The Plan (The Shamed Billionaire, Part I)
Contemporary Romance Fiction
Apryl Summers
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form without the prior written permission of both the author and the publisher.
THE PLAN
Copyright © 2013 Apryl Summers
Cover & Interior Design by lillithc
[email protected]
All rights reserved.
1
The Settlement
The limousine smelled gross, a wretched combination of beer and puke. It was making me sick. Last night this was a party wagon, conveying a bachelorette bash with drunken bridesmaids; today it is a solemn carriage transporting a grieving family to a cemetery. I was riding in the car with a couple of cousins and aunts, riding to the gravesite to bury my big sister, best friend and hero, Penny West.
Aunt Debbie was my mom’s only sister. When Penny and I were little girls, we would visit her for two weeks during the summer break. Aunt Debbie was so sweet, kind hearted and giving. She always had a gift, a hug and a warm smile waiting for us. She would always greet us with tight hugs and sloppy kisses, before feeding us homemade cookies and then giving us our presents. It was like Christmas in July. Having her with me at this time was comforting.
She always seemed to know what to say, but not today. She was grieving just as much as I was, not just for Penny but also for me.
My cousin, Stacy, was a year older than I was and four years younger than Penny. Stacy and I used to follow her around, letting her dictate what we did and how we played. More often than not we would play dress-up. Penny would pick an outfit, do our makeup and style our hair as if we were beauty pageant contestants. Other times, we visited a local swimming hole where the water was clear, but as cold as ice. Along the bank was a Tarzan rope tied to a tree limb. Stacy and I were always afraid to try it, but not Penny. She would walk up the embankment — gripping the rope — and leap in the air, screaming as she floated across the water before letting go and making a huge splash.
I had such fond memories of going to Aunt Debbie’s house. Somehow, over the past few years, I was just too busy and we lost touch. We talked on the phone for birthdays and special holidays, but the visits stopped and our lives moved on.
Penny’s two co-workers, Lori and Brenda, were polite and pleasant. They spoke highly of Penny, saying she was very nice to work with, and would be greatly missed. They told me a few stories of how Penny would bring in doughnuts or coffee to the office. Everyone looked forward to her arrival, because she always looked out for everyone else. That was Penny, all right.
She was the fixer, always trying to fix everyone else’s problems and constantly worrying if someone was okay. She was a nurturer by nature, just like our mom. If you were sick, she would bring “over the counter” medicines: chicken noodle soup, with tea and honey. If you were going through a hard time, you could always count on a “get-well” or “thinking of you” card in the mail. When it was my birthday, she would wake me at six am, just to be the first to wish me a happy birthday.
That wouldn’t happen anymore.
No one said a word the entire ride. I pressed my face to the window, staring at the strands of neon light that ran along the roof and the rows of crystal-clear champagne goblets lined in the cup holders. Then it hit me: my sister would not be the maid of honor at my wedding, whenever that would be. I could not believe she was gone; she was only 26, far too young to die.
It had only been four years since Mom and Dad were killed in a car accident. I would never forget that day. I was only sixteen at the time. Penny had picked me up from school, before driving me to the park where we used to walk our dogs and giving me the news. A city bus, traveling at a high speed, had rammed into the back of dad’s classic ’67 Volkswagen Beatle, killing them both instantly.
Losing them was difficult. Every month, on the anniversary of their death, Penny and I would go to the cemetery with flowers, reminisce about the times that we spent with them, usually a family vacation. Penny dropped out of law school and returned home to raise me. She continued taking classes online, but never graduated. She always said she would someday, but she was more concerned about me than herself.
For the next two years, Penny watched over me as a mother hen would her baby chicks. She made sure I did homework and met deadlines; screened any potential boyfriends, made me do chores, and she volunteered at my prom to make sure I stayed out of trouble.
Standing over her casket, I felt so lost. Aunt Debbie wrapped her arms around me to comfort me. “It’s not right,” I said to her, “why would Penny commit suicide? She had so much going for her.”
“I don’t understand it either, Cindy. She was such a happy person,” Aunt Debbie replied. Stacy, Brenda and Lori placed a rose on the casket, gave me a hug and stepped back as I continued to mourn. When Mom and Dad passed, I was in shock. I was lifeless, unresponsive and showed little emotion. But with Penny, I cried so hard that my stomach went into convulsions, and I dropped to me knees in sorrow, wishing it was not true.
I did not think about it until that day, four years after their death. Walking back to the limousine, I turned to Aunt Debbie. “I’m the same age Penny was when Mom and Dad died—twenty,” I said. “She was so strong. I wanted to be just like her.”
Aunt Debbie was concerned as to how I was going to handle Penny’s death. She tried to convince me to come and stay with her as long as I wanted. It took me over a year to come to grips with Mom and Dad’s death, I did not know how long, if ever, I would get over this. I appreciated the offer, but I thought it would be best for me to get back to normality as fast as possible. At least that’s what I planned.
***
I was a sophomore in college, studying law just like Penny, only my grades were nowhere near as high as hers were. A week after the funeral I returned to class. It was the fall semester, only three weeks before finals and the winter break. Night after night, I tried to study but could not focus. My friends were supportive, but I started withdrawing, not coming out of my room, and then I quit going to classes all together.
