Her Two Billionaires and a Baby (Her Billionaires #4)

Her Two Billionaires and a Baby (Her Billionaires #4) Page 15

Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod, her mind screamed. Rooted in place, she couldn't move. Couldn't inhale. Couldn't feel her fingertips or her tips or her eyelids. Dylan and Mike? Jill? Billions? Money? Why hadn't they – ? What were they doing – ? Wha?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Like a robot, she reached in and mechanically looked. Five texts.

Dylan: “Laura, please call me now.”

Mike: “Laura? Call me.”

Dylan: “I'm coming to see you at work.”

Mike: “On my way to see you.”

and Josie: “Those assholes. I am so sorry. Come to my apartment to hide.”

“Laura!” Debbie squealed, pulling on her arm. “He wasn't just a delivery guy, was he?” Her expression showed she was very proud of herself to connecting the (obvious) dots. “Oh, my God, you were dating him! Are you still dating him? Holy shit, you landed the most eligible billionaire bachelor in Boston? You're, like, Anastasia Steele!” The room broke out into a mixture of nervous laughter and derisive murmurs. Debbie's long, perfect, chocolate-brown hair shimmered down her shoulders and her creamy skin made Laura want to claw her.

“If I had a billionaire boyfriend I sure would quit in a heartbeat!” Debbie couldn't – wouldn't – shut up, and Laura was quickly growing faint, her heart rate through the roof and brain spinning out of control. Air. She needed air.

“Do you know the Mike guy? Does he have a girlfriend?” Shut up, Debbie! Her mind screamed. She opened her mouth to say the words when her boss touched Debbie's elbow lightly and pointed to the phone, which was lit up like a Christmas tree with waiting callers. Mercifully, Debbie sat down and plucked her way through call after call as her boss mouthed the words “go home” and made a shooing gesture.

She needed to escape the Red Lobby of Pain right.this.minute and a flood of gratitude overwhelmed her. “Thank you,” she mouthed back. Shaking Debbie off, she fast-walked back to her office, grabbed her purse, and fled down the back staircase. Thirty-two flights of stairs in a spiral pattern of nausea would take her mind off whatever was coming, right?

Those bastards. Step, click. Step, click. She'd forgotten how hard navigating stairs could be in heels. Tears pooling in her eyes didn't help, the grey, institution cinderblock walls floating as she descended carefully. Step, click. Step, click.

Billionaires? Billionaires? Really? Seriously? Could they have kept something bigger from her? It had been bad enough that they'd never told her they knew each other, that they were in a committed threesome before meeting her, that they wanted her – and had set up that night in the cabin as some sort of test. She was still raw from that – and had just started to heal from it, allowing herself to trust them slowly, giving herself permission to believe deeply that this was going to work, and that they could overcome convention and find their own, unique path to happiness.

Just. Just barely. She needed more time, more experiences, more of everything to understand how to function as one woman with two men, to be so wanted and craved that she could satisfy them both.

The tears flowed freely now, her nose filling, and she fumbled for a tissue. Step, click. Step, click. She stopped, searching her purse. No luck. Ah, fuck it. Her skirt felt too tight, restricting her calves as she worked the stairs, and finally, in a fit of desperation, she slipped off her heels and walked in her stocking feet, the hose snagging within half a flight and making her foot cling slightly to each step. Nothing was going right today.

She snorted, snot pouring out of her nose, and using the back of her hand she wiped the bubbles as best she could. Who cared what she looked like now? The billionaires? What a spike to the heart that thought was as she reached the twenty-seventh floor. She remembered how Dylan had casually grabbed the check, how she'd wondered how a firefighter could afford such a fancy place. Hah! Joke was on her! He was a fucking billionaire, made stupendously rich by Jill.

Jill. Of course she was a wildly rich heiress. Of course. It wasn't enough to look like she was chiseled by people making a model of beach volleyball players. And it also wasn't enough that she was this dead, perfect girlfriend Laura could never measure up to.

She was also ridiculously wealthy and had made Dylan and Mike filthy, stinking rich, too?

Sharp, bitter laughter echoed up and down the stairs as Laura cackled, mad with overwhelm. She just couldn't win, could she?

“I give, Jill! I surrender!” she shouted, her voice carrying like crazy through the stairwell. “You win! Uncle! Uncle! I can never be you. Dylan and Mike can't even tell me that you left them more money than God. You are perfect from the grave! You even made the balls on the warlock waitress at Jeddy's! You're a fucking legend!” Laura's arms outstretched as she screamed the word “legend,” her shoes flying out of her hand and tumbling down the metal railings, plink, plunk, plonk as they rattled and rolled, landing who knows where.

As she rounded the twenty-fifth floor, retrieving her shoes, a security guard poked his head through the door, then entered the staircase. The older gentleman reminded her of her grandfather, a beer gut and kind eyes crashing through her overwrought sensibilities. “Excuse me, Miss?”

She didn't stop her slow trek. “Yes?” she called back.

“Are you OK? We're hearing reports of someone yelling in the stairwell.”

“Oh, I'm fine. Just getting some exercise.” Her voice had that shaky hitch to it she got when she was upset, but she tried to cover it up by acting winded. “And boy, do I need it.”

