Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2)

by Jasinda Wilder

  We ended up reopening our tab and splitting another couple bottles of wine between the six of us as I spent the next hour spilling every last detail of Zoe’s and my painful childhood, my rape, the adoption, and the various repercussions thereafter.

  Laurel was teary-eyed. “I had no idea, Autumn,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry that happened.”

  “I guess that makes what happened with that billionaire cock-sucker that much more horrible,” Kat said. “Did that, like, trigger you?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, honestly, no. Seven was there to save me. If he hadn’t been, obviously yes I think I would have been beyond traumatized for life. Or maybe I wouldn’t have remembered anything. After Seven got me into his car, I don’t remember a thing. Like, nothing. Even a bit of the next morning is a little fuzzy. Like, I know I woke up disoriented in Seven’s bed, alone, and I was dressed and I knew I was safe, and I know he and I talked about stuff, but I’m not sure I could give you a detailed play-by-play of our conversation.” I felt my cheeks heat. “Some other stuff, I remember just fine.”

  Laurel wasn’t laughing as I’d hoped the latter comment would make her. “Autumn, have you…I know this is weird, maybe, coming from me, but have you ever spoken to anyone about any of this? Like, professionally, I mean?”

  “As in therapy?” I asked. “Um, no. Zoe’s been hounding me for ages, but I just…even thinking about all that hurts, and until Seven, I tried my best to just pretend it didn’t happen.”

  Laurel was oddly, tensely silent. Finally, her eyes met mine. “You should. It’s hard, at first, but it does help.”

  No one knew what to say. Laurel always gave off an air of icy invulnerability masked as bawdy humor and bad language juxtaposed with perfect social manners and the blasé insouciance of the very, very wealthy. Until lately, she’d never revealed any chinks in the armor, any sense of a deeper emotional life. I mean, we all knew she had unpleasant stuff in her past, because her mom was awful and her dad wasn’t any better and Laurel had been raised by au pairs and butlers and the staff of an exclusive European boarding school attended by the children of royalty, billionaires, and A-list celebrities.

  But this, this hint that she had a secret, hidden trauma, this was almost impossible to reconcile with the Laurel we all knew and loved.

  I pressed my hand over hers. “Laurel?”

  She shook her head, then tipped her head back and dabbed underneath her eyes with a napkin. “Something a lot like what happened to you happened to…a friend of mine. Old news. Nothing worth talking about.”

  “Laurel, honey,” Lizzy said. “You can talk to us.”

  She just shook her head again. “No, it’s fine. I know I can, I’m just not ready.” She got up from the table and slung her purse from the crook of her elbow. “I’m going home. Love you guys. See you tomorrow.”

  I got up and followed her outside. “Laur, should you be driving?”

  She looked at her phone rather than me, ignoring me as I trotted to catch up. “Probably not.”

  “So don’t.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Laurel.”

  “I drank a lot of water. I’m okay.”

  Her purse was a tote bag style, and I spied her keyring with her key fob and other keys on it sitting on top; I darted my hand into her purse and snatched her keys.

  “I don’t think so, babe.” I danced backward. “I’ll have Seven drive us.

  She hissed like a feral cat. “Hell no. Give me my keys. I’ll call an Uber.”

  “You’d rather take an Uber than ride in a car with him?”

  “Yes.” She was searching her many screens full of apps for the correct one. “I don’t care how stupid it is, it’s just where I’m at.”

  My secret weapon was that I’d texted Seven on the way out of the bar, and he was going to be pulling up any moment, having been playing darts at a place around the block with some friends, not drinking so he could drive me home.

  He pulled up at that moment, in the Scout with the top off. He parked in front of us, knocked it into neutral, yanked the parking brake, left it running, and hopped out. He came around and snagged me around the middle, lifted me up in the air and kissed me.

  “Hey, you. How was girl’s night?” he asked, between kisses to my lips, throat, and breastbone.

  I was laughing and kissing him back. “Ohmygod, Seven, you saw me this morning. You had me this morning.”

