Billionaire Brothers 2 : Love Has A Name

by S. Ann Cole

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there, Pretty Boy. First of all, you didn’t ask me if I would accompany you to your brother’s wedding. Second, I have my own money to purchase my own clothes if I were to accompany you anywhere. So I don’t need a damn stylist. And third, I don’t wear dresses — in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Lovello grunted a sound that implied I was the most incorrigible person on earth. “You’re my woman. I don’t need to ask you to accompany me. You know the wedding’s next week, of course I’m going to take you. And yes, I have noticed. But what are you going to wear to the wedding? Short shorts and tank top? Be logical here.”

  “Dios, you are so…” Gah!

  “Beauts, you’re making everything that used to be easy all of a sudden complicated for no damn reason. You seem to be afraid of something and I don’t know what it is, so I’m giving you space and time to sort your shit out. But I won’t allow you to ruin us, and I won’t allow you to complicate what is not complicated, okay? So grab a breather and chill the hell out.”

  And that was Lovello Nelson. The man who was the observer of all observers. He remains quiet when needs be, sits back, observes and analyzes. He wasn’t keen on arguments, neither was he keen on anger. His favorite game was playing the fool — just like he did when my mother and I conversed in Spanish, thinking he didn’t understand — and he simply watches on with his favorite expression of no expression and calculates everything. There you are, with no knowledge that you’re being calculated. And whenever he decides to speak, the hammer hits the nail right on the head, just once, but with such force that the nail plunges right through the surface.

  That was my Pretty Boy.

  It had taken me a while, but I was getting to know him and the way he functioned.

  “I like it when you’re silent,” Lovello’s voice broke through my thoughts. “It means you’re thinking sensibly. Expect your new housekeeper within the hour and expect a call from Lori. If Lori doesn’t have anything you like…” he trailed off in a cadence that heralded a jest. “Then we can fly to Paris. And if Paris doesn’t have anything you like … Hmm … I don’t know. Nowhere beats Paris. So, we’d probably have to buy our own island and…” The sonuvabitch was humoring me.

  “Why did you flush my necklace?” I asked in a calm voice, even though I was anything but.

  That seemed to have taken him by surprise, because it took him a few moments to reply. And when he did, he chose to be an a-hole. “Ah shucks, the damnable thing didn’t go down?”

  I swear he drives me barmy. “You had no right to flush something that didn’t belong to you! Why didn’t you flush your frickin’ head instead?”

  “No, it doesn’t belong to me, but you do. And you won’t be wearing anything that some other man got you.” His tone began tracking down a serious path. “So I suggest you give the cheap shit away, flush it so it goes down this time, or hide it somewhere I won’t find it.”

  This man can’t be serious. “Just who the hell do you think you are? Are you trying to control me? You can’t dictate to me what I can or cannot wear, assface! Since when did you become so forceful?”

  Lovello heaved an exaggerated sigh down the line. “You see, Axia, sometimes a man’s got to be a man in order to keep the woman he wants. I want you. Badly. But you’re like a snake, always trying to wriggle your way out of my grasp and darting that venomous tongue out at me. You’re hardcore. And it has taken me a month too long to realize that a woman like you don’t need a Prince Charming. You need a Hulk.”

  My hand left Timo’s hair to twist a fistful of my own hair and pulled. Hard. “Jesús Cristo, you’re overwhelming me!”

  “I am, am I? You think I’m like poison, too?” he asked, referring to Beyoncé’s song, Poison, that was playing through the integrated system.

  There came a sound like a knock on a door in the background. Lovello requested I hold for a minute, then I heard him telling the person that they could enter. But I didn’t ‘hold on for a minute’, I hung up. The man was driving me berserk and I was grateful for whoever disrupted our conversation that was on a train to Nowhere-ville.

  He constantly accused me of being difficult when he was the one being difficult. One minute he was sweet and flattering, making me just want to grab him and eat him. And the next minute he was forceful, making me think twice about being mutinous. Was I the one making him so variable? Was I hard to put up with? Reasonable was how I’d say I’d been over the past few weeks. I hadn’t been difficult, had I?

