Learning to Trust Part 3: The Offer

by B. B. Roman

  Learning to Trust

  (Interviewing the Billionaire)

  Part 3: The Offer

  Copyright 2012 B.B. Roman

  Published by Bizotica

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains many sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your eBooks where they cannot and will not be accessed by minors.

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  ***

  Who am I?

  "Marisa Taylor, age 28, reporter and journalist." I was staring at myself in the mirror again, confused about my identity for the first time in many years. I apparently was having a genuine late-twenties crisis.

  As a reporter, what do I care about?

  "Truth, accuracy. Bringing the real story to the surface. Spreading accurate information—regardless of whether it hurts or helps a reputation." Yes, I was talking to myself.

  How do I get accurate information?

  "I adhere to a code of ethics in journalism so that I can remain detached from my sources and provide an unbiased report." Unbiased. That was the key here. Something was obviously not right about my relationship with Roland.

  At this point, I was beginning to feel something toward him. His humbling admission of a fact that could sink his reputation forever played a major part in this. Prior to that, he was a power-hungry, rich, handsome man that could make great coffee, a man that both frightened and intrigued me. The whole going in the dungeon thing had certainly terrified me yesterday—still, it had turned out all right. And even weirder was the fact that I'd be going there again today. My principles had been so deeply embedded in me, and aside from one isolated incident, they'd been upheld for years. Aside from the incident.

  Ah, so the incident.

  I had been doing stories for a small news station for a while—my first real reporting job, actually—that were just miniscule little happenings around town. Somebody signed a contract with somebody else. A new park had been planned. There would be a parade this upcoming week. You know, just tiny little stories that honestly meant roughly nothing the week after they happened. However, when I found out that a local mechanic was being investigated regarding the accidental death of an entire family, I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to uncover the real story.

  The owner, who actually had been the one to carry out the faulty repair, was blaming a defective part from the manufacturer, some piece of the braking system that had collapsed when it obviously shouldn't have, sending the car tumbling down the side of a steep hill—and leaving no survivors. His business was being accused of negligence, despite the great reputation that it had maintained for over 40 years. It was the sort of business that everyone went to because they knew and trusted the family. Small towns were like that, and it was something I often missed in the larger cities that I called home.

  I got to know the guy; Marc was a down-to-earth, friendly dad that supported his family with his hard work. His father had run it before him, passing it on about 10 years ago. Marc had a reputation for being both quick and cheap, while still being thorough. In fact, this was the first time that he'd ever been blamed for any sort of serious mistake. For me, it was the perfect way to prove that I could handle serious material, vowing that I'd just report the truth, and nothing but it.

  I met with Marc a few times that week, getting to know his family and his business. His kids were delightful, and so were his customers. He was surrounded by people that loved him, and everyone hoped that it was just a fluke, a defect in manufacturing that wouldn't tarnish his reputation forever. When the official news came in that he was no longer being suspected of negligence—some independent company had done some sort of autopsy on the car and determined it was just a faulty part—Marc had confided in me that he had screwed up, specifically forgetting a crucial step while repairing their car. He told me that it kept him up at night, the images of the mangled car haunting his dreams. I don't even think that he intended to tell me all of that—he just broke down and let it out, unable to hold it inside anymore. It was a tremendous secret, something that he'd probably never fully recover from.

  So I took off, armed with the crucial detail I needed, the truth—and did nothing with it. That's right, I bailed out. I went back to my boss and lied. Our story ended up just being a rehash of the official investigation results. My boss was pissed at me for using up so much time, but he got over it.

  See, I just couldn't do it. I met him and I met his family. I met the people that cared about him. Most importantly, I could see that he had become a hollow shell of a man after the accident—but not one that needed to lose his business to understand the consequences of his actions. I couldn't punish his family like that, I just couldn't. I had broken a sacred rule in journalism, but I felt I had made the right choice. I vowed to never allow myself to sink into a situation like that ever again. Shortly after, I got a job in a bigger city and left the small-town culture, hoping that I would be forever free from such drama.

  Well I had been—until now.

  Based on what Roland told me yesterday, I had a sneaking suspicion that things were only going to get worse from here. That's right, as our relationship progressed to more serious things, so would his admissions. I wasn't sure that it would be the case, but I was fairly certain. And I was generally quite good with reading people, even if I was a little infatuated with them.

  So what the hell was I going to do? Roland had planned for this, there was no doubt in my mind. He was too precise to improvise all the time.

  He was a powerful man, and so were his companies. Roland had trusted me with information that would be absolutely devastating if it leaked out to the public. Although I'd never run a business myself, I'd been a key-player in releasing that sort of controversial information and had sat there, watching much smaller empires crumble. As I said, I was on a quest for truth, a quest to release factual knowledge to the people that needed it most. I needed to stay unbiased and focused and—

  Oh god, he'd made me feel so incredible.

