripheral. I thought that would be enough, but soon I’m feeling greedy. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I need to look at him. Right now, during a wedding.

  In the corner of my eye, I see him bow his head and I make my move. I look at his broad shoulders, his slim build. When he’s still and quiet and not flapping his gums, he’s actually quite beautiful. His impeccable head of hair is slicked back and with his clean shaven, baby faced appearance, he looks younger than me.

  He raises his head only slightly, his jaw clenching. He seems to be listening closely to the vows. I suddenly become aware that we’re standing in front of a considerable audience and I am shamelessly gawking. I look to the right of me, where Bel and Kim are seated on the groom’s side. Bel is staring at Kim with an intensity that’s borderline inappropriate— both for the venue and the amount of time he’s known her— with Kim’s hand too in a slightly naughty spot on Bel’s leg as they’re sitting dangerously close. They certainly aren’t paying attention.

  When it comes time to kiss the bride, Grayson gives Amara a long, modest kiss on the forehead, which is just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. But I know the real reason he hasn’t opted for a kiss on the lips, because we were up half the night gossiping about it. I fought off jealousy and arousal as Amara described the way Grayson’s kiss made her body respond. I’m grateful that I don’t have a friend like Grayson to worry about blabbing the details of our private conversations. If I did, there’d be a lot of blushing to endure. Nevertheless, Amara is clearly touched, a set of tears falling across her cheeks.

  Finally it’s time for me to take Dale’s arm just as we practiced yesterday. The ceremony has made him emotional, I can see. I take his arm and clasp his bicep with my other hand and squeeze as we follow closely behind the bride and groom.

  The 200 or so guests make their way inside after the ceremony, as those of us in the bridal party retreat to the courtyard to take pictures. We all make our grand entrance into the reception, and I find myself back in the ballroom that Dale had caught me dancing in the night before, only now it is transformed. The ceiling is draped with hanging vines of white flowers and diamond studded lanterns. The room is heavily dotted with white tables and place settings, and white chairs with gold edges and legs.

  The happy couple floats onto the dance floor to a song that I know well as Amara’s dream wedding song, a classic sung by Sarah Vaughan. I smile, singing the words to myself. This time there is no pang of jealousy, no boomerang of sadness, I’m just happy for my friend. Her dreams have been not only realized, but exceeded. I hold on to the moment.

  This is possible, I feel a beam of hope. Then a warmth at my back.

  I know who it is.

  I crane my neck to look at Dale behind me but my eyes are met with the underside of his strong jaw. He’s watching them too. It takes a bit of discipline but I return my eyes to the dance floor. As the emcee welcomes the guests, Dale’s hand goes to my lower back, his lips to my ear.

  “Ready?” he says.

  No, no I am not. But I’m pretty sure he’s just talking about the speeches.

  Every hair on my skin stands up. Nervousness and arousal stir in my middle. It frightens me and I also want more. Just 24 hours ago I was balking at all the tedium that today entails, but time has conspicuously sped up since our interlude this morning.

  Dinner is authentic Spanish cuisine: seafood paella, salmon with capers, Spanish tortillas, ham and cheese croquettes, all kinds of tapas. The only thing anyone wants to do after that is have a siesta. So it’s a perfect time for a toast.

  My nerves are in bundles for Dale’s speech, for my own, and for the dance to come. Dale goes first, and instantly I feel stupid for being nervous for him because it feels like we’re all in his living room as he speaks. Of course, his speech is rife with jokes about losing his wingman, how daughters and sisters and even a few mothers are now made safe because Grayson is off the market. But then he says that he gained a sister, and begins to get choked up.

  The hell?

  I look over at Amara who is also tearing up, as are a few of his sisters.

  Okay, now I really feel like an outsider on this one.

  Have they really all grown that close in a year?

  He ends with the sentiment that of all of Grayson’s achievements, marrying Amara is the greatest.

  Well damn.

  How am I supposed to top that? I can’t.

  All I could think of was recalling the day that Amara met Grayson. I didn’t have much else to go on, really. Amara has stayed pretty cryptic about that month she became his mistress. Something had obviously gone wrong, because Amara had come back with a fraction of the amount she was promised, moping around and crying, and whatever happened, she hadn’t wanted to talk to me about it.

  I suspect that Amara didn’t want the whole gross fiasco rubbed in her face, but I have no way of knowing, since we never talked. I stave off the hurt of that whole situation with that simple detail. I don’t know if Amara actually thought that I might kick her while she was down, and that’s why we didn’t talk, but still. It’s the only conclusion I can draw. Next thing I knew, she’s pregnant and they’re engaged. Other than the highlights, I know very little about what was going on with Amara internally.

  Lucky for me, it turns out that bringing up the first day of their meeting is a welcome treat.