  My cellphone began hollering again but I declined his call. Just one phone call from him and he had me threading down another lane of anger. My phone declared a text message and I did that girly thing of rolling my eyes as I opened it, knowing it would be him.

  It’s hard to believe you are the daughter of Vince Blacksille; you possess no decorum whatsoever.

  You are VERY ill-mannered, woman!

  How could you just hang up on me? I thought I was your Pretty Boy.

  Not happy :(

  Enjoy the rest of your day, beauts. And no more cleaning!

  Love,

  Love

  **See that? With this guy, you get Love x2.

  Can only win if you choose my team, baby. You can only WIN.**

  Unbelievably so, after that maddening conversation with him, all I wanted to do was see him and have him. God, I needed help.

  Waking Timo from his peaceful sleep on my belly, I peeled myself from the floor and resumed cleaning, disregarding a certain order from a certain someone, while singing along to Beyoncé’s Halo.

  Within the hour, as Mr. Nelson had promised, Bill rang the intercom receiver to declare the new housekeeper, Donna. She was a petite Hispanic like Rosa. Polite, all smiles, and eager to start working. Though I was loath to succumb to Lovello’s orders, I briefed Donna and left her to work. Then I got dressed and headed out for the gym.

  Friday at the gym was, well, Friday. Packed, springy and sweaty. As I began preparing for my two o’clock Strength class, my cellphone howled, and I groaned, praying it wasn’t Lovello. A number I didn’t recognize blinked on the screen, but I answered nevertheless because this was my personal phone; all impersonal calls went to Tish.

  “Axia, hi, it’s Natalio.”

  Natalio? Why was he calling me? “Oh God, did something happen to Love?”

  Natalio chuckled. “No, no. No need to panic. Love’s good. He just gave me your number, actually.”

  A puff of breath that I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding whooshed through me as I waited for Natalio to continue.

  “There’s a new all-in-one gym station that I have coming out called Musclix Trainer. The launch is in a few weeks. I’m doing a few television commercials and I want you to be the face.”

  Lovello couldn’t have informed his brother that I wasn’t interested in these kind of things? “Why? Is it because I truly have a great bod, or is it because I’m Vince Blacksille’s daughter? ‘Cause a lot of people seem to want me to do all kinds of shit because I’m my father’s daughter. It’s seriously annoying.”

  Natalio was laughing even before I had finished my last sentence. “Love told me to expect this attitude from you. And you’re just like he said. The coward vehemently backed out of asking you for me.” Natalio paused and asked that I hang on a second, then I heard him barking a string of obscenities at someone in the background and mumbling something about an “inept dolt” before he came back on the line. “A bit of both, Axia. You know PSFC is the most luxurious and acclaimed training center in SF. If I were you, I’d open branches in New York and Los Angeles, too. And, Christ, have you seen your abs? They’re pretty damn impressive. I’ve seen your photo on the cover of Prime Size magazine and you seem to be a hot take right now. So I wanna snatch you first. What do you say? We can shoot on Thursday?”

  Brilliant men like Natalio Nelson always know just what to say to get what they want. It’s as if he’d dipped his tongue in a glass of honey before he made this cal
l. “Sounds like you’ve already planned the shoot and put everything in order as if I’m a foregone conclusion.”

  “You can play nice and say I’m optimistic, or be a bitch and say I’m cocky. The latter is more fitting.”

  “Why bother to call me, then? You could’ve just turned up on my doorstep, bundled me up and taken me to the shoot.”

  Deep chuckles flowed down the line. “Just protocol. So Thursday, then?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “Would you now? Thursday, Axia,” he affirmed. “I’ll have my people contact you tomorrow to discuss the contract and such.”

  “You’re a heck of a lot more commanding than your brother,” I grumbled, appalled at the man’s assertiveness.

  “Welcome to the Nelson family. Have a lovely day, Axia. Bye.”

  And that was it. Another phone call where I had no say.

  What in God’s good name had I gotten myself into?