  The way Roland had touched me made me sweat when I thought about it after the fact. He took me, fucking and possessing me like no man ever had. Hell, if I ever met a man like him again, I'd suspect that hell had frozen over. My wrists were gently marked up from the restraints, marks that I had touched again and again after returning home last night, reliving the experience through that discolored flesh. They were trophy scars, scars of success, scars of self-exploration. Despite him restraining me and everything else, it had finally occurred to me that the whole safe word thing kind of put me in control, even if Roland was doing all of the work. I hadn't even thought to eject because I'd been so overwhelmed by intrigue that I just couldn't say no.

  After I had returned home yesterday, I had pleasured myself again in the shower, angling the showerhead against my clit while I pressed my hands against the shower walls, pretending to be restrained. I let the water spray against me, imagining his cock and his forcefulness o
vertaking me. The steam in the bathroom really felt like he did, covering the walls, mirrors, and me with warm moisture, both inside and out. I came so hard as I thought about what he had done to me, how he had forced me to trust him. Letting go paid off in so many ways. He hadn't hurt me, and while he had certainly provided some discomfort, I was finally able to see the larger picture. My formerly vanilla-only mind was learning about the hidden—and normally forbidden—treasures of the world.

  Today, I was far less nervous and confused than I had been the previous day. His admission of guilt made me feel like I actually held some cards, even if he still held the rest of the deck. Roland made me feel alive, and although I definitely wanted more, I at least had a better understanding of everything. He left me begging the first time; this time he had just left me wanting. I guess a craving was yet an even better way to put it.

  The thing was, I didn't have an answer to all of my questions. I came here as a reporter, and that wasn't changing. However, that didn't mean thing as far as how I was going to proceed from here. Would I go home with the story of a lifetime and change my life forever, the independent, fierce, young female reporter that toppled a multi-billion-dollar empire? The woman that got answers when no one else could? Or would I bail out and lie like I did in the past to save those people involved? Neither option seemed that appealing to me, frankly.

  My morning routine seemed especially bland. Not much could top the excitement I had experienced the previous day, something that made the daily motions even more mundane than they normally were. I played with my hair, styling it in every possible way I could until I settled with straightening it, a look that made me feel both sexy and powerful. I felt like being a little defiant; I wore a dressy, low-cut dark-green blouse and short skirt combo, you know, the typical sexy secretary type outfit—one that probably would have gotten me thrown out of most offices. I admired the tops of my ample breasts, my creamy skin flowing out from the top. As much as I beat myself up about my body, I never complained about my breasts. And whether I was too dressed up or not, I looked and felt hot, impressed by my spur-of-the-moment clothing choices. I suspected that Roland would be satisfied with my choices, even though it clearly wasn't casual attire.

  When I pulled up to the house, I found Roland outside in a lawn chair, legs spread out, reading a newspaper. The drive had been pleasant; the sunlight and sparse clouds of the bright-blue sky had helped me stay relaxed, reminding me of days on the beach growing up. He saw me pull up, returning his eyes to his newspaper until I got out of the car. If I hadn't been fixated on him the whole time, I probably would have assumed he was so lost in thought that he didn't hear me pull up. I was so ready to go, so ready for—

  It hit me. I felt an incredible knot in my stomach, my nervousness suddenly exploding at once. Oh god, what was I doing here? I guess seeing Roland was enough to take me out of my element, force me to consider things again. I hadn't even thought about that giant X-thing that he told me we'd use today. That St. Petersburg cross or whatever. I had planned to go back to the hotel and research what it was, but it just slipped my mind. Now I was regretting that mistake. I got out of the car, suddenly feeling stupid in my outfit. My streak of confidence had ended just as quickly as it started, a race lost before it even started.

  Just go.

  I got out of the car and stood there for a second, adjusting my top in the side mirror so that it was level with my cleavage. Notebook in hand, I approached Roland. He was wearing that fancy robe again, the one that actively screamed I'm comfortable—and rich! He put down his paper and smiled at me.

  "Marisa! Wow, you look stunning. I do hope it's comfortable!" The smile remained even after his words stopped.

  "Wow, yeah, thanks, Sir," I said out of habit from the role-playing yesterday.

  He let out a hearty laugh. "We're not in a scene right now, Marisa. Please don't call me Sir. That's for later."

  I blushed. "Yeah, okay, Roland. Nice day, huh?"

  "It's simply beautiful. A beautiful day is just one of those things that you can't buy. Well, not yet anyway."

  "You could always just fly to somewhere nicer," I added. "That would be like buying a beautiful day."

  "You're just on a roll today, aren't you?" He kept his back pressed against the chair. "You're right, but if today was gloomy and bleak, and I wanted to stay here, what choice would I have other than waiting?"

