What would I do in his situation? What would I do if Rachel decided to walk out? The thought chills me because she promised she’d call every night from her sister’s, but so far she’s only sent texts. Even I know that when your woman doesn’t want to speak to you, things aren’t looking so rosy in the garden. I’ll put it down to the fact that she’s rushed off her feet looking after Allison and the girls, but I don’t like it. I really don’t fucking like it.
Given the current Code Yellow situation, it would have been difficult to leave, but I really fucking want to. My ex is mad at me as well because I had to cancel plans with Lilly—or my ‘long lost daughter’ as she put it.
Makes me feel like a shit father.
I need a distraction, so I wander back to my office and surf the internet for suitable high schools for Lilly. Yeah, I know she’s only just eight, but it’s never too early to put her name down for a good one. At least I can feel like I’m doing something even if I can’t be with her.
And then a stray thought finds its way into the empty cavity that used to be called my brain: if I put Lilly in a good school, the best sort of school—it’ll be because Anderson is paying for it. I haven’t been a complete dope. I’ve saved up a considerable chunk in the year that I’ve worked for the generous fucker, but if I left his employment, that would all end. And my savings wouldn’t cover ten years of school plus college fees. Not if I plan on keeping eating as one of my favorite hobbies.
It’s a sour thought: would I even want to stay with Anderson for—fuck—fourteen or fifteen more years? No freakin’ way—with the emphasis on ‘freak’. What else would I do? I can fix the rocker box of a leaky Triumph bike or JB weld a primer cover, but neither of those skills is going to pay for my daughter’s college education. So the obvious choice is to stay in private security—unless I want to re-enlist and get my ass shot off in Syria or some other sandbox shithole.
Which leads me to another thorny problem: Rachel. I don’t mean that Rachel is a problem, hell no! Rachel is Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and a Dream Girl all rolled into one, and totally fuckable, just for the record (I may have mentioned that before), but she really isn’t keen on the whole he-wears-a-gun-to-work scenario. I have my suspicions that her continued refusal to marry me has something to do with that. Or maybe she’s just not that into you, Trainer.
Then a more sobering thought occurs: maybe I’m just good enough to keep Rachel’s bed warm, but not good enough to marry.
Fuck! This is getting me nowhere—the boss’s fucked-upness is contagious and I’m in danger of growing a vagina.
I decide to call Lilly.
“Hey, Princess!”
“Hi, Daddy! Are you coming to see me? Because I’m going out now. Miranda is having a birthday party and it’s going to be totally cool! We’re going to eat pizza and do each other’s hair. Do you want to come? Oh, but you haven’t got any hair!”
She giggles, and my heart sighs.
“Still packing a full head of hair, baby girl!”
“Yes, but it’s too short, Daddy. I can’t braid it or anything.”
“No, baby. You’ll have to braid Mommy’s hair.”
“I can braid Steve’s hair—it’s long.”
I grip the phone tighter.
“Who’s Steve?”
“He’s Mommy’s friend and he … oh, Mommy says I have to go now. Bye, Daddy!”
“Bye, Princ…”
Then Carla takes over.
“What are you doing, Justin?”
“Talking to my daughter. Trying to.”
“Why were you pumping her for information about Steve? It’s none of your damn business who I see!”
I’m so furious that I’m grinding my teeth. Thank fuck Anderson pays for dental.
“I’m not pumping her for information. She mentioned his name—that’s all. I don’t see why I shouldn’t know if some limp-dicked fucker is hanging around my daughter!”
Okay, so staying calm isn’t working.
“Don’t swear, Justin.”
That’s not the fucking point!
“Who’s ‘Steve’?”
“A friend.”
“What sort of ‘friend’?”
“Bye, Justin.”
“What? No!”
But she cuts me off.
At least I have something to do now: find out who the fuck this Steve character is.
Feeling a rise in my blood pressure after that conversation with the bitch (Best in Show, seven years running), I wander over to the boss’s study. I’m about to knock when I hear his phone ring. I wish I could say it was Ms. Alvarez calling, but it’s not her ringtone.
He must have it on speakerphone because I can hear the caller as well as Anderson’s replies.
“What do you want now, Frederick?”
The scary-assed Uncle Fester. The theme from ‘Jaws’ should be his ring-tone.
“Don’t be petulant, Devon. I just phoned to see how you are.” Pause. “Well? Did you find your little girlfriend as adorable as ever?”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh, has something happened to your Manhattan Garden of Eden?”
Yeah, the damn snake in the Tree of Knowledge.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t go into acting. Honestly, Devon, I know you better than you know yourself. Let me get the Farm running again. I’m sure…”
“I don’t want that.”
“Of course you do.”
There’s a long pause, and I hope the boss is man enough to say it out loud.
“I want Maria.”
His answer definitely doesn’t please Charles Manson.
“Don’t be childish. She’s made it quite clear where her loyalties lie. Look, I’ll come over and we can talk all this through. I’ll…”
“No. I don’t want you to come over, and I don’t want to talk it through with you. I’ve made my decision.”
“Devon, you’re being unreasonable. Let’s talk about this.”
