Lost (Bad Boys with Billions Book 1)

by Laura Marie Altom

  If only it were that easy. Obviously, she’d never met Liam.

  She went back in front to cover the register while I ate the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Nathan had made me. I took a few bites, then fed the rest to Yvonne’s chubby dachshund, Wolfgang—Wolfie, for short.

  As usual, I scoured the paper for any news on Liam. On page two, I found what I was looking for, but the story didn’t make me happy.

  Three a.m. Thursday morning, police were called to a penthouse apartment owned by Phoenixʼs billionaire founder, Liam Stone, on a noise complaint. Arrests were made when police found illegal substances being carried by two male guests. Witnesses claim to have seen in excess of five hundred people gathered in the rooftop garden. Concerned the historic buildingʼs roof might collapse from excess weight, police called the fire department to the scene while performing crowd dispersal. Mr. Stone has been unable to be reached for comment, but his representative says he was not present at the celebration hosted by a Phoenix employee, Willow Inhofe (26), formerly of Rose Springs, Arkