I Choose You (The Billionaire Brothers Series)

by Cole, S. Ann

  When he told his parents what he wanted to do with his life, they weren’t having it. So he decided to leave. At nineteen, he left the comfort of his parents’ mansion and went out on his own. He was admitted into a dance academy, and not too long after, got a job teaching dance classes on the side to make ends meet, since the Kingstons had cut him off.

  Not a single day passed when he didn’t call me. Until one day he told me flat-out he needed me by his side. I think his exact words were: “I need you everywhere in my life, Krissy. In every space, every inch, all up in my air. I need you by my side. Please. Please, come and stay with me.”

  There was no second thought about it. I loved Jahleel more than I loved my adoptive parents. So one Sunday, I feigned being sick to opt out of going to church, and as soon the Kingstons were gone, I packed up and ran off to live with Jahleel in his dingy apartment. We downgraded from our posh life to a tiny apartment. But it didn’t matter because we were happy to be ourselves.

  A couple of months later, our parents found out where we were staying. As they barged into the apartment, Jahleel shoved me behind him, telling them he wouldn’t allow them to take me from him. But as usual, the Kingstons were calm and humble and told him they weren’t there to take me back home. Besides, I’d just turned eighteen and was old enough to make my own decisions. However, they weren’t comfortable with our impoverished living, so they offered us a house.

  They bought us this grand modernistic split-level home and had it redesigned so that the top floor would be mine, with two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, kitchen and living area. The same was downstairs for Jahleel, so neither of us would be in each other’s way.

  The Kingstons decided there wasn’t much of anything they could do to turn us from our ‘worldly’ desires. They assured us they would continue to pray for us until we came back to God(as though we were ever with God to begin with).

  Trey Kingston avoided us. Wanting to follow in our parents’ footsteps, he acquired his Bachelor of Theology and M. Min. Degree, became actively involved within the Kingston Faith Ministries, and traveled the world with them.

  But Jahleel, he was a superstar.

  Okay, I’m exaggerating. Even though in my eyes, he was. And I was proud of him. Jahleel was a successful dance choreographer for pop stars, rock stars, all kind of stars. They all wanted him. To choreograph them, that is.

  A few months after we moved into to our new home, he landed a job as a back-up dancer for an über-famous R&B artiste, that had him traveling a lot, making serious cash. After a year, he’d managed to purchase a small studio and began choreographing as a side job. A year after that, he blew up. The R&B artiste he’d worked for rated him so highly, he began recommending Jahleel to others, selling him.

  And Jahleel never disappointed. Now, he was demanded. He had a bigger studio. Bigger clients. Bigger bucks.

  Remember when I said I was proud of him? Yeah, I still am.

  “You stayin’ home, or you still workin’ on that club?” Jahleel asked as he placed a cup of coffee in front of me.

  “I finished the club two days ago. Thought I’d be able to get at least a one week break before I got assigned again … ” I took a sip of my coffee as another shiver of fear washed over me. “But you won’t believe what happened the other day.”

  “What?” he queried as he loaded a plate with pancakes and eggs then slid it across the counter to me.

  Unlike me, Jahleel could navigate his way around a kitchen to prepare meals to feed himself … and me. Therefore, I was perpetually in his kitchen sniffing around for food, as my kitchen never got used. Swear it, I didn’t even buy groceries.

  Setting his plate down on the counter, he leaned his hip against the edge as he sprinkled Sun Maid raisins over his pancakes, then syrup. He had a habit of leaning against the counter to eat, seemingly having something against sitting down.

  “The boss, as in the boss, called me to his office.”

  He stopped chewing, brushed a thick flock of sandy brown hair from his face and glared at me. “The fuck did you do now, bad girl?”

  I burst out laughing. “That’s the same question I kept asking myself all the way up to his office. Turns out he wants me to work on one of his high-end projects. Me.”

  “But that’s great!” Rounding the counter, he cupped my face and kissed my forehead. “You landed a big one. Proud of you.”

  My eyes bugged. “JK, are you serious right now? It’s a residential project. Not just any project but one with penthouses selling for millions of dollars. You gotta thoroughly know your shit to work on those. And right now, I’m freaking the hell out.”

  Pushing my plate and coffee aside, Jahleel hopped up on the counter, taking the position where my plate had been, his legs spread on either side of me. Grabbing my face, he leaned down to me. “Hey, you know your shit. Stop doubting yourself. If they picked you, it’s because they believe you can do it.”

  “Naw. I believe it’s some emergency fluke. I’m thinking they were behind on this one and needed to get it out of the way so they grabbed the next available designer.”

  “So what? Who gives a shit? Fact is, the job is yours. And you’re gonna design the hell out of it, get a cover in some lame ass magazine, and make me proud. You don’t, Krissy, and I swear I’ll beat the eva-lovin’ shit outta you.”

  “Oh, God,” I grunted and pressed my face down on his pajama-covered thigh.

  At the sound of a female yawn, I raised my head to see a leggy brunette ambling into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Awe, JK, you’re such a sweetheart to make me breakfast.”

  When she saw me, she frowned, but said nothing and started toward the refrigerator.

  “Nah. Made breakfast for me and Krissy. Not you. And if you want somethin’ from the fridge, ask for it. Don’t just waltz aroun’ like you live here.”

  The brunette stopped in her tracks and stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as if not knowing how to respond. Jahleel reached across the counter for his wallet laying carelessly at the edge, took out a hundred dollar bill, and held it out to her. “Here. There’s a Starbucks down the street, go on and grab somethin’ to eat.”

  The girl hesitated, frowning at me sitting between Jahleel’s legs as she came up to him and took the bill. “Aren’t you two like, um, brother and sister?

  Uh oh. Someone said the ‘B’ word.

  Jahleel’s light-gold eyes grew cold. “No. We’re not.” He leaned over and snatched the money back from her hand. “Now get the fuck out.”

  The brunette’s frown deepened, seeming even more baffled than before.

  “Now!” Jahleel shouted.

  No hesitation this time, she turned and scurried out. As Jahleel ran an angry hand through his hair, I narrowed my eyes at him.

  Jahleel Kingston was, well, hot. Like the devil’s pitch fork hot. Meteorite-hit-the-earth hot. Ozone layer hot.

  Seriously.

  He was one inch over six feet of rugged, ripped-jeans, Timberland boots, tattooed, dancer-boy hot. Thick, loose, and perpetually dancing on his shoulders, his sandy brown hair was to die for. And his light-gold eyes, almost paranormal-like, usually made people tilt their heads to the side and stare at him with intrigue. His body … well, what do you expect a dancer’s body to look like? Not even going there. However, he had absolutely no respect for women. And I found nothing amusing or sexy in that behavior.

  “You need to stop treating girls like that, JK. You’re all sweet talk and smiles to get them in your bed and then you treat them like shit the next morning.”

  “Krissy, you heard her.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaned in to me, and pointed to the door the brunette went through, “She said the ‘B’ word.”

  I started to laugh then immediately stopped myself. Pushing away from the stool, I smacked his chest, and he grinned. “I’m serious. Karma’s gonna come back and screw you in the ass one of these days. Hard.”

  Jahleel snorted, and knowing exactly wh
at he was going to say in reply, I made a beeline for the exit. “Pot criticizing the kettle, Miss Sleep-with-’em-only-once-and-never-call-’em-again?”

  I whirled around and placed my hands on my hips. “That’s different and you know it! At least I’m nice about it.”

  “Er, you might wanna rephrase that?”

  Rolling my eyes, I rephrased, “At least I lie about it.”

  Jahleel hopped off the counter and strode toward me with his arms open wide. “Aw, my little blonde bad girl. You see? We’re no different.” He lifted me up off the ground and carried me out of the kitchen. “We’re two pieces of shit and that’s about it.” Depositing me on his couch in the living room, he ruffled my bangs. “Bitch killed my appetite. Gonna shower and head out. Do well on that big contract.”