  I keep my eyes on Amara as I speak, and not on my shaky nerves and wavering voice. The happy couple beams at each other as I recall Amara’s initial feelings for her would be husband. I even divulge the fact that Amara had written him all kinds of poetry, much to the bride’s chagrin. I begin to describe my favorite poem, but then suddenly I produce the forgotten work from a torn notebook page hidden in my cleavage. As I read, the room is uproarious. My delivery of Amara’s passionate, sometimes emo words is intentionally deadpan. Amara is hiding her face in Grayson’s chest as I read, but Grayson, who has an arm around her is looking down at her smiling, genuinely touched.

  There’s no dry eye for the father daughter dance, and soon after the family’s turn, the dance floor is open to everyone. Open for Dale and I to spend that time together he mentioned the night before, in the very same room.

  Being a dancer by trade does not assuage the fear that I now have about clamming all the way up while dancing with the best man. Eye contact and flirty words are one thin
g, Dale’s hands somewhere on my body are entirely another. I was dreading it since the trip began, and this morning adding a layer of sexual tension to the hot mess is basically the opposite of helpful. I can’t keep up the vixen act for longer than 30 seconds, so I hope he’s not expecting that. I have no idea how this is going to go.

  To my surprise, Dale is fluid on the dance floor and knows how to lead, the combination calming my nerves for the moment, even as he is holding my hand and grabbing me by the waist. His air is cordial and unchallenging, as if we are perfect strangers. Except, I don’t feel the usual pressure to fill the silence. Partly because with Dale, there rarely is any.

  “Nicely done on the speech, Mya,” Dale says, sparking conversation right away.

  “Thanks,” I smile.

  “Five stanzas about Grayson’s eyes,” he marvels.

  “‘Dark and obscure as the seas,’” I quote.

  “It just kept going and going,” he giggles.

  “Yours wasn’t easy to follow.”

  He abruptly shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

  “What’s that about?”

  “I… left a lot of things out,” is all he says.

  I look up at the ceiling decorations. “I had no idea you felt that way about… Amy, is it?” I say.

  He gazes at me, breaking out into a grin. The same one he had during the ceremony. His grin makes me grin.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What were you thinking about up there?”

  “At the ceremony?”

  Dale nods.

  I shrug, “Nothing. Just that Amara looked beautiful. And whoever did her hair, just…wow.”

  Dale chuckles.

  “Aren’t my sisters wearing your handiwork as well?” he verifies.

  “They are,” I answer.

  “You are a hustler,” Dale teases me. More compliments.

  I shrug again. “They asked, I just delivered.”

  “So that’s all you were thinking?”

  “How about you just ask what you apparently want to ask me,” I urge him.

  “…You were staring at the groom,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Would you get over yourself?”

  “I just wanna know what you were thinking.”

  “That he was very clearly in love with Amara. Like, a lot.”

  “That can’t be news,” he says.

  “Yeah but I’ve never seen him… smiling like that.”

  “It’s scary, isn’t it,” he whispers.

  I laugh.

  “It’s like… watching Skynet become self aware.”

  More laughter. I look up at him to notice he seems to be drinking in the sight of me laughing. Before I can even think about it I look away and I’m instantly cursing myself for not sending back the appropriate reaction, though I’m not sure what that would be. For fuck’s sake. This moment is being handed to me on a very wealthy platter, and I’m totally bombing. I’m doomed. I try to recover.

  “Amara seemed used to it,” I sigh.

  “Look at us,” he suddenly says.

  “Look at us, what?”

  “A couple of second bananas,” he says.

  “Sucks,” I reply honestly, smiling.

  “I gotta say Mya, you’re a lot different on this trip than I thought you’d be.”

  I try not to get stuck on the notion of him pondering what I would be like on this trip. Was he lying down at the time? Was he in the shower? Was he wearing a gorgeous custom tailored suit like this one? And a fucking ascot?

  “Why do you say that?” I say instead.

  “I don’t know. Just thinking back when I first met Amara and she was telling me about you.”

  I smile, tingling at the thought of him recalling a year old conversation with my name in it.

  “The way she described you I never expected you to be so…enigmatic.”

  Dammit, I realize he’s doing the woo personality shit. Now all the compliment cunnilingus makes sense. I don’t think I’ve heard the term “enigmatic” used to describe me, but I’m pretty sure it’s another round about way of saying he thought I would be a cold bitch. I was half expecting him to say “exotic,” which may have sent me over the edge.

  “I’m hardly that,” I reply. “Why, what did Amara tell you? All good things, I hope.”

  “Of course. She was wearing your dress at the time,” he divulges, as if trying to jog my memory. I know the dress well. I needed a dress for my first dance theater wrap party and I ended up not going. Thank goodness I only paid eight bucks for it at Goodwill.

  “Banana Republic,” I recall.

  “Extremely fancy,” he quips as he smiles fondly.

  “Fancier than this rag,” I say, referring to my tagless bridesmaid’s dress.

