Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire

by Harvey-Berrick, Jane

  Five minutes later, I’ve got the car in front of the main house.

  Anderson looks tense. Maria is calm, but clearly uncomfortable, both hands wrapped around her enormous belly. She looks like a piece of string with a knot tied in the middle.

  We’ve had a pregnancy plan in place since the day Anderson officially told his employees. We’ve had plans for every prenatal appointment, every potential problem from Maria feeling unwell, to some sort of apocalyptic future where New York is plunged into darkness, hospitals are without power, and flesh-eating zombies stalk the streets. Okay, maybe not the last bit, but every detail, every possible angle has been worked out in advance.

  Obviously, we’ve had a plan for the baby coming early, but given Maria’s history, they’d planned a C-Section for next week.

  I hope this all goes smoothly.

  I drive to the hospital as smoothly and carefully as possible—while trying to break a few land-speed records as I do it. The boss holds Maria’s hand the entire time.

  I know how he’s feeling—I remember it too fucking well. When Carla was pregnant with Lilly, I felt guilty every time she had heartburn or reflux. I winced as her ankles swelled and her tits became tender. I massaged her back, her feet, her neck—everything that she let me get close to without her yelling at me for knocking her up in the first place.

  Women’s bodies are made for babies and we’re just the tools who considerately act as sperm donors. Other than buying copious amounts of chocolate and providing aforementioned massages, we’re out of the equation.

  But it totally sucks ass to see the woman you love in pain.

  As I race along the darkened country roads, I think about the last two years—the Anderson years. I think back to that twenty-nine year old that I first met: the one who had the world at his feet, but who was so broken inside, he believed himself rotten. The man who would only allow a minimum of connection with the human race, keeping everyone and everything at a distance; who contracted men and women to fuck, because he believed that he was unworthy and undeserving of love. That man is almost gone.

  I see a shadow of him sometimes, and perhaps he’ll never be entirely absent, but the man sitting in the backseat holding his wife’s hand as they prepare to bring new life into the world, he’s a man who is full of love. And finally, after all this time, he’s full of hope, too.

  All I need now is a fucking orchestra to play me a love song. It’s so sweet, I’m in danger of going into diabetic shock.

  The dark streets give way to the neon glow of the hospital and white, clinical lights.

  Anderson waves away the nurse who is waiting with a wheelchair. He carries Maria into the hospital. She rolls her eyes at me and smiles.

  “Good luck, Mrs. Anderson,” I call after her.

  I park the car then make all the necessary phone calls: Mason and Pam Russo. Those are the priority calls. Level two calls can wait until daylight. Yep, it’s all in the plan.

  I feel like a real spare part waiting in the maternity area. For a start, everyone assumes that I’m a father-to-be, but just too chicken shit to be with my woman. Every nurse and female within a quarter mile radius throw me dirty looks. I wish I’d worn a button that says, ‘Don’t hate the help’.

  I can’t see Anderson, but I sense his presence when a young nurse leaves the birthing suite in tears. Yup, the boss hasn’t lost his touch. It does mean, however, that the obstetrics consultant is on her way.

  At 6AM, Evans arrives with breakfast, courtesy of Rachel: freshly-baked cinnamon rolls and four thermoses of good coffee.

  “How’s it going, T?”

  “Nothing to report—the boss is yelling his head off: situation nearly normal. Kick back, John, nothing will happen till the top doc gets here.”

  He pulls a face.

  “Not my area of expertise. I’ll take your word for it. So how soon before she downloads the boss’s kid?”

  “John, buddy, there’s a reason you’re still single.”

  A male nurses passes us, a huge grin on his face. “Good luck, daddies!” he calls out.

  John jumps, then puts an empty chair between us.

  He stays a while to shoot the shit, then heads off to make the level 2 calls: the Andersons, Dolores and Javier Alvarez. The old man insisted he wanted to be called day or night; Maria insisted that he was only to be called during daylight hours on pain of death or decapitation—possibly both, but she didn’t say in which order.