  As he kissed my forehead and walked out of the room, I grabbed a throw-pillow and pressed my face into it, letting out a muffled scream. Without warning, a pair of searing blue eyes flashed across the backdrop of my lids.

  My eyes snapped open, and for some unknown reason, my heart started drumming hard and fast like an African beat.

  I knew those eyes.

  They were the eyes of the man who resembled danger.

  I spent the next couple of days locked up in my room laboring on designs I thought would appease Trevillo Nelson. Feeding on pizza and Cola, only taking breaks at two or three o’clock in the morning to grab a shower, I slept for a few short hours then went back at it. The boss wanted three different options in one week. If that mandate wasn’t pressure, then I didn’t know what was. It was brutal and unfair.

  By the time Monday crashed in, I was exhausted, but glad I’d gotten the task done.

  Standing in the middle of my walk-in closet that overflowed with clothes and shoes, it took me the same time it did each morning to decide on an outfit: over thirty minutes.

  This is probably where I should start talking about myself — something I genuinely hate to do. I’d been avoiding it long enough, but here goes:

  The name’s Krissan Sophie Kingston, and I am kind of a shopaholic. I’ve spent the majority of my earnings on clothes and shoes I don’t need. Shopping has been an addiction I can’t seem to break. The good so far is I’ve not driven myself or anyone else into debt. The Kingstons used to repeat a proverb that went something like, “a person without self-control is like a city with broken down walls”, so I knew a thing or two about self-control.

  The bad part was - it was all bad.

  The one answer I’ve been able to come up with each time I executed an introspection as to why I shopped in excess was: once upon a time, I had nothing. Living in a foster home where we all shared the same pair of jeans, t-shirt or shoes, no one thing belonged to any one child. We shared everything, from toys to underwear.

  Now that I was fortunate to have more, I took more. That was my theory and I was sticking to it, even though I knew it wasn’t a valid excuse. I just … had a problem.

  Everything about me was a problem, as a matter of fact.

  To me, I was just one big, red question mark. People seemed to take to me for some reason or another, and even thought I rocked. But in every bit of honesty, I had no idea what or who they liked, because I was empty.

  I never felt like I had a personality. I didn’t care passionately for anything or anyone beyond Jahleel. And I never saw past the present. I lived each day as it was given. Often times, I wondered what my purpose was here on earth. I was shallow, vapid, selfish, and didn’t give a shit about life. My life consisted of sleeping, eating, dressing to the ninth, going to work, coming home, doing more work, sleep, wake up, eat and repeat.

  On occasion, I’d go clubbing, and if I spotted a hot guy I wanted, I’d give a fake name, sleep with him, then sneak out when he fell asleep. Because I wasn’t, and wouldn’t ever be, interested in seeing him again. I cared zero for relationships because I had no feelings, love, or passion to share. Sure, I was a successful designer, so people might think, ‘well, she must be passionate about designing’.

  Not really.

  Growing up, I was always good at decorating: mixing things, neatness, art, putting things together, tearing things apart — my parents were sick of me redecorating everything all the time. After graduating high school, I was still empty, with no real dreams like normal people had. Or even like Jahleel who knew without a doubt he wanted to have his own dance studio and that he was going to get it.

  Then I decided, well, since I was good at designing, why not hone it and acquire all the qualifications needed to turn it into a career? Straight out of college, a friend of mine got me an internship at The Dean’s Realty. They liked me there, as most people tended to within five minutes of meeting me. And after a year, I landed a rock solid position.

  So, at this young age, I had a blessed salary and almost nothing to stress about.

  Once upon a time, life for me was a nasty glob of shit. Then, life became a chunky piece of red-velvet cake. Thanks to the Kingstons. Now, with no kids, no needy, demanding boyfriend, no one but me to give two cents about, what was a girl to do? I guiltlessly indulged in shopping, grooming, random sex and hard work, and that was it.

  The life of Krissan Kingston.

  Once, when I relayed this emptiness to my mother, she explained to me a day would come when I would care about life, and would care about people, because then, I’d see my purpose.