  “Yeah, well, I taped today, worked out, volunteered at a youth boxing event, and met with a possible business partner for an idea I had. It’s been a long day and I missed you. Plus, I just like kissing the shit out of you, and I don’t need to miss you to kiss you.”

  I wriggled in his hold. “Put me down, you big brute.”

  He let me slide to the ground and glanced for the first time at Laurel, who was studiously staring at her phone. “You’re…don’t tell me. Laurel?” He grinned at her. “She’s told me a lot about all of you.” He extended his hand. “Seven St. John, nice to meet you.”

  Laurel took his hand, tentatively. “I know who you are. And yes, I’m Laurel McGillis. Nice to meet you too.” A black Suburban pulled up at that moment. “This is me. See you tomorrow, Autumn.” She slid into the back seat, glancing at me for a long weird half minute, at me, at Seven, and his arm around my waist. “Thanks for looking out for me, Autumn. Uber was a good call.”

  “You can still ride with us.” I handed her keys back. “We can go get dessert.”

  “I’m not third-wheeling. But thanks for the offer.”

  “You wouldn’t be—”

  “See you in the morning, Autumn.” She closed the door, and the SUV pulled away.

  Seven was frowning. “I feel like I missed something.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, you did.”

  A silence.

  Seven cleared his throat. “And that would be…what?”

  I squeezed his hand, trying to decide how much to say. “Um…you know what? Fuck it. It’s going to be awkward till she gets over it, anyway.” I turned to face him. “She had a pretty major celebrity crush on you. Like, big time. So the fact that you and I ended up together is weird and kind of hard for her.”

  He huffed. “Ah. People have a tendency to build those up into these really intense fantasies that are super real to them.” He eyed me. “She gonna be okay around us? I’d have been less exuberant with my greeting if I’d known.”

  I sighed. “She’ll be okay. I hope.” I summoned a smile. “And I love your greeting.”

  “If you love that greeting, wait till I get you somewhere private. I’ll greet you six ways to Sunday.”

  I wriggled in his arms. “Oooh, threaten me with a good time, why don’t you?”

  Later, after we’d screwed each other senseless and were lounging in bed together, naked, watching a documentary on my iPad, I thought of something, and paused the show we were watching.

  “Seven? Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, babe. Anything.”

  “You’ve seen a therapist, right?”

  “Sure have. You thinkin’ about it?”

  “Zoe’s been telling me for years that I should talk to someone, and today Laurel did too. Until I talked to you about it, though, I never spoke of it, tried to not even think about it. But I guess I’ve been just sort of…suppressing all the yucky stuff from it all this time, huh?”

  Seven laid my hand palm up on top of his and traced the lines of my hand with a fingertip. “I think you should see someone, yeah. And…don’t think I mean it like, ohhhh shit, she’s so fucked-up, she needs a shrink. I just mean, in my experience, it really does help. And it’s not just vomiting all your secrets to a stranger, and bam, you magically feel better. A good therapist gives you tools and strategies to cope, to process, to help you heal. The therapist doesn’t fix you, they help you fix you.”

  “Were you afraid to do it, like, being a man asking for help, and the whole stigma around mental health and all that?”

&nbs
p; He shook his head. “The main reason I had the therapist come to me was I was just so damn busy.” A sigh. “But, to be brutally honest with myself, yes, there was an element of that. I was fortunate, though. My dad is black, right? And he was pretty honest with me, when I was, oh, fifteen, sixteen? About therapy. He said in the culture he grew up in—the hood, right?—you don’t ask for help, not like that. Mental health isn’t something that’s discussed, especially back when he was young. But over his career in the army, he learned better. And after his injury, he was messed-up. Not just from the overall trauma and PTSD of war, but even more from losing his legs, his career, his whole way of life. And he saw a therapist. He got help—because he knew he needed help. If he was gonna be anything like a functioning member of society, he had to get help adjusting. He still struggled, and he still does. I think he sees a therapist once a month, even now, twenty-some years later. So I had an example of a strong, badass male, and a decorated veteran and a male of color at that, telling me it was not only okay to get help when I needed it, but that to ask for help was the most responsible thing I could do.” A rueful chuckle. “And even then, I still hemmed and hawed and dragged my feet about it, but once I did do it, I knew I’d made the right decision. And I’m glad I did it.” He squeezed my hand. “All this to say, yes, honey, I think you should see someone to help you deal with your past.”

