Me: Wutev. We need to meet. Now.
Dylan: About?
Me: Her
Dylan: Fuck. Why?
Me: We got a problem.
Dylan: No, you got a problem.
Me: Come on. Where the fuck are your meetings? This can’t wait.
Dylan: Give me a minute.
His phone call comes in at the same time that his text does.
“Took you long enough?” I answer.
“What do you want? Make it quick.” The hollow echo of his voice suggests that he’s in a restroom or possibly a kitchen.
“Risk assessment meeting, huh? Sounds like the only risk you’re assessing is whether you and whoever you’re fucking will get caught in whatever hotel men’s room you’re in right now.”
“No, it sounds like you’re talking from firsthand experience.”
I raise the volume with one finger at the side of the phone and listen more closely. “Wait, is that…are you in a kitchen? It’s that chef, isn’t it? I met her yesterday.”
“Why the hell are you interrupting my meetings, dickbag? What’s the problem now?”
“I told you what it’s about.”
“Actually, you told me who it’s about. Can you handle your own shit for once?”
“I just need to know what to tell her to look for. Once she gets in contact with me. I’m sure she will.”
“Okay. Where are you gonna be around seven tonight?”
“Here at the office.”
“I’ll see you around seven then.”
“I might need your chef to fill me on where Rose will be later,” I confess.
“She’s dodging your sorry ass, isn’t she?”
“Well do you blame her?”
“Fuck. Not really. All right I’ll ask. I gotta go.”
“Wait,” Dylan says as I’m about to hit the end call button.
“What now?” I ask, and turn in my swivel chair to face the floor to ceiling wall looking out on Manhattan.
“Maybe you’re going about this all wrong,” he says, sounding pensive.
“How do you mean?”
“You’re trying too hard. Instead of hoping she contacts you to help us, help her first.”
“Help her? What are you talking about? What kind of help does she need?”
“That’s for you to find out, dickhead. Once you do, it’ll give her a reason to reach out to you.”
“Does your chef know any angle for this?”
“I don’t fucking know. I’m not in the habit of asking women I’m interested in about other women.”
“Wait. You’re right. I’ll ask Jackson. It was his girl who came to him about Rose as a lead in the first place. Is he with you?
“No.”
“I’ll text him for the petsitter’s number.
“All right, man. Let me know how it goes.”
I end the call and have one goal for the rest of my day. Indirectly find out everything there is to know about Rose. Everything that I don’t already know.
Eight
Rose
I’m confused.
Restful sleep has been impossible.
Any contentment I had before is gone.
It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For a man who says he desperately needs my help, he’s really patient. Or quiet. Or busy.
Caleb went through all that effort showing up, imploring for my assistance, explaining that what they’re looking for is time sensitive. He sends me one text that night, then radio silence. I haven’t heard from him or anyone from his company in days. Has something changed? Did they find what they were looking for? Do they believe I have enough information about what they need just from the few lines of text he wrote on Emily’s notebook the night he was here? Do they just trust that I’m already working on it? I hope not. I haven’t found anything, and am so low down on the ladder that it’s likely my access to files it severely limited. The most I can do at the moment is skim the documents that I shred for clues. So far, nothing, and it’s probably because I have no idea exactly what they’re hoping I’ll find.
When Friday evening comes around, I assume that they don’t need me anymore. It’s okay with me. Besides, I have other things to worry about. Like my student loan payment. I was able to pick up a few weekend shifts at the makeup counter, so starting on Sunday for the next month or so, I work seven days a week.
Except for this Saturday. I have a wedding to attend in Long Island. Alina, one of my Columbia U MBA classmates, is getting married to an alumni who graduated from our program two years before we did. I don’t know the guy well, but as Alina and I are amicable, and because I haven’t dressed up in formalwear for years, I’m looking forward to the event.
It’ll be an excellent distraction from all the crap going on in my life right now too.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to pick you up?” Kimberley, my other girlfriend from our MBA program, hums the question through the phone a few hours before the wedding. “Brooklyn’s pretty much on our way.”
“Maybe I should meet you halfway like we planned. It’s easy to get lost around here.”
“We really don’t mind,” she presses, but the truth is I don’t want her to see where I live. I was one of the few students in the program who came from nothing. As the child of a CEO running a Fortune five hundred company that’s been around for five generations, Norma is practically New York royalty. I’d also hate for her to end up getting carjacked or mugged in her luxury SUV if she shows up here. Much of Brooklyn is very safe, but this particular part of the city is fraught with undesirables like homeless people, drunks, and the odd junkie looking for their dealer to score their next hit.
I’m tempted to just let her come, considering that I’m not looking forward to walking nine blocks to the nearest subway in these six-inch black stilettos. The knee-length form-fitting midnight blue off the shoulder dress I’m wearing has no place on the train, amidst gum and other sticky stuff frequently left behind on subway seats.
“I don’t want you and your friends to have to go out of your way,” I tell her, giving her one more objection so she’ll have an out. “
“I’m with my cousin and his friend. It’s only three of us, and the guys don’t mind. Text me the address. We have GPS. It’s no trouble at all.”