  At twenty-freakin’-five years old, I was still waiting for that day.

  Chapter 3

  K. Kingston

  Ineligible

  “Damn,” muttered the man who held the future of my career in his hands, sitting back in his big black leather chair. “You’re good.”

  A relieved sigh seeped through my pores, and my tensed muscles started to relax. Nervousness had held me captive since I came up to his office fifteen minutes ago, flipped open my MacBook, and showed him the options.

  Being in his office, in his presence, unnerved me. Maybe it was because he was, well, Trevillo freakin’ Nelson. Maybe it was because he was expecting a heck of a lot from me. Maybe it was because of the way he looked at me as if I were a complicated algebra equation he couldn’t figure out. Maybe it was because of his azure blue eyes lingering on my lips each time I spoke, or the way he leaned in closer, staring into my eyes with a concentrated expression as if he were inspecting them.

  Maybe it was all of the above.

  In his presence, I felt endangered. But I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly caused that feeling. He was impossible to read or understand, because if he said something nice, it was almost immediately followed by something harsh.

  “How long did you say you’ve been working for me?”

  Shouldn’t he know this by now? “Five years.”

  On a slight shake of his head, he mumbled, “I can’t remember ever seeing you before. I keep asking myself, ‘who is she?’”

  Huh? “Well, this is a large company, Mr. Nelson. Unless you’re God, or you possess some kind of superpower unbeknownst to others, I wouldn’t expect you to know all your workers individually. That’s why we have bosses of bosses that you are the boss of. They’re the ones you need to know. Not us.”

  He nodded once. “A realist. I think I like you.”

  He continued pressing his gaze into mine, making me shift uncomfortably in my seat, crossing my legs to quell the inexplicable ache suddenly roiling between my thighs.

  Trevillo Nelson was faultlessly handsome. He had mischievous azure blue eyes, an upturned nose that looked too perfect to be real, and full, carved lips that held too much color for a man. His hair was raven-dark and seemed to have a mind of its own: while some strands lay obediently in place, others curled at the ends and went in whichever direction they chose. It was obvious he tried keeping his hair neatly groomed, but his hair contradicted itself, unsure if it wanted to be curly or straight, so it landed in somewhat of messy, roll-outta-bed vibe. And it was as sexy as sins were dirty. His high, sharp jaw line gave him a dangerous, intim
idating edge. He was … male. With eyes promising a whole lot of bad.

  Shifting again under his never-breaking stare, I pointed to the laptop to re-direct his attention. “So, which of the three designs do you want to go with for the penthouses?”

  His eyes narrowed at me for a beat before answering, “I’m going to be honest: I’m stuck. All three options are exceptional. I like none more than the other. That’s never happened before. I’m the man with the last say and, well, I don’t know what my say is.”

  Without breaking his gaze, he hit a button on his receiver and ordered, “Milo, get your queer ass in here.”

  A few seconds later, Milo waltzed into the office in his steel-toed boots, tight black jeans, rocker T-shirt and spiky Mohawk. Milo’s style had a certain oddness I loved.

  Trevillo turned the laptop in Milo’s direction. “In one week.”

  Milo took the chair next to me and began scrolling through the designs. Stopping for a second, he glanced up at me and raised a brow, then went back to viewing. After a torturous moment of silence, he turned to me and grinned. “Damn, Krissy K, you’ve been holding out on us. These are freakin’ brilliant!”

  I rolled my eyes at him. Milo was known to be a chatterer and exaggerator to the utmost. “Thanks, boo.”

  He turned to the blue-eyed man who was still staring at me and said, “Now, you don’t have a thing to complain about. Which is it going to be?”

  Trevillo shrugged. “Why the hell do you think I called your skinny ass in here?”

  My brows shot up as I watched the exchange between the boss and his assistant. I’d never seen a boss and assistant speak like that to each other before. Like they were long time buddies or something. But I admired it.

  “I don’t know, boss,” Milo chuckled. “It’s your say. They’re all pretty damn good to me.”