  Later that night, I lay stretched out on my sofa with Timo snoring softly on my belly. I was idly texting on Blackberry Messenger with Trudy, while Lovello’s svelte cousin flurried around in my living area, laboring to find a dress on her racks that I’d like. Being my usual self, I showed no interest in getting to know her and only responded in monosyllables to her queries. Her discomfort and irritation were translucent. Without even fitting on the dresses she suggested, I kept wagging my head with the words “Nope. Don’t like it”.

  What she didn’t know was that I was never going to like any dress she showed me because I didn’t like dresses, period. Ever since I’d been able to dress myself, I’d only ever worn tight jeans, short-shorts, yoga pants or athletic wears. If the occasion was one that required showing your sexy, provocative side, then I’d normally go with leggings and six-inch-heel thigh-highs or breast-enhancing corsets, short leather shorts and thigh-highs. For me, thigh-highs always beat a cocktail dress. Or maybe I just enjoyed looking like a nasty little stripper. It didn’t matter, I just downright hated dresses. Dresses were too much of a girl thing. And I didn’t like feeling like a girl. A woman. But not a girly woman. Just a woman who’s in a category all by herself. I was just me. Axia Blacksille.

  While Lori fussed herself, I thumbed away on Blackberry Messenger, giving Trudy the low-down of Lori trying to find a dress I’d like.

  Trudy: Lmao! Why don’t you just tell the woman you don’t wear dresses, Axia?

  Axia: Heck no! It’s too funny watching her.

  Trudy: You know, sometimes I wonder how is it even possible that you’re straight.

  What woman doesn’t like dresses other than a butch?

  Axia: Well I’m not a butch. I just don’t like the damn things.

  Btw, did you do your full routine this morn?

  Trudy: Stupid woman. Smh. You weren’t there, of course not!

  Axia: Typical you. Taken any more massages from Tish?

  Trudy didn’t answer right away and that gave me time to turn my attention back to Lori. My eyes were instantly drawn to an open suitcase that contained the kind of garments that I obsessed over. My fetish. Why didn’t she open that suitcase all along?

  “What brand of lingerie are those?”

  Lori glanced up from where she was riffling through another rack, and followed my gaze to the suitcase with the lingerie. “Oh, um, Bordelle, Carine Gilson and La Perla.”

  In a millisecond, I was crouched over the suitcase, selecting everything that was in my size.

  Say lingerie and you’ve said my name.

  XVI

  Even though I’d silently hoped for it, Lovello didn’t visit me that night. The weekend came and went without him making a single visit. He did, however, message me when I played stubborn and ignored his calls. Whenever I did answer, it would always escalate into some stupid argument where I’d be accused of being “difficult” and he’d be proclaiming himself to be “freakin’ frustrated”.

  Difficult wasn’t what I was. Pissed was more like it.

  Pissed at myself and my silly emotions for chasing him away. Now when he was giving me my ‘space’, I was miserable beyond all measure. I wanted him to be around. I’d grown accustomed to waking up next to him, curling up with him on the sofa, having breakfast and dinner together, talking crap, arguing, and humping like bunny rabbits. Even cleaning up his mess.

  On the night I’d last seen him, he’d sent me an email titled ‘Home’ that enclosed his address, landline, and pass code. But I was more than reluctant to use it. Didn’t want to be the thousandth girl getting nailed in his debauched bachelor pad. As the days slipped by, however, and he continued giving me space that I really didn’t need, I began contemplating using the address.

  By Wednesday night as I sat at the dinner table eating dinner alone, the weight of loneliness became so unbearable that I almost wanted to cry.

  Cry.

  That weakness thing that I hadn’t done in years.

  Timo was curled up in a furry ball at my feet under the table, breathing contented rhythmic breaths as he reaped comfort and companionship from me that I was craving from someone else. I pushed the half-eaten plate of scampi away and picked up my phone to call Lovello, but then decided to just swing by his place instead. After bundling a disgruntled Timo in his lair, I grabbed my car keys and fled the big, cold and empty house.