I was beginning to regret ever enrolling in college. Had I not, maybe Penny would still be here. I went to college to become a lawyer, that’s what I told myself, but I actually went because I wanted to make Penny proud of me. Leaving was a mistake though, she needed me. She needed someone to be there for her, and I wasn’t. She committed suicide, but my presence might have spared her.
Anxious over my grades and scared of flunking my final exams, I decided my only option was to withdraw from school. I packed my belongings, said goodbye to my roommate and friends, and drove to the Big Apple to live in Penny’s apartment.
For days, her flat was sealed with yellow tape; under investigation until it was officially ruled a suicide. The Property Manager escorted me to her complex, studio 405. He slid the key in the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Holy, shit!” the manager shouted.
Someone had ransacked the entire apartment. Every kitchen drawer and cabinet had been opened. The couch covers and pillows were strewn on the floor. Clothes, papers and books lay scattered everywhere in disarray. A mixture of sorrow and despair, mingled with anger and denial, coursed through me. I was pissed. Someone had violated Penny’s home and I took it personally. It took me two days to clean the mess.
For the first four nights I slept on the recliner, but my back would not endure another, so that evening, I crawled cautiously into Penny’s bed. I could smell the fragrance of her shampoo on her pillowcase as I grasped it tight to my body and face. It was not long until my tears soaked the pillow.
A week passed before I realized I was running out of groceries. I had not left the apart
ment for seven days and just sat staring at the mounted television for most of that time, wondering if the cable provider had discontinued service. With no initiative to look for the remote or manually turn on the TV, I just lay in bed. Just like the 50-inch screen, everything inside me was black—no energy, drive, motivation or purpose.
A month went by and I only left the apartment twice, which caused the Property Manager to panic — understandable considering what he had just gone through with my sister. Fearful that I had followed Penny’s example, an Emergency Response Team arrived at the flat. They checked my vital signs and discovered I was dehydrated and my blood pressure was extremely low, so they transported me to the hospital.
After examination, I was admitted to a mental health clinic for depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. For the next six months, I underwent psychological evaluations, psychiatric therapy, and doses of Tofranil, Prozac, Lexapro and Celexa. I felt hopeless, helpless and abandoned.
Then, something unexpected happened that changed the course of my life forever.
I had a visitor.
I sat anxiously, wondering who it could be, when the door opened. A short, unshaven 300-pound man, wearing a blue and white plaid suit, suspenders, a wide, navy blue tie and a shirt stained with drips of coffee, walked towards me. There was perspiration on his grubby forehead and he slicked his long bangs out of his eyes before sitting down. He placed his ragged, worn-out leather briefcase on the table, released the latch and retrieved a stack of disorganized papers.
“Hello, Miss West. My name is Jerry Watkins. I’m your attorney.”
I was confused and perplexed. “Attorney?” I replied.
“Well, I was Penny’s attorney, but now I’m yours,” he answered.
As it turned out, shortly after my parents died Penny hired Mr. Watkins to represent my mom and dad in a wrongful death suit against the NYC Department of Transportation. The arrangements Penny made were that if anything happened to her, I would be the sole heir to the lawsuit. I was about to inherit $7.5 million, minus Mr. Watkins’ 20 percent fee.
“They’re ready to settle,” Mr. Watkins said with a grin.
He sorted through the legal documents, lined them side-by-side, handed me a pen and pointed to forms. “Sign here. Here. And here.”
It was bittersweet. I was ridiculously rich, but at the cost of losing my parents and my only sister.
When I finished signing, he stacked the documents and said, “One more thing, do you want me to continue pursuing the investment scam?”
“What are you talking about?”
I was too young to understand much at the time, but an investment firm, called Legacy Investments, Inc. had swindled my Dad’s retirement. Penny uncovered information and hired Mr. Watkins. He explained that Penny intentionally accepted a position at this firm in the attempt to obtain proof. I never even took the time to ask Penny where she worked, all I knew was that she was an administrative assistant and worked downtown.
“She called me two days before she died and told me she had the proof, but I never got a chance to see it,” he said.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“I have no idea. But I have a feeling that whatever she found, it had something to do with her death.”
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
Up until now, the story told by police was that Penny had claimed she was sexually harassed at work. The investigation proved otherwise, but no one told me why. The only explanation offered was that after the investigation was dropped, Penny went back to work, regressed into a deep depression and apparently had a mental breakdown before killing herself.
Convinced of foul play, Mr. Watkins recommended a Private Investigator to look into Harvey Goldman the owner of Legacy Investments, Inc. He was the investment broker that swindled my dad, the same man who sexually harassed my sister and got away with it. I was convinced he had something to do with Penny’s death and I was going to make him pay.
Before he left the clinic, Mr. Watkins asked for copies of my medical records to justify why I was in the mental hospital so long. Without the proper documents filed, they would not release any medical records. As my attorney, he said he was going to file an injunction against the clinic for attempting to profit from my recent loss. The attending physician, Dr. Jenkins, who was my psychiatrist, agreed to speak with Mr. Watkins privately. It was decided that a new psych-evaluation would take place in the next 72 hours and if I passed, I would be released. For the next couple of days, I met with Dr. Jenkins and Dr. Phillips — another “shrink” who offered a second opinion — and I was cleared.