He followed her, and as she passed him on the spiral one floor down, she saw him pat his stomach. “I'm with you there,” he chuckled. “I'll walk down behind you if you don't mind. Just making sure it's safe here and that there aren't any troublemakers.”

Great. Just fucking great. She couldn't even vent without having it ruined. Fuck you, Dylan. Fuck you, Mike. Why would you lie? She thumped and skipped her way down, moving faster now that she had an audience, hoping she could get to the bottom without making herself dizzy. She'd been a tad lightheaded these past couple days and didn't need the added dose of unreality from spinning around and around as she descended thirty-two floors.

She was somewhere around floor eight when the old man gave up. “See you!” he shouted, waving from five or six flights up. Waving back, she sped up, eager for sunshine and a flat walking surface. The balls of her feet were scraped up from the no-skid surface at the edge of each stair, and her hamstrings and IT bands were screaming. Tomorrow, she'd pay for this.

Today she just needed to get to Josie. If she fixated on that, she'd be OK. Falling apart at Josie's apartment would be the best possible solution here. Fear that Mike or Dylan – or Mike and Dylan – would get to her first drove her. Dylan was likely on his way to her office to explain. Explain, explain, explain. She huffed as she hurried around floor five. Of course he had an explanation. She could just guess.

“Um, well, it's complicated.” His tone of voice, the little sidelong look with a half-smile, Mr. Charm turning it on to cozy up and sweet-talk his way out of discomfort.

Well, Dylan, have fun snuggling up to those complications, because that's what you'll be fucking. Not me.

And you, too, Mike.

Anger seeped in, like an old friend who was a lousy house guest, but you forget every time he leaves how much you wish him gone, and welcome him heartily when he reappears. Anger was so much easier than hurt, or heartache, or regret, so anger it was. Welcome my old friend.

Bursting through the street-level door, the morning greeted her with hot, sultry air and a brightness that made her squint and cringe. She balanced herself on one foot to put on one shoe, then the other, and took a moment to rebalance herself. Ouch. Her feet felt like raw ground beef right now, but that was fine. Anger would keep her going, dull the pain, make it alllll better until she could collapse at Josie's.

Hailing a cab was easier than usual; maybe she looked as pissed off as she felt. She knew it would be a quick, cheap ride, and as the cabbie raced to deliver her she massaged her feet and ignored the increasingly-active smart phone in her purse. If she looked she knew she'd find a ton of messages.

Ring! Ring! A quick peek showed Dylan calling. Nope. She turned off the phone; five minutes from Josie's meant she didn't need to worry about missing a call from her. The cab was stinky but clean, carrying the residue of countless cigarettes, the stale odor of nicotine and coconut air freshener giving her something to gag on. Something other than sheer anxiety and panic. A quick nudge of the window button and she gave herself an inch of fresh air. The cabby shot her a look and turned up the air conditioner, then looked again. Sorry, Bud. Whatever he saw in her return look made him shift his eyes down and keep his mouth shut.

Within minutes he screeched to the front of Josie's building, a triple-decker that she'd lived in for years, a dingy grey that melted into the neighborhood, a gentrifying section of Cambridge that was always on the verge of “up and coming” but, thankfully, stayed under the radar and kept reasonable rents. They'd toyed with rooming together and renting a big place, but neither could give up their neighborhoods, Laura enjoying Somerville more than she really ought to.

She threw some cash at the cabbie and ran to Josie's first floor apartment. Her friend was already on the porch, a look of crumpled compassion on her face, and she embraced Laura without words, holding her and stroking her hair as the tears returned.

Pulling back, Josie put her arm around Laura's waist and guided her into the sunny apartment. “Let me make coffee for you this time,” she said, sighing hard. “It's the least I can do.”

If Laura's apartment looked like a Scandinavian designer with a pink fetish had decorated it, Josie's was pure '60s hippie Buddhist funk. It looked like Carole King and the Dalai Lama shared the place. Decorated in thrift shop finds and Tibetan boutique splurges, the perpetual scent of sandalwood and lavender was comforting, though it generally covered up other odors that were finally legal in Massachusetts, as long as one kept it under an ounce and in the privacy of home.

Laura slumped down on an overstuffed monk-red recliner covered in a funky silk throw, vibrant mustard yellow and rich steel blue competing with little reflector things. She could see Josie in the kitchen, the apartment a converted single-family home. Doorways were random and seemed to have no meaning, just plunked here and there. Aside from the bedroom and bath, it was open concept but with walls and thresholds, making the fairly-large place seem smaller.

Josie used a Keurig, and shouted, “Glazed donut or Breakfast blend?”

“Scotch!”

“I have Bailey's.” Her voice said she didn't have scotch, though.

“Good enough! Breakfast blend and Bailey's!” It wasn't even nine yet. Who cared? It's not like she was really into following social conventions lately, anyhow. If a girl couldn't get drunk the day one of her threesome boyfriends was outed as a secret billionaire on local television, when could she?

“How did you hear about them?” she called out to Josie. A hiss and gurgle told her the first cup was brewing.

“That stupid morning TV Show. I had it on and heard Dylan's name and, well – I texted you right away. I'm guessing they did, too?”