  A kid who looks about nineteen is pacing up and down. His girlfriend has kicked him out of the hospital room—I heard the yells down the hall. Something about wishing she’d stuck to sucking his cock instead of … yeah, we get the picture. I give him a cinnamon roll. He inhales it then begs me for a cigarette. I can’t help with that.

  I save the rest of the rolls and coffee for the Andersons. Maria loves Rachel’s cinnamon rolls. If she marketed them, I reckon they could bring world peace, they’re that good. But I must be off my game, because I realize that Maria isn’t allowed to eat at this stage and would probably choke her husband for eating in front of her. Hmm, I may have not thought that one through. I hope they give her enough drugs not to remember. I blame Rachel—her cinnamon rolls can make a man forget his own name.

  When the Alvarez and Anderson families arrive with Dolores close behind, I leave Evans to deal, then head home for a few hours and take a nap.

  By 10PM, Anderson Junior still hasn’t made an appearance. I swap over with Evans while he takes Maria’s grandfather and brothers back to the Farm to rest.

  The waiting room is empty now, but I can hear Anderson’s voice echoing down the corridor. He’s yelling, although he’s trying not to. I can hear Dr. Ziegler’s voice trying to calm him down. Good luck with that, doc.

  “Mr. Anderson, this isn’t helping! As soon as her blood pressure is stabilized, we’ll perform the C-section. She’s getting the best care, I can assure you,” the doc continues, placating him.

  Don’t you just hate it when doctors say that sort of thing?

  She leaves him in the corridor, pacing up and down.

  If the boss doesn’t stop panicking, I might have to shoot him to put him out of his misery.

  Rachel has been sending food parcels throughout the day, but Evans says he hasn’t seen Anderson eat anything yet.

  He’s summoned back into the birthing suite and almost falls through the door to get there more quickly. I can hear Maria’s soft voice soothing him.

  I think that happens a lot: the woman giving birth ends up comforting the poor sucker who can only watch as the woman he loves is ripped in half. Fate is one sick fucker.

  Twenty minutes later, Evans stands beside me, shocked into silence as Maria is wheeled away for surgery. Anderson is beside her, dressed in blue scrubs, his eyes burning with fear.

  All his money, the best medical attention he can buy, and it doesn’t meant shit. Not at this moment.

  We wait.

  My eyes start to desiccate as I stare at the clock on the wall, each slow tick mocking me. Evans chews a thumbnail absentmindedly. The Smith & Wesson digs into my side and I can’t take off my jacket—seeing a man with a weapon probably isn’t appropriate in a hospital. I’m sensitive like that.

  So I wait.

  And finally, finally comes the news that’s been a long time wanting.

  Anderson appears, stunned but smiling, with blood staining the blue scrubs.

  “She’s fine,” he whispers. “They’re both fine. I have a daughter.”

  “Congratulations, sir,” I say, offering him my hand.

  “Thank you, Justin,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “I’m a father!”

  “Welcome to the club, sir.”

  He laughs delightedly, shakes hands with Evans, then disappears back to Maria.

  “Did he just smile?” asks Evans.

  “Yup.”

  “Did he just call you ‘Justin’?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fuck me!”


  “You’re not my type, John.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later…

  FUCKING WEDDINGS.

  What’s wrong with just standing in front of the judge, swapping rings, signing a piece of paper and heading to the local sports bar to see the Yankees’ game? Simple. Everyone enjoys it. No stress. Is it that hard to imagine?

  Apparently, if you’re female, the answer to that is yes.

  Besides, I’m out-maneuvered and out-gunned. Rachel has hit me with the lethal shot:

  “Lilly is so looking forward to being our flower-girl, Justin! You’ve already bought her dress! You can’t disappoint her like that.”

  No I fucking can’t. She knows it. I know it. The whole freakin’ world knows it—and I’m so whipped.

  “Allison has agreed to give me away…”

  The sister who makes Morticia Addams look like a cheerleader? The sister who’d like to use my guts to make suspenders? Oh the joy.

  “Have you decided who you’re going to have for a Best Man, Justin?”

  “I told you: I’m the best man, baby. There’s no one else.”

  “Very funny. Seriously, who do you have in mind? John Evans? Someone from your Unit, perhaps?”