It took a few days for the release forms, but exactly one week later, I was free to go. The first thing I did was to go to Dairy Queen and order a Peanut Butter Parfait. The only desserts we had inside the clinic were orange sherbet.
It took 78 days for the settlement to be finalized. In order to obtain the funds, I had to meet with the NYC Department of Transportation lawyers downtown. Mr. Watkins was there to meet me. The traffic was horrible. I didn’t know how Penny could handle this every day. Mr. Watkins and I walked into a large conference room and there must have been seven or eight attorneys present. The settlement arrangement was to be in three installments over a one year period. It did not matter to me, but Mr. Watkins objected until they agreed to pay his 20 percent in one installment. Three days later, the funds were wired unto my account and a new life began.
***
Three weeks before the settlement signing, I met with Mr. Watkins to get an update on the investigation. The Private Investigator, Alex Rivera, was present. He recovered a copy of the police report. The lead detective from the NYPD Special Victims Squad, Jerry Oliver, was a longtime friend and high school teammate of Harvey Goldman. The charges were dropped because witnesses said they saw Penny and Harvey kissing in the parking lot, so it was considered consensual.
But there was more. Alex knew the Coroner and the forensic report revealed that an unidentified male’s fingerprints were on a cocktail glass in my sister’s flat. In addition, witnesses claimed they saw a man that matched Harvey Goldman’s description at Penny’s apartment.
“That bastard,” I exclaimed.
“That’s not all,” Alex said. “The toxic report shows high volumes of Rohypnol and GHB in her system.” He paused, “Those are date rape drugs.” Alex turned and looked at Mr. Watkins, “There’s no way this is a suicide.”
I could not believe it. All my emotions burst at once and I started to cry. Penny was murdered. That imagery in my mind was haunting. I could see her lying on the couch. The horror of her suffering was more than I could bear. And, to think, she laid there for two days before the Property Manager found her.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Watkins said as he handed me a box of Kleenex tissues. Wiping my tears away, my pain turned to anger. Immediately after Penny’s death, I was so angry. I was angry with Penny for not calling me and telling me what was going on. I was angry with God, for letting Penny die. I was angry at life and the whole world. Night after night in the clinic, I laid in my bed, crying myself to sleep—wondering if life was worth living now that I had no family. And, now, I discovered that Harvey Goldman had sexually assaulted my sister. He had been stalking her and he had murdered her and covered the whole thing up.
Alex went on to say that Harvey was a player. “He makes several trips to Las Vegas each month. His favorite spot is The Cat Tails Lounge . . . it’s a high-class brothel.”
I envisioned myself in Las Vegas. I wanted to confront this Harvey Goldman. There was no way I could get close to him in New York. If I just showed up at his place of business, with ties to my sister and the sexual harassment claim, I would be escorted out of the building. Then I had a crazy idea, a far-fetched idea, but I liked it.
It was probably a stupid idea and my background in law should have told me to let the authorities handle it, but with this information concerning the forensics and a dirty cop, how could I trust the system? With that in mi
nd, I decided that I needed to do it. I needed to go to Vegas and work at the brothel under an assumed identity.
That night, I went back to Penny’s place and I could not sleep. I kept hearing Alex’s voice telling me what a scoundrel and a whoremonger Harvey Goldman was; how he treated women as if they were dogs by putting leather-spiked collars around their necks, attaching a leash and spanking them with a paddle for being bad. He’s one sick mother fucker, I thought as I sat at the kitchen table contemplating his degradation.
I opened Penny’s laptop and did a search on The Cat Tails Lounge. The website gave a description of the business and made it sound like it was a dating service. I clicked on the About Us section. It gave a brief history and mentioned the owner, Madam Elaine Dungy, but nowhere on the site did it have a picture of Madam Elaine. Continuing to read the site, it bragged that it had the best “pussycats” in Vegas.
I clicked on the Our Girls tab and it took me to a page showing all the escorts. They were dressed in sexy Victoria Secret’s lingerie, and all of them were incredibly attractive. One of them jumped out to me, Janine. I clicked on her picture, and an enlarged photo with a brief description appeared on the screen. She was a petite Chinese girl with jet-black hair. She had bright, energetic eyes, like a Siamese cat, and they seemed to pop off the page. Her luscious, seductive body was wrapped in a satin see-through apron with a flirty, flyaway front, paired with a matching thong, but what caught my attention the most was the BDSM apparatus laying on the bed in the background.
In plain view was a leather-spiked collar, a dog leash, a leather ball-gag, rope, whips and a paddle. I sat back in Penny’s black leather chair and wondered that, she might be one of Harvey’s girls.
I continued to scan the site and saw a tab that read, Job Opportunities. I clicked on it and it had a brief, but enticing description: Looking for young beautiful girls who want to have fun, live their dreams and get paid. Evening and night shifts only, top pay and great benefits. Apply in person. No phone calls.
The Plan Page 1