“Don’t come over, Freddie.”
He ends the call abruptly and I hear a thud as he drops his cell back on his desk. Then he sits with his head in his hands and he’s so still.
Eventually, he sits up and I start to breathe again.
I give a quiet knock on the door.
“Yes,” he says softly. Not his usual snarl. He’s off his game big time.
“Are you planning on going out tonight, sir?”
“No. And I don’t want any visitors. No one. Not even my family. Especially not them.”
“Sir.”
I sit in my office and watch the sun set slowly in the west. The boss is still in his study. He hasn’t taken any calls, he hasn’t made any calls, he hasn’t drunk anything except whisky.
He just sits in his study.
Chapter 15
The Cat Who Walks Alone
I DON’T SLEEP well. The bed is too big without Rachel. I miss her hair on my pillow. She smells like honey, sweet and strong. I miss the moment her eyes open when the first thing she does is smile at me. I miss the way she stretches her body around mine and we have slow, gentle wakeup sex. I miss the way she makes me laugh with just an expression, a raised eyebrow, a quirk of her lips. I miss the way she pours that fucking beautiful body into a sexy, pencil skirt and white shirt. I miss her food. I miss her jokes—even when they’re at my expense. I miss the ways she fills the space in my days.
And I have morning wood the size of a giant redwood tree and no one at hand to help me sort it out. Sometimes life really sucks.
Then, of course, next door I have the King of Pain whose laugh-a-minute, breezy view of life has me reaching for the razor blades.
I decide to forego a shower and shave in case the boss is up for a run. But when I see him, I’d say he hasn’t moved all night. He’s still sitting at his desk, staring vacantly at his laptop. The screen is dark.
“Sir?”
He glances up. His eyes look black in the gray of dawn, and his expression makes m
e shiver. The lights are on, but there’s nobody home.
“Are you going running this morning, sir?”
“Morning?” He looks bemused, then stares out of the window as if he can’t believe the sun has decided to rise again. He looks down at his wristwatch.
“It’s 5:30AM, sir.”
“No. I won’t be running today. Or going to the office. Thank you, Trainer.”
Thank you? He never thanks me! Fuck! He must be ill.
I notice that the bottle of whisky is empty at the same time he goes to stand, leaning heavily on his desk, then he plunges forward. I catch him just before he head-butts the oak.
I carry him to his bedroom and lay him down on the bed in the recovery position. He is going to have a motherfucker of a hangover when he wakes up.
I fill a glass of water and leave it by his bed with some Ibuprofen.
I wonder if I should call one of those services that gives vitamins and saline through an IV to help cure the hangover, or maybe his parents, but think better of it. He said he didn’t want to see his family. Can’t say I blame him: they’re like the Waltons on Ecstasy—there’s so much love going around.
I head back to the staff quarters to take that postponed shower and to find something for breakfast. Craig doesn’t work weekends, on the boss’s say so.
I’m no great cook, but living with New York’s answer to Paula Deen, I’ve picked up a few tips. I wonder if I should make something for the boss, but decide it would be way too cozy cooking for the fucker. He’d probably throw it up if I did.
By lunchtime, I’ve updated all the security reports and spoken to Mason. There’s no news on the blackmailer or any accomplices, although he’s still at large, and there’s still no movement from the pit of despair.
I decide to take him a cup of coffee. I make damn fine coffee, though I say it myself.
So I carry a cup to his room.
He looks up, bleary-eyed and blinks.
“Coffee,” I say, stating the blindingly obvious.
Yeah, I’m shocked too, boss. Just sharing the love.
He stares at me, then closes his eyes again.
So, with abso-fucking-lutely nothing on the agenda for the day, I run through the same old checks. But there’s zero of interest on the CCTV, not even car sex by that guy in the condo next door who acts like a buck private with a forty-eight hour pass and his girlfriend’s best friend.
Pity. ‘Cause there’s fuck-all on cable.
I decide to call Mason again.
“I need some intel on Frederick Landon.”
There’s a long pause.
“Anderson won’t like it.”
I don’t respond and he sighs.
“When Anderson first retained my services, he specifically told me that searches into Landon weren’t needed and definitely not wanted. This is a good contract for my company, J.T. I don’t want to piss off the client.”
I know I’m putting him in a difficult position, but my gut doesn’t like the creep and my gut is rarely wrong.
“Something doesn’t add up. He has connections to Anderson going way back, but also to the Farm; he keeps tabs on the boss, and I don’t trust him as far as I could throw his bony ass.”
There’s a long pause before he gives in.
“What am I looking for?”
“Financial. Could be personal. Dig deep.”
“On it. Anything else?”
“Nope.”
I’m left contemplating the idea that I’ve just committed career suicide.
My cell rings, saving me from the appalling idea of spending another evening of sheer monotony with my own merry thoughts.
It’s the light of my life.
“Hey, Rachel! I’ve been trying to call you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy.”
“Are you coming home soon?”
She sighs and I feel like every drop of blood in my body has just turned to dust.
“I’m not sure … when.”