  "Yeah, you're right." I continued my awkward stance near him, not really sure where to go. I kept expecting him to sweep me into his arms for a hug, kissing me deeply, tasting me with his tongue. Well, I was wishing that would happen. But it didn't.

  "My, you do look simply marvelous today." His eyes hungrily climbed my body, absorbing every inch, every curve.

  "Thanks," I said. His words cut through me like a knife, going straight to my core. My belly started to fill with tension that quickly became a want, a throbbing need. It coiled inside of me like a snake, wrapping tighter and tighter until I felt the wetness forming between my thighs. He could arouse me just by talking, by looking. If a guy had done that to me at a bar, I would have slapped him, even if I was wearing the same low-cut blouse. Roland was still a mystery to me.

  "Won't you join me for a cup of coffee on the back porch? After that, we'll go downstairs again." He stood up, leaving the paper and the chair exactly where they were. Like a sheep following a shepherd, I followed behind him.

  He led me out to the back porch, leaving me there to sit while he prepared our drinks in the kitchen. The view was absolutely stunning—rolling hills, miles of beautiful trees, valleys that seemed endless. It looked like a painting. This house had been built in this exact position for a reason. I had never seen anything like it. I sat there on the expensive deck furniture with my legs up, reclining and staring up into the sky, absorbed by all the blue.

  "All right," he said. He walked out and handed me my drink, carefully turning it so that I only gripped the handle and avoided the hot part of the mug. It was such a simple gesture, but I appreciated it.

  "Thank you, Roland," I said, foam on my face. Once again, it was delicious. "You ought to open a coffee shop here," I suggested. "You'd make a killing!"

  "If you want to talk money," he said, "talk to me about opening a hundred coffee shops. A whole chain. That will pique my interest. Would you like to run it for me? You could be the president." He smiled at me proudly.

  I didn't understand what he saw in me, even though we were just joking around. I did what I did, and he did what he did—and what he did happened to be much larger than anything I could even start to consider. I worried about buying groceries; he worried about paying wages to hundreds of thousands of employees all across the globe. I bought kitchen appliances; he bought restaurant chains. My problems were nothing compared to his, just individual grains of sand compared to his entire beach.

  "Hmm, President Marisa Taylor. Has a good ring to it, right?"

  "Certainly," he said.

  "This view is so breathtaking." I had been staring at it for fifteen minutes and I still was just as stunned as when I first walked out here.

  "My father told me that my grandfather picked this spot because of how all of the geography comes together. So many beautiful rock formations and those hills that never seem to end. If I ever need to really think, I step out here and just take it all in for a moment."

  "And you've lived here all your life, right?"

  "I spent some time in India recently, trying to live closer to my operations, trying to experience things a little more like the workers do. I also spent some time in New York City after college. My dad insisted that I take a corporate, unpaid internship while he covered the bills. Told me it was the only way he'd hand over the company. I wanted to make him happy more than I wanted the company, so I did it, not caring how I ended up in the long-run."

  He spoke of his father with a fondness that made me warm and fuzzy inside. "When did your father pass away?"

  "I was born late in my father's l
ife. He only made it until I was 28—and that's when I took over. Lung cancer got him."

  I couldn't even imagine what that would have been like to take over such an empire at my age. I could barely balance my checkbook, let alone run a multi-national corporation. I suddenly had even more respect for this man. "Did he smoke?" I asked, hoping the question didn't come off as insensitive.

  Roland smiled. "He liked to smoke fancy cigarettes—and especially cigars—and they ended up doing him in. His cigar budget per month was more than most people make in a year." He laughed again, staring off into his endless backyard. "My mom followed soon after, broken-hearted and frail. I do miss them both, but it's been a long time now. Time heals all wounds. It's cliché but true."

  "So you didn't want to take over then, huh?"

  "No, I didn't at all. It's a lot easier to just be nobody. Just live your life, pay your bills. Go out for drinks now and then. Nobody forces you to do anything. Being rich and important is difficult because so much is riding on you all the time. I didn't want to have to make these serious decisions every day, all the time. But I felt it was the only way to properly honor my father. And I had to do it at least while my mother was alive. She never would have allowed the company to leave the family. She would have killed me for that." He sipped his coffee, apparently enjoying it just as much as I was enjoying mine. "Now, I'm in the same shoes as they were: no kids and getting older. The company might end up leaving the Starland family after I'm gone."

  I couldn't believe how my image of this man was changing. He was apparently a reluctant billionaire, one that did so out of kindness instead of greed. Here he was saying he was jealous of me, looking at me in front of one of the most beautiful panoramic images I'd ever seen. Something still didn't add up with the StarChem thing though.

  "Roland, I thought StarChem was your thing," I said. "Was it or not?"