  “May I say, this ‘rag’ is doing you profound justice,” he says out of nowhere. At least to me. His eyes roam in classic male assessment as he says it.

  Oh, boy. So he is on the same page as me.

  I smile and take a deep breath in and out as though his efforts are so futile it’s exhausting. You’re a man, we get it, I think to myself. Inwardly I’m a tuning fork of energy, because I realize that OPVS is about to be a success. I look around to see if anyone’s watching, but I don’t dare look in Amara’s direction because even from here I can feel her willing something to happen between us. Something more than the one time thing I’m after, I can tell. And I don’t know if her motives are selfish or not.

  I can’t deny two pairs of best friends would be kind of perfect. But even if by some bizarre freaky friday experiment we dated, if it went up in flames—

  “Still a virgin, I take it,” he suddenly says.

  My heartbeat goes to light speed.

  Fucking loudmouth Amara.

  Of course her dumb virgin ass would’ve blabbed that to him a year ago. She probably hadn’t imagined he or Grayson would ever meet any of us back then.

  Or maybe they sit around talking about it on one of the now many occasions I up and decide to leave the room, who the hell knows. I try not to let my vexation show.

  “How would you know?” I ask coyly.

  Suddenly I feel his hand trail up from my waist.

  His thumb slowly begins to stroke the small of my back.

  Instinctively I go rigid. My breath hitches in my throat and my shoulders involuntarily tense.

  I’m looking straight ahead at nothing, the nonsensical blur of other figures swaying to the rhythm of vague and distant sound.

  “Call it a hunch,” he says in my ear.

  My pulse is sky high and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down. More than turned on, I feel vulnerable. So vulnerable in fact that I simply can’t do anything but freeze. The cat is completely out of the bag now, to him and to myself too. I am undeniably hot for Dale.

  Honestly though, the shit is disrespectful. Him playing me like a fucking fiddle, like some puppet on a string. A wealthy playboy like him probably knows my erogenous zones better than I do. I can feel his enjoyment of the scene my body is putting on for him. Transparent little virgin Mya. He’d known about that the whole time. And he saw right through me, apparently. About Grayson, about everything.

  Why did he have to be such a bastard about it?

  His hand is still on my back as I calmly take a breath, my expression serene, looking around at infinitely more interesting things that are not his eyes as I speak.

  “You’re awfully confident for a computer nerd with a small dick,” I challenge him, the way I had at dinner. I look him straight in the eyes as I say it, and I am not angry, but I’m not joking.

  Dale’s eyes subtly change as I see how my insult has shifted his energy. I’m feeling a little ill about what’s going to happen next, but I refuse to back down. Even though my heart is thundering in my ears now.

  “How would you know?” he says, throwing my words back at me, only the context has changed so that they are cutting.

  “Call it a hunch,” I, in turn, throw his words b
ack at him, returning the cut. It’s not in my nature to pay back an insult with another insult, but he basically set me up. I couldn’t resist, and now I’m bracing for this new bitchy path I’ve committed myself to. Though I’m sure he thinks it’s par for the course. Maybe it is. Maybe I am just a bitch. Maybe I’m having so little success because I keep fighting the obvious.

  As I’m pondering this, he leans in close as he speaks barely above a whisper in my ear.

  “Been thinking about my dick a lot lately, haven’t you?”

  My body continues to savagely betray me at the sound of Dale referring to his own dick as we slowly dance, well dressed strangers all around us, completely oblivious.

  “Oh my God, you have been,” he teases me when I don’t answer right away.

  “Fuck you,” I spit out aggressively.

  Great comeback, Mya. Not suspicious at all, Mya, I think to myself. I can’t help it, I’m frantic. I want nothing more than to run away, I feel so humiliated. But I’m on the dance floor with the fucking CEO of Webster, and the only thing that would draw more attention to me now would be angrily storming out of the ballroom. I have to get out of here without making this someone else’s problem right now, especially Amara’s.

  Suddenly he pulls me close so that I can feel just how small he is or isn’t. I gasp.

  “Whoever told you that you were good at trash talk did you a disservice,” he begins, quietly, reassuringly and without breaking stride. “You really think I don’t know what you want? For me to take you somewhere right now, undress you and make you feel the best you’ve ever felt in your near 30 years?”

  My mouth is completely dry, my pulse erratic, my legs are jelly and my lips tremble as the overwhelming shock of his words wash over me.

  What the fuck. Now I’m pissed.

  All I’ve ever done was try to be civil, and he is literally making it impossible. Does he really expect me to concede to all that? Okay, yes, it just so happens to be true, but that’s only because I’m a hopeless virgin on a mission. But that was a second ago. Now, all bets are officially fucking off. The little pride I have left is swirling inside me in a furious fiery mass, calling upon the elements to strengthen it. Nevertheless, I’m determined to be calm as I reply.