“Will do. Thanks again.”
“See you in thirty minutes, give or take.”
Hanging up, I send the address, then head to the bathroom to finish applying my makeup. As I stand there in silence, I can’t my thoughts drift to this situation with Caleb again, and I have to throw the toilet seat lid down and take a seat to quell the wave of nausea and panic. I’ve been walking around like a mindless robot since he showed up at my door, going through the motions and avoiding the gravity of his presence in my consciousness. The truth is I’m mortified, unsure what I’ll do if I have to see him, or face him, or speak to him. I’ll have to do one of those things soon, or all of them, and short of a miracle, there’s nothing I can do to avoid it.
A confrontation is coming.
I can’t ignore him forever.
Then I’ll have to face some truths.
Like the fact that I only left the holiday party with him years ago because of one reason. I secretly found myself attracted to him and thought all that workplace bad behavior he doled out as my boss meant something. Something else. Something torrid. Like the most fucked up foreplay ever.
Then shit hit the fan.
I’ve had so many nightmares about that night that I can barely tell reality from fiction anymore. Sometimes after the dream, I have to stare at my ten fingers and give each digit a word or phrase to keep from falling in the pattern of feeling like a total victim of something worse than what really happened.
One. I had a drink with alcohol, but it wasn’t from Caleb. Check.
Two. I was probably drugged. Check.
Three. I passed out. Check.
Four. I was not sexually assaulted. Check.
&nbs
p; Five. I’m still a virgin. They didn’t touch me there at all. No one knocked me up or passed on any STDs. Check.
Six. Someone messed with my clothes but it was a harmless prank. Check.
Seven. Someone found me in time, so I’m safe. Check.
Eight. The fallout from those pictures of me on social media was worse than what happened at the party. Check.
Nine. I was victimized, but I’m not a victim. I chose to be there. Check.
Ten. Caleb took me to the party, but it’s not necessarily all his fault. Maybe a check.
I give myself one last look in the mirror, grab my keys, phone and clutch purse, and walk over to my overnight bag at the front door. Because of the location of the wedding, all the wedding guests were offered guest rooms at the hotel where the reception is being held. I accepted a hotel room in my RSVP simply because I wanted the flexibility of being able to leave whenever I wanted. If Kimberley got a little hammered and couldn’t drive back, I could stay or go after the reception, or first thing in the morning. And it won’t look like a walk of shame the next day if I’m using public transit wearing comfortable jeans and shoes instead of this dress.
Stuffing my phone and clutch purse into my travel bag, I lock up and leave with a few minutes to spare. Kimberley texts me to let me know they’re outside the address as I make it to the second floor.
Her timing is perfect.
Her bloodline is not.
Kimberley is in the back passenger seat of a Porsche SUV, and sitting in the front passenger seat is none other than Caleb. Kimberley’s cousin is some guy named Foster, who happens to be one of Caleb’s best friends.
Really?
Did I just sign up to not only sit in a car with Caleb for up to a couple of hours each way, but also to attend a wedding and stay overnight in the same location where he’ll also be?
Did that really happen?
God. Just kill me now.
Nine
Caleb
Sometimes, even the best-laid plans get fucked up.
Like right now.
The fact that Foster’s cousin, Kimberley, is friends with Rose only became apparent this morning. I don’t want to be the prick who backs out from the shared drive to Long Island for this wedding. I keep my mouth shut and go with the flow. I’m resilient. Now that I’m going to spend close to twenty-four hours with her, I’ll make the best of it, even though all my instincts are telling me that it’ll all go to hell. It’s a horrible situation that I just made worse.
I look out the passenger window, waiting to see her reaction. As she steps out the front entrance and scans faces looking back at her from our SUV, I clock the surprise and horror on her face. I’ve never uttered a word to anyone but Dylan about that night, but right now, with the questioning expression on her face, followed by averting her eyes away from me, she must be wondering whether Kimberley and Foster know. They don’t have any idea. Not from me. All Foster knows is that she’s the Rose Burnell who’s trying to help us out with the Levine Holdings issue, and he knows not to talk about it with anyone, not even his cousin.
I drag anxious fingers through my hair and clear my throat, thinking about whether I can do anything at all to make this ride a little more comfortable. I can’t pull Rose aside to clear the air either, not without clueing Kimberley in that we have more in common than our alma mater. It’ll have to wait until later.
Once I resign myself to accept this situation for what it is, I only have to look in Rose’s direction as she descends the front stairs of her building to remember why my life got entangled with Rose’s all those years ago.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
Physically, everything about her is just that way I like a woman. From the curves of her hips that I’ve fantasized about holding onto, to her long legs I imagined wrapped around my waist, with high heels just like the one she’s wearing, digging into my back as I fuck her somewhere private. I pictured my face buried in her cleavage, and my lips around those perky nipples that form an imprint on her dress through her bra, if she’s wearing one. Not even that disastrous night can change my insane attraction to her. I’ve imagined burying my hands in all her raven colored, bone straight hair, or holding onto it to anchor her as I claim her mouth.
But it’s her eyes that still haunt me. On nights when I’m alone, wishing I could turn back time, it’s those eyes that beg me to take her pain away.
And that’s my problem.
I can’t undo what happened to her, and I can’t change the fact that it’s my fault.
Foster hits the button to open the trunk, and the sound of the latch clicking open pulls me back to the present. Clearing my throat, I ignore my growing erection and climb out of the front seat, opening the back passenger door and taking Rose’s travel bag as she reaches the sidewalk. She thanks me but the words are empty, simply something said to be polite, and probably only because it’s not just the two of us. I make room for it in the back with the rest of our things while Kimberley greets her warmly. I return to my seat and buckle up, somewhat relieved that Kimberley is the talkative type. She prattles on for almost the entire ride to Long Island, filling the silence as they compare notes on who bought what from the couple’s bridal registry, and catch up on each other’s lives while I help Foster navigate up front.
Our SUV crawls to a stop behind half dozen vehicles waiting for the hotel valet guys up ahead. I shoot Rose a look through the mirror on the flap of my sun shade. Again, she averts her eyes. When we make it to the front of the queue, the valet opens the back door just as I look to open mine. Another bellman hurries to the open trunk door and takes out all the luggage, giving Rose the out she was probably hoping for. She and Kimberly rush ahead behind the bellman, leaving me with Foster as we wait for the first guy to take the car keys.
My mind races, seeing them disappear through the front door of the hotel.
“You need to fucking relax a little, okay?” Foster says to me.
“I’m relaxed.”
“You’re acting obsessed. You didn’t take your eyes off of her for even a second. It’s a little creepy, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this way.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you there’s a lot riding on the Mont Blanc deal,” I say dismissively. “And whatever’s going on under their Levine Holdings umbrella can fuck everything up.”
“Trust me. I know, and it still doesn’t give you an excuse to eye-fuck her for close to two hours straight.”
I laugh off his comment and follow him inside. “I’ll eye fuck who I want, when I want. It ain’t a crime.”
As we stand in line to check into our rooms, all I can think about is one question.
How am I going to make the best use of whatever time I have with Rose? My dick can think of a few things. She can probably use a good fuck too, judging from how uptight she seems.
But I also like the idea of finding some way to use the evening making up for our past. I’ll do whatever I can do to help her enjoy this mini-trip.
“Just don’t fucking scare her off,” he says.
My jaw tightens, and I tighten my grip on the handle of my small suitcase. Too late for that. I look around the lobby, only noticing the hotel Muzak system fill the air with cheesy ballads a few moments before Kimberley turns to Foster and me.
“Our rooms are all on the same floor,” she chirps, passing us the key cards inside a little paper flap with the room number written on one side.
How convenient for me.
Before we make it to the row of elevators, I know what I have to do.
Rose may not admit it, but I’m sure it’ll make an impression.
Ten
Rose
I sit at the bar eyeing the bartender as he pours me a vodka and orange juice. Alina’s wedding was beautiful. The reception dinner is over, and speeches and toasts went off without a hitch. At the moment, half of the wedding guests are either on the dance floor or socializing as they watch the happy couple dance. For me, a couple of
drinks are in order, hence my perch on this leather high-back bar stool. Whenever I’m out and feel up to drinking, I make it a point to watch my drink like a hawk while it’s being prepared. I won’t have a sip of anything served at a dinner table or brought to me on a serving tray. I learned the hard way, and no one will ever have the chance to take my control from me that way.
“Having a good time?”
“Sure,” I answer, trying not to react too strongly to Caleb’s question as he takes a seat a couple of bar chairs from me.
Kimberley swears that she didn’t know we knew each other, and that he had no idea we’d end up carpooling to the wedding, but I’m skeptical. I’m also a bit suspicious that not only did we end up with rooms on the same floor, but my room happens to be directly beside his—and with a door connecting our adjoining rooms. Can he be any closer? Apparently, he can, sitting beside me now.
The bartender sets down my drink and glances over at Caleb. “What can I get you?”
“Jack on ice.”
“Coming right up.”
“I haven’t found anything yet,” I say to Caleb as the bartender turns to the counter behind him for the bottle of Jack Daniels.
He takes that as his cue to move into the seat next to me. “It’s all right. Besides, that’s business, and this wedding supposed to be about anything but.”
Even with the loud dance music blaring around us, I’m tense. I cross my legs and stare down at my drink, thinking about what his close proximity does to me when it shouldn’t.
“I didn’t mention it before, but you look great.”
I glance at him in time to see his eyes trailing down my body. Something about the way he stares makes anger fill me up. “You and I really only have that one reason to interact,” I say, pointing my index finger back and forth between us. “I said I’d help your firm, and once that’s done, it’s best if we go back to never talking to each other.”
The Billionaire and The Virgin Intern Page 4
