Trevor’s smug face moves into a sneaky smirk as he sits forward and calls the review to order.
“On the recommendation of President Emeritus David Masters, we are holding this review to determine the future of Devlin Masters as the Chief Operating Officer of Finance and Operations after his display of hostile actions against another member of the executive board.” Trevor looks over at me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
I look into the solemn faces of each of the members. They all look so miserable.
My brother is spineless and basically floating through life without purpose. My sister is bitter and unkind. My father is lonelier than he admits. The death of my mother, his partner, his friend, who held him together in life as they built a fortune together, killed a piece of him a long time ago. The others are assholes, whoremongers, or jerks with no real love or connection in their lives. I don’t want their story to be mine.
I should be worried about my job, but I am thinking about her again.
Ayron’s voice rings in my ears and I speak my truth to the board.
“Life is the sum of our experiences and what we learn from them. I apologize for my actions, but I am grateful for the opportunity to become better, to grow. I have made changes in my life to funnel my aggressions and control my actions,” I say.
“What about the counseling?” Trevor asks, sitting back as though he had placed the nail in the coffin. As though he knew I hadn’t completed it. Under normal circumstances, he would have been right, but because my father is a smart man, there are no worries.
“I completed three weeks of counseling,” I tell them.
My father slides over manila folders to the members.
“Inside you will find a sworn notarized statement from a certified psychologist as to his cooperation,” my father explains.
Ayron again. Damn. I miss her.
The executives read over the information, nodding and smiling as they do.
What the hell could she have written to make these people smile?
Trevor looks irritated.
“Are there any other questions before we begin making our decision?” he asks.
I roll my eyes and smile because it makes me think of Ayron.
“Is this funny to you?” Trevor huffs. “This lack of respect for the company—”
“Let me stop you right there,” I say. “Dana, please go out of the room for a few minutes.”
She looks confused, but does as she’s told. I then pull my phone from my pocket and press play.
On the large flat-screen mounted in the conference room, the video of Trevor screwing a second-floor secretary, who is also the niece of one of the board members on a company desk, pops up. Gloria had connected my phone to the screen through an app prior to the meeting.
Eyes bulge, mouths drop, faces twist and turn away.
“What did you have to say about respect?” I add. “While I may have punched you after you provoked me—using my insecurities about my mother’s death was really low, might I add—I refrained from hunting you down and knocking in your face when I found out how you treated my sister and several other women in this company, who were shuffled around after you used them.”
Trevor’s face reddened.
“I—if you—this is not about me,” he says, sounding frustrated as he stands and stomps out of the room.
I turn off the video.
“For each action, there is a reaction or consequence,” I recite. “Because of my actions, I have learned so much more about life and myself. I look forward to hearing your decision. Thank you for your time.”
After the meeting, I walk evenly to my office.
Gloria sits forward anxiously at her desk, which is right next to my door.
“Did it work?” my assistant questions.
“Like a charm.”
I give her a high-five.
“Devlin,” my father calls out, moving toward me. “Let’s talk in your office.”
I mirror my father’s serious expression.
“Yes, let’s talk,” I agree.
Inside my office, my father sits quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Trevor?” he says in a crisp tone.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Ayron?” I counter.
It doesn’t faze him.
“Would you have gone to counseling otherwise? Would you be on the verge of getting the company you’ve been fighting for if I hadn’t?” he responds in that know-it-all voice.
“But to pay Ayron to make me fall in love with her?” I protest, raising my voice. Damn respect at the moment, David Masters had crossed a line. “Why not a housekeeper or another tennis coach?”
My father has a steel poker face, but the short snort he releases, his lips slightly cocking to one side, reveals a hell of a lot.
“You didn’t think I knew about that.”
“Since you have it all figured out then, son,” he says, standing. “It’s true. I have not always been the present father that you needed.” He moves closer to me, straightening my not crooked tie. “I made sure to strategically appoint people in your life that could help you, give you what I couldn’t. Shit, what I didn’t know how to give.” He steps away then and looks me in the eye. “My mother didn’t even know who my father was. Six kids, at least four fathers, was a lot to keep track of. I wasn’t always equipped.”
I sigh.
‘’I just want you to be proud of me,” I tell him, biting back any emotion like a damn child. And I realize, it’s true.
“Son,” his face brightens. “I was proud of you the day you were born. I don’t even know where to start. Smart, strong, determined.”
“Well, you don’t have to try and fix me anymore,” I tell him honestly. “I’m all right.”
He smiles.
“All right.” He nods and moves toward the door.
“Have you already paid Ayron?” I question. “I was thinking of giving her a little extra for the hassle.”
He ponders for a moment, as though questioning whether or not tell me.
“She had a friend return the money, along with her statement,” he says.
“Oh,” I voice, and can’t think of any words to say, just her face.
Ayron needs money. I’d seen her car.
“If you love her, son, you should go to her,” my dad says. “I know the burden of heartbreak.”