  Like a beast, I wove through the traffic as Celine Dion’s Drove All Night blared in my ears. Ever since Zane, I’d vowed never to allow myself to become weak enough to fall for anyone again, nor depend on anyone for my happiness. And yet, I’d heedlessly broken my vow. Lovello had prized his way into my life and had made me need him. Had made me fall in love with his kisses, his touches, his scent, his smile, his beautiful face. Had made me fall in love with taking care of him, feeding him and giving him comfort while receiving. Had made me want him. Need him. Had made me fall in love with him? Nah. Just things about him. Not with him.

  As I pulled up outside a stately, wrought-iron gate, I cursed my jeep’s GPS for being unreliable. Wasn’t I supposed to be turning into a complex of some skyscraper building, where I’d then hop into an elevator that would whisk me up to a penthouse suite on the 99th floor? But when I checked the address again, I realized the GPS was accurate.

  Spotting a security monitor on a column, I powered down my window and hesitantly punched in the code from the email and was surprised when the gates started opening at their own lazy pace. Once they were fully opened, I drove down the gravelly, tree-lined path to the sprawling, Mediterranean-style, two-storey house that more resembled a family palace than a bachelor pad. This was unforeseen.

  I parked next to a gushing water fountain, hopped out and mounted the crescent of limestone steps that led to an imposing double-door entrance. A few seconds after I rang the doorbell, Rosa swung it open and broke into a smile. “Ah, Miss Blacksille, so nice to see you.”

  She remembered my name? Lovello must’ve trained her to mark all his women’s faces in order to prevent any kind of cock-blocking blunder. “Hi, Rosa. Is Lovello in?”

  “Oh yes, yes. Come in, come in,” she fussed, beckoning me forward with a stumpy hand, her Spanish accent heavy. “Mr. Nelson upstairs. I go get him for you.”

  Rosa bustled away on her short legs with her huge butt rolling behind her, while I took in my surroundings. The flooring was of high-polished marble tiles and the ceiling was rather high, granting a palatial aura, while a tremendous chandelier glowered down in extravagance. A grand stairwell with golden banisters wrapped the wall on the right, winding its way up to the second floor. It was quite exquisite. Nothing that I wasn’t used to. Just not what I expected a man like Lovello to reside in.

  “I see someone’s finally checked their email inbox.”

  The sound of Lovello’s voice prompted me to look up. He was standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, half-naked in only black silk pajama bottoms. The light gold tone of his skin glistened under the sparks of the chandelier. His abs and muscles were prominent as alwa
ys, a sexy trail of hair disappearing down his silk bottoms that hung right below his hipbones … Jesus.

  “Hola,” I greeted as I started up the stairs towards him. “This is not the ‘bachelor pad’ I was expecting. I thought a guy like you would be living in a cloud-covered penthouse made of glass and stainless steel, with uncomfortable furniture and insipid decor. How do you woo your girls with this?”

  “This is my home. I don’t bring women here. My penthouse in the city is who they want me to be. But this here is who I am. I’m sorry if you weren’t wooed,” he deadpanned.

  “So why am I here, then? I’m a woman.”

  Lust whispered across his face, darkening his gaze as I halted in front of him, only a foot apart. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  I frowned when I noticed that he’d finally cut his overgrown hair, but not really, because it wasn’t his usual haircut. About an inch had been clipped so that it wouldn’t keep falling into his eyes. “Who was it?”

  “Who was what?” he asked with a puzzled expression.

  “Who told you that you look damnably sexy with your hair like that?”

  “What made you think —”

  “Love,” I sighed with impatience. “You’d been carping every darn day about your hair being in your face and eyes. Yet when you finally found the time to cut it, you only clipped an inch, leaving it as is. So someone, and my guess is a woman whose opinion matters, commented that she liked your hair like that. Who?”

  Lovello’s hand reached up to caress my cheek with his knuckles. “What on earth took you so long to come by?”

  I slapped his hand away from my face and glared. “I’m the master of the distraction technique, so it won’t work on me, Pretty Boy. It’s just a damn compliment, you know. I’m not gonna start breaking dishes because someone complimented you on your hair.“