  “Evans! Best Man? Are you kidding me? He’d probably shoot me in the leg trying to get the ring out of his pocket!”

  “You do talk nonsense sometimes, Justin. What’s wrong with John?”

  “Nothing. I don’t need a Best Man!”

  “Fine. If you don’t find someone within twenty-four hours, I’ll ask Mr. Anderson to stand up with you.”

  She stalks out of the room, and I roll my tongue back up and shove it in my mouth. She did NOT just threaten to make Devon I-still-keep-handcuffs-in-my-briefcase Anderson my Best Man!

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I try a few of the guys in my old Unit, but it’s not looking good. Paul Malone, a.k.a., Troll, is in Libya providing security for a team of men defusing mines and destroying small arms ammo—dufus even posts the burns he does on Youtube. Jase Henbrey, Cyclops, is on a sweet deal at a Sultan’s palace in Dubai, getting fat on good food and too much standing around with his thumb up his ass (probably a safety precaution); Cliff Moreton is running a training seminar at Parris Island so can’t get leave to come mix with the great, the good, and the Andersons.

  Bastard.

  Rachel is unsympathetic, probably due to the fact that I’ve had months to get with the program, but have left it until two weeks before the wedding to find a Best Man.

  Mason, Evans and Reynolds are already guests. I get so desperate that I even consider asking Howard. Hell, maybe Pam would do it—she’s got bigger balls than most men I know.

  “No way, Justin,” Pam laughs in my face. “You’re on your own with this one. Besides, Howard has a date, and I don’t really think you’d want him making a funny speech. I mean it would be funny, but probably in Klingon.”

  “What do you mean Howard has a date?”

  “Just that. He’s got a date for your wedding.”

  “Animal, mineral or vegetable?”

  Pam smirks at me.

  “Species, human, as far as I know. Gender, female.”

  “Howard has a date with a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s not his mother?”

  “Nope. A real live woman. Rumor has it, his girlfriend.”

  “Holy shit! We’ve just proved the existence of God!”

  I’m happy for Howard, really. But now what the fuck am I going to do?

  I scroll through the contacts list on my cell phone. There is one possibility…

  Jim Rayment. Ex-SAS. Who dares wins, and all that. He might be back from Kuwait by now. At least I know he’s trained to cope with high stress situations—even a wedding.

  It takes some arm-twisting and the bastard insists on season tickets to see his soccer team Arsenal as payment. I agree to the bribe, but nearly pull the plug when he asks for a dance with Rachel, as well. He’s an expert at winding me up and I’m fucking clockwork.

  I didn’t want a bachelor party and Rachel knew that. So it was with some sense of surprise that I found myself on Anderson’s private jet on my way to Vegas, along with Reynolds, Evans, Rayment and Allison’s long suffering husband, Bill—my soon-to-be brother-in-law.

  “Heard you got shot in the line of duty, you wanker,” says Rayment.

  Bill’s eyes widen and he looks impressed. I really wish Rayment hadn’t said anything. I glare at him and he just grins back. It’s a scary sight: he got his front teeth knocked out during a training op with wanna-be bodyguards and he hasn’t gotten around to replacing them yet.

  “It was a flesh wound,” I answer, uncomfortable with Bill’s eyes on me, Reynolds and Evans sniggering like a couple of school kids.

  “Did it hurt?” asks Bill.

  “Just his pride,” Evans chuckles.

  Bastard.

  “Where were you shot?”

  “Right in in his ego,” Reynolds laughs, cackling like a hen at an egg-laying competition.

  I change the subject amid all the knowing smirks and innuendos, Bill is the only one not in on the joke.

  We drop a few hundred at Mirage’s casino, take in a floorshow at the Flamingo, and end up at a strip club run by the Mafia. Bill begs me not to say a word to Allison, and proceeds to stuff ten dollar bills in the thong of a brunette like it’s 1999 and the world is about to end. Nope, not a stereotype in sight. Except when Evans pukes his guts over Al Capone’s uglier twin and ruins his crocodile boots, splattering them with diced carrot. Me, I don’t touch any drink anyone else has bought for me and remain a functioning professional at all times (yeah, I’m lying). I don’t even look when $20,000 worth of surgically enhanced tits are just begging to be motorboated right in front of me. Okay, I may have glanced.

  And then, after consuming copious amounts of alcohol, I finally agree to show Bill my scar from getting shot. So in the middle of the strip club, I drop my pants and boxers, and point to the vivid red scar across my left butt cheek.

  After which, we were escorted to our limo by four security guards.

  None of which is necessary for Rachel to hear about. And if Evans says he has photographic evidence, I’ll politely remind him that I’m armed and dangerous, and I know where he lives.

  What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

  Rachel was a helluva lot more sympathetic when she learned the truth.

  “Nine deployments, two fucking wars, and I get shot in New Jersey by an amateur. In my ass. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

  “Poor, baby. Want me to kiss it better?”

  AND FINALLY, FINALLY, after what feels like a lifetime of wanting and wishing and hoping, today is the day when Rachel Rebecca Smith becomes my wife—Mrs. Trainer.

  Lilly is dressed like the princess I’ve always said she is, and is currently being looked after by Maria, and giggling as if she’s on helium. She sounds so happy and it cuts me to the core. In a good way. Because despite all the odds and all the crap that I’ve seen, I’m here and alive and about to become sickeningly happy for the rest of my life.

  Except for my Best Man who looks like he’d rather eat dung. Whose idea was it to invite the ex-SAS hard-as-brass-balls bastard to our wedding? Oh wait, that would be me—in a weak moment.

  “You ever thought about getting married again, Jimbo?”

  He fixes me with an unblinking, thousand yard stare.

  “Turkeys don’t vote for Christmas, mate.”

  Yeah, I really need a Best Man to cheer me up. Asshole.

  I throw back four fingers of whisky and follow it with a Mentos mint chaser.

  “I’ve got the car parked out back,” he mutters out of one side of his mouth. “Still time to make a run for it.”

  “I’m marrying Rachel not Glenn Close.”

  He stares at me, his face unmoving. Kinda reminds me of me—except uglier.

  I pull on my vest, straighten the bow tie and
pick up my jacket.

  “Oi, JT,” Rayment coughs. “Do you want to leave your piece?”

  He gestures towards my shoulder holster.

  Fuck. I don’t think the Smith & Wesson matches the tux.

  “Mind you,” he smirks, “as you’re getting married, perhaps you’d better keep the gun handy.”

  Bastard.

  The wedding is taking place at the Langham Hotel in downtown New York. Anderson has rented a private dining room for the day with stunning views of the New York skyline. It’s the boss’s gift to us because he knows anything that involves the newly newsworthy Andersons invites unwanted media interest. His gift is to give us privacy so I don’t have to be on duty. I appreciate it, I do. But I’m still yearning for a quiet drink in a sports bar.

  I stand at the head of the room with Rayment at my side. I’m not nervous, I’m eager. I want this. I want to be married to Rachel. I want it now before she realizes that she can do so much better. God, I love that she has low standards.

  Bill is sitting with his daughters looking relaxed. Megan is now sixteen years old with the same taste in makeup as your average drag queen, and Kimmi is thirteen going on thirty with lime green nail polish and matching eyeshadow. Classy. Celia, my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s mother, glares at me from a seat near the front. I think it’s just her glass eye glinting in the candlelight—hard to tell.

  Mason is looking smug, sitting at the back with Reynolds and Evans. Pam is sitting with Sheila, and Ryan is sitting with Gene. Howard is indeed with a woman, and she looks normal, attractive even.

  Shit, I’m getting married on the day before the Apocalypse.

  Maria and the boss are on the other side of the room. Maria looks alternatively happy and tearful, but I put that down to her post-baby hormones dancing a fandango, and the fact that she’s left baby Amelia Teresa with Dolores for the first time; Anderson looks impassive, and ignoring the lascivious glances thrown by Megan, and somewhat more discreetly, by Allison. Maria looks amused, but fastens her hand around Anderson’s arm a little more tightly. I see him glance down at her and smile. A genuine, happy smile. I want to say it looks unnatural on him, but he smiles so much these days, I’ve taken to wearing sunglasses indoors.