  I nuzzled his jaw, snuggling closer. “Thanks.” A pause. “So, can you recommend anyone?”

  A laugh. “Yeah, I think I can hook you up.”

  14

  Six months later

  Seven: WYD?

  Me: Showing a house in the hills. It’s a third showing for the same couple, so I’m bored out of my mind while they theoretically rebuild redecorate and renovate every square inch because it’s the biggest most expensive house they can afford but it’s the wrong one for their needs.

  Seven: LOL so what’s the right one for them?

  Me: I have a plan. Once they’re done, I’m going to be like, hey, I’ve got an option I think you should look at before you put in an offer.

  Seven: Dumb question here maybe, but why not suggest that before they look at the same wrong house three times?

  Me: Because they’re stuck on this one. They’ve seen literally seven others in the last couple months but keep coming back to this one even though they know it doesn’t work. I’ve been holding this last option up my sleeve because one the owners have been dragging their feet actually listing it and two I want them frustrated so this last option which is the best one for them according to the list they gave me and what they’re actually looking for, will blow their mind. I’m not sure that sentence made any sense grammatically, but fuck it, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m horny, and this couple annoys the shit out of me.

  Seven: Well, sounds like you have a plan. And I have a plan to solve the middle two issues. Meet me at my place for a quickie, and then dinner out?

  Me: Honestly, if we have sex, I’ll end up taking a nap. So how about we compromise: your place for sex, I take a nap while you get us carryout, and you can feed me while I’m naked and we fuck again and then I go to bed.

  Seven: Hmmm. I had a little plan that involved a nice dinner out. But no matter, I can adjust.

  Me: a plan? For which we have to be out?

  Seven: Don’t worry about it. Sex and takeout sounds perfect. There’s another episode or two of our show to watch, too.

  Me: I don’t want to mess up your plan. How about we just switch dinner and sex? We meet for dinner as soon as I’m done, and you can do your plan, whatever mysterious endeavor you’re planning, and then we go home and…you know, fuck like monkeys.

  Seven: That will work. Text me when you’re done with work and I’ll let you know where we’re eating. Unless you have a specific preference.

  Me: You know me, I’m easy. I added the laughing/tongue sticking out emoji to make it an innuendo.

  Seven: Yeah, you’re easy…until it’s time to pick a restaurant, then suddenly everything sounds good but you won’t pick any one place. LOL.

  Me: You were supposed to pick up on the innuendo, doofus.

  Seven: Oh, I picked up on it. I dare you to take a sexy selfie right now while the clients are looking around. Quick!

  I snorted.

  Me: You should be so lucky.

  But…now that he mentioned it…it would be fun.

  I heard them up in the master suite, still discussing paint colors and window treatments and whether the wall between the bedroom and the closet could be knocked out to make more room…

  I looked around, made sure I wasn’t facing any windows, that I was in fact alone in the kitchen, and then I pulled my blouse open, tugged my breasts out of my bra, and snapped a couple quick selfies for him. Redid my shirt, smoothed the wrinkles, and sent them to him.

  Me: I guess you are so lucky. My turn?

  Seven: Are you soliciting a dick pick?

  Me: Why yes, yes I am.

  Seven: Well…looking at these sexy tits of yours does make me hard. Hold on.

  A moment later, I was looking at a photo of Seven in front of the full-length mirror in his closet. He was buck naked. Flexing his mammoth muscles, thick hard cock standing straight up against his belly. A hot smirk on his face, as if he was saying, “You know you want to get home and get some of this.”

  I heard a creak behind me and hurriedly clicked the side button.