“No fixing me,” I remind him.
He laughs before exiting.
I had confessed out loud that I loved Ayron. Do I? It had to be a slip of the tongue. I just needed to prove a point to my father.
***
Walking through the door of my home, I feel like a weight has been lifted. I don’t care what they decide. There is so much more to life than the business.
Mufasa had retreated to the rock cave. He rarely came out to swim to spot where Sarabi had been.
“I feel you, fish friend. I’m by myself, too,” I say.
I loosen my tie and turn on the television in my bedroom. The local evening news is on and I turn it up before slipping into a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt.
I had kind of given up on the local news, opting for the cable networks that focus more on finance and the stock market, but Ayron never missed the local evening news if she could help it.
I turn the volume up as a breaking news story alert flashes across the scene.
“The entire 3300 block of Kingsley Avenue has been evacuated due to an apartment fire. Emergency vehicles are on the scene,” the reporter states in a serious tone. “There have been three confirmed fatalities. No names have been released.”
I dial the number that I had for Ayron and it goes straight to voicemail. I had never bothered to get any other number for her since she always answered the phone that I had given her.
My stomach knots.
I’ve got to find Ayron.
Chapter 17-Ayron
Agnes’ hospice room smells sterile, but it doesn’t matter to me. I have
been here since I returned from New York to find that she had suffered a small stroke. She doesn’t do much of anything but sleep now. She’s tired, I can tell. When she speaks, it is slow and takes a lot of effort. I don’t say much to her, just sit with her, lay near her in the bed and watch reruns of ‘I Love Lucy’—it’s her favorite show.
“Smile,” she utters slowly through her new crackly voice.
I shake my head.
“I don’t have a reason to smile.” I shrug.
“Young. Living,” she struggles.
“Yeah, but I’m alone,” I respond wearily. Somewhere along the line, I had become all right with being by myself, satisfied with only Monique and Ms. Agnes as companions. My time with Devlin changed that.
“I really messed up,” I admit to Ms. Agnes.
I look over at her clock, just to do something, and notice that it is time for the local evening news. I had to force Devlin to watch it.
“Love wins.” She gives a half-cocked grin.
I pat her shoulder. I wish that I could believe that. I learned my lesson with Devlin and Lance: love does not conquer it all.
A breaking news segment flashes onto the screen.
“Look at that fire, Ms. Agnes,” I tell the woman. Blazing waves and smoke plume out of an elegant building.
“Yours.” Agnes points, her face twisting into a grimace.
My heart drops when I see the townhouse building where everything that I own is housed, going up in flames.
“Oh no,” I stand, my heart pounding. “No. No. No. I have to go, Ms. Agnes. That’s my building.”
I kiss her cheek.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I curve my pointer finger and thumb to make the letter ‘u’ and place it over my heart.
Agnes slowly does the same. This is our signal for I love you, something we recently added, since her speaking has been difficult.
***
When it rains, it pours.
I hit the steering wheel in frustration. Cars are not moving, especially not mine, and the freeway feels like a parking lot. Clenching the steering wheel, I attempt to switch lanes and then honk my horn to try and ease my way into what seems to be the faster stretch.
Why is this happening? Everything is crashing all around me. I feel like I am trying to doggie paddle through the Atlantic Ocean.
“Asshole,” I yell out of the window, feeling a spike of anger as I am finally able to break into the gridlock and move forward some.
I sigh. I have to keep it together, stay the wall, or I may fall to pieces.
My cell phone rings and I answer the call using my hands-free device.
“Are you all right?” Monique’s frantic voice booms from my speaker.
“No. I’m answering the phone from hell,” I respond sarcastically in a clipped tone.
“Don’t be mad at me because your well went dry,” she chides. “I’m trying to make sure that you’re still alive.”
“Thanks,” I sigh. “I'm fine—I mean, I'm not fine. I was with Ms. Agnes, but I'm driving home now.” I pause, realizing I may not even have a home to return to. But it was so kind of Monique to call. "I didn’t mean to lash out. At least someone cares.”
“You should be honored that I do,” she jokes. “But I’m not the only one checking to make sure that you are all right.”
“Who else would care?” I ask, mentally listing all of the people I know who would know to call Mo to check on me.
“I told you that you should have at least given that poor man your phone number.”
“Devlin called?” I question—surprised, angry, and interested all at once. “That ‘poor man’ left my ass naked in a strange state in the middle of the night. Forget him.”
Monique grunts into the phone.
“I’ve had worse. How did you expect him to react?” She replays the same question that she had asked me after I told her my sordid tale a few days ago. “You know that you would have been pissed, Ayron, and probably would have done worse. At least he made sure that you got home.”
“Why did he call you? What did he have to say?” I ask, deciding not to rehash that conversation again.
“I thought you wanted to forget him?” she meteases.
***
Before Monique flew to London for a tech convention last night, she had been trying to get me to call Devlin and apologize. If he had wanted an apology, he would have stuck around to talk like a grown man and not run off to pout. He made his decision. It hurt my feelings, but I’m going to have to deal with it.
“I know that this international call is spiking up your bill—are you going to tell me or not?”
“Oh, these calls are totally on the company’s dime. It will be itemized and reimbursed,” she laughs. “Since your scared ass wouldn’t turn in your own damn statement, or talk to Daddy Masters about rejecting the payment, the secretary Gloria had my number on file. He must have gotten the number from her.”
“What did he have to say for himself?”
“First, he had to bring me up to speed on the fire. Then he asked if you were all right since I wouldn’t just give him your number,” she tells me.
“Thank you for having my back,” I say.
“Oh, don’t get it twisted, I’m going to give him your number. I needed to know that you were all right first,” she sounds off in her normal sassy tone.
“You really shouldn’t,” I protest.
“But I am,” she responds. “Keep me updated through text.”
***
Traffic finally relents enough for me to make it near my home. Smoke clouds the air and I let out a cough. Emergency crews still have the area blocked off, even though the fire is now completely out. I park nearly three blocks away and push past news crews and bystanders to get a closer look. There are four homes connected together in a row, and two rows of four on the block. All eight structures look damaged.
Damn. I can see clearly through the roofs of several of the townhomes.
“Ayron.” My name floats through the air, and I am confused.
Am I imagining things? Did someone call my name? Did he call my name? There is a lot of noise. People are milling about talking, panicked people are pacing around the barricades.
“Ayron.” I hear it again and look up to see Devlin moving toward me with purpose.
His masculine body is housed in yoga pants and a T-shirt, but he looks sexy. I see he has a goatee now that is neatly trimmed, and his face looks delectable. Damn, I miss that man, his rough faced kisses, and strong, roaming hands.
I have to close my eyes because he looks so good. Seeing him hurts.
I don’t move when he reaches me, and I don’t back away when he wraps his arms around me. I fall into them and fall apart.
Tears rise up from a place somewhere in my soul. Those same tears leak through my eyes for my loss of love, Ms. Agnes rotting away in hospice, and all the memories of my granny possibly crisped due to a fire. It is all too heavy to hold alone and I lean into his open arms.
“I’m taking you home,” he says, leading me to his car.
***
Inside the sweet-smelling car of Devlin Masters, I rest on the buttery leather seats and keep my eyes closed. After our greeting on the street, I find that I can’t look at him; the image of his wounded face in New York keeps resurfacing. As we race out of the city, I feel his gaze on me, and it makes me feel even worse. Why does he care? Why is he being so nice to me, coming to my rescue when I had lied to him? I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I’ve been a good girl all of my life. The smart, astute, responsible person determined to make my grandmother proud. She wouldn’t be proud of what I did to Devlin.
I sigh and the tears just keep falling. No whimpers, no sound, just hot, fat tears pooling on my shirt.
My legs feel heavy as I swing them away from the car. Devlin had opened my door.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffle while biting my lip and watching the ground.
He lifts me to my fe
et with solid hands and pulls me closer to his welcoming body.
Locked in his arms, I inhale the spicy-sweet smell of him.
“You don’t have to do this. I’m a horrible person. You can just drop me off—” I start.
“Look at me,” Devlin demands, his voice softer and kinder than I deserve.
When I look up at him, his congenial caramel eyes sparkle.
Sadness and longing fill me. He had been mine, in my grasp, and I had fucked it all up.
“I’m just glad that you are all right,” he says. “Come hang out with me until we understand what’s going on with your place.”
His use of the word “we” makes me tremble, but I move along with him.
***
Entering his home, I see his beautiful fish tank and stop. There are plenty of fish there, but the Angelfish stick out; they are the prettiest, the most unique. Devlin moves through the home without worry and rattles on about dinner, but I am stuck. The memory of his serene face when he called me his Angelfish flashes before me and the tears begin again.
Devlin reappears. I guess he finally realized that I wasn’t behind him.
“I’m going to fix some dinner,” he says, like everything is normal and he hasn’t just picked me up from a burning building.
“Um,” I utter, my eyes glued to the fish tank that suddenly looks a little emptier. “I just need to—” I bite my lip and I twist my hands and fingers between each other.
I can’t get the words out. I need to tell him that I can take care of myself, that I don’t need his friendship or pity. I don’t deserve it.
I look over at the fish tank again and realize why it looks emptier.
“What happened to Sarabi?” I ask, running my right thumb-nail underneath each nail on my left hand. “Where’s Mufasa?”
He steps closer to me with narrowed eyes. Surprise flickers and dies there.
“I found Sarabi at the top of the tank. Mufasa hasn’t moved from the cave since,” he explains to me.
The tears blur my eyes, and I can’t seem to feel my legs.
Entitled: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boys For Life Book 1) Page 11