And I live again. I can live with when, but not if.
“Allison is still sick but on the road to recovery; the girls are much better now. They’re back to normal almost.”
“Are you okay, baby?”
I hear the smile in her voice.
“I’m fine. One of us has to stay vertical. At least Bill hasn’t caught it. How are Mr. Anderson and Maria?”
Oh, fuck.
“Justin?”
How the hell am I going to handle this one?
“Has something happened? Are they alright?”
“I think so.”
Yeah, that’s a reasonably truthful response. Or possibly an outright lie. It probably depends on your point of view.
“What happened?”
He showed her his dungeon; she bawled him out then cried enough tears to sink The Mighty Mo and then she left.
“I guess they had some kind of fight.”
“Oh. Well, that doesn’t sound too bad. They’re always fighting. I think it’s one of the things that he loves about her—that she stands up to him.”
“Hmm.”
“What do you mean ‘hmm’? What aren’t you telling me, Justin?”
Why is that woman so damned perceptive?
“She was crying. A lot. She didn’t look so good.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll be back.”
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“Sure she’ll be back.”
“Why do you say that?”
I sigh. Truth or dare? I go for truth.
“Because when she left, she told him that she needed time. That’s usually code for ‘leave me alone or I’ll call the cops’.”
“Oh no! Oh, Justin, no! Poor Mr. Anderson! How is he?”
Fucked up.
“He hasn’t said much.”
“He never does. What’s he doing? Has he eaten?”
“No.”
“He hasn’t eaten at all?”
“Nope.”
Not unless he licked the plates clean and put them back in the cupboard after drinking a bottle of whisky that cost more than my last car.
There’s a long pause while I listen to her breathing.
“I’m coming home.”
“What?”
“I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bill said he could look after Allison and the girls.”
“I … okay. See you later.”
She hangs up.
Fuck. She’ll come home earlier than she’d planned for him.
Jealousy as strong as acid burns in my throat. Irrational, unreasonable, but I can’t help it. I know she’s just being Rachel … the caregiver … but it really, seriously pisses me off.
I think about heading to the gym to work off some of my irritation, but as I walk past the boss’s home office I glance in. He’s up and awake, looking like hell, the empty cup next to him, but still trying to work. I’d give a pint of blood just to hear him listening to some wrist-slitting music. But no, he sits there.
At least he drank the damn coffee.
With Rachel’s voice in my head, I make him a PBJ sandwich and leave it on his desk. He doesn’t look up.
I sleep badly and wake up early, wondering how soon Rachel will be home.
I check on the boss but the office is empty and the sandwich I made him hasn’t been touched. Who the hell doesn’t like PBJ?
I discreetly check the gym and watch him running on the treadmill for a while before he slows to a walk then heads to his private wing.
At 8:15AM, my face creases into something my mom used to call a smile: Rachel is back.
The elevator doors slide open. She’s wearing jeans that hug her delicious ass and a t-shirt that makes me want to rip it off her.
“How is he?”
What? Fuck! She wants to know about him.
“He’s just finished in the gym.”
“Has he eaten?”
“Nope.”
�
�You didn’t make him anything?”
“I made him a coffee and…”
“For goodness sake, Justin!”
She bustles off, leaving me wanting to punch something. I didn’t get a hug, a kiss, not even a fucking smile.
I go back to my office, too angry to breathe straight.
Twenty minutes later, the mouth-watering aroma of Rachel’s blueberry pancakes wafts through the building. She walks past my office carrying a tray with a stack of pancakes and syrup. Past my office.
I can’t hear the words, but she’s talking to him like he’s a small child, or a wounded animal. Well, I guess he’s kind of both. Me, I’m just pissed. And hungry.
I wander into our apartment and wait for her to return. When she does, she doesn’t meet my gaze.
Shit! This doesn’t look good.
“Rachel … is everything okay?”
She takes a deep breath. I think about running.
“No. Not really. Mr. Anderson looks terrible … he barely seemed to know where he was. Have you called his parents?”
Now I know she’s deliberately avoiding my real question. She knows I’d never call the boss’s folks unless it looked like he was dying. Which he isn’t.
“Rachel, I asked if you’re okay?”
“Justin?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Will you hold me?”
And the world stops turning while I hold my precious girl.
THE BOSS IS up, washed, shaved and dressed to kick some corporate ass. But he hasn’t slept and he’s hardly spoken.
As we exit the elevator of DMA Tower at 6AM, having vetoed the morning run again, the only other people in the building are the security team.
Rachel is going to be pissed that we both left without having breakfast, but I couldn’t bring myself to wake her. She didn’t sleep well either.
The security officer on the thirtieth floor of DMA Tower gives me a discreet nod.
He’s a good guy, knows his job. I’ve made sure that everyone here is the best of the best. No one sleeps on the night shift. Apart from anything else, they never know when Anderson is going to be prowling the corridors like an Armani-clad Hound of the Baskervilles.
I head for my office while the boss sits at his desk and waits for the world to fall at his feet. Despite this, I know for a fact that there’s only one conquest he cares about today.
Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire Page 11