  “Oh my god, Autumn, who was that?” a female voice said behind me.

  The buyers.

  Shit!

  I stuffed the phone in my purse. “Oh, um.”

  She was around my age, decked out in Chanel from sunglasses to sandals and everything in between. Her smirk was devilish. “Well? Are you going to share the goods?”

  I put on a polite smile. “I apologize, Mrs. Delray. I wasn’t aware you were there. That’s my boyfriend, and I’m afraid I’m not very good at sharing where he’s concerned.”

  She rolled her eyes and sniffed. “Well, I must say I’m jealous. I share my husband with his secretary, his assistant, a barista across town he thinks I don’t know about, and our nanny at least once that know of. Not by choice, I should point out.” A droll grin. “But then, I have my own indiscretions, don’t I?”

  Fortunately, the husband wasn’t there. That would have been even worse.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I…I guess we all have our secrets, don’t we?”

  She patted me on the arm. “If he’s faithful to you, I’d do whatever you have to, to keep him that way, honey. Take it from me.”

  I grinned. “I’m planning on it, Mrs. Delray.” A sigh. “So. Thoughts on the house?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to speak for Douglas, but I think we both feel like this is the best option of all the ones we’ve seen.”

  Douglas came in, then, hurriedly shoving his phone into his back pocket; his wife shot me a look that said, and who do you think he was texting before he came in here?

  “It is the best option of what we’ve looked at,” he said, “but it’s still not perfect.”

  I restrained a grin. “I do have one more I think you might like. I’ve been reticent to suggest since it’s not officially on the market, but I know the owners are contemplating selling. If you like it and you came in with a good solid number, they’d bite. And I think you’ll really like it.”

  Douglas nodded, but frowned. “It fits our parameters?”

  “And then some. I spoke to the owners this morning and they’re actually out of town. They left a key with the neighbor and are willing to let you see it. It’s not staged to show, so it looks like a lived-in home, keep in mind. But I really think you’ll love it.”

  “All right, let’s go,” Douglas said. “One more time’s the charm, I hope?”

  One more time was the charm. I knew I had it clinched the moment they saw the kitchen, which was huge, French Rustic inspired, and had a lot of super cute and unique features, and that wasn’t even the selling
point—the massive, luxurious master suite was the selling point, and by the time they’d seen that, they were asking me at which price point they should start with.

  I knew the bottom line for the sellers, and was acting as a dual agent—with special dispensation to do so by Lizzy, as it was out of the norm for us. A bit of back and forth, and we had a good number both parties felt comfortable with, and which netted me a tidy commission. As I was a dual agent, I lowered my commission to make the deal sweeter for both parties. It was a lengthy process, and not without its stress, as I had to go back and forth between the sellers and buyers and try to make both of them happy with the deal they were getting, and with me.

  It was late by the time we had things nailed down to everyone’s satisfaction; I had a contract in place, signed digitally by both parties, and had plans for inspection and such, so I could finally officially call it a day.

  I called Seven as I left the office. “Hey, you,” I said, as he answered. “We’re under contract.”

  “Good job, babe!” he said, effusive and happy; he was always excited for me every time I sold a house, genuinely, and openly. “So you’re done, finally?”

  “Yeah, finally. I know it’s later than you were probably hoping.”

  He laughed. “Nah, it’s fine. You were working on a sale, and I know you’re not gonna quit until you get it. Proud of you, babe. That’s a record number of sales for you for a year, is it not?”

  “For me, and for the brokerage. Lizzy put up a bounty for whomever who hits the number I just hit, so I’m getting a nice big bonus on top of the commission.”

  “Seriously impressive, honey. Super, super proud of you. You’re a kickass realtor.”

  “Thank you, love. So. What’s the plan?”

  I heard the grin in his voice. “You’re hungry, huh?”

  “I could eat a hippo.”

  “Well, not sure hippo is on the menu, but we’ll get you fed.”

  “Do I need to change?”

  “You’re dressed for a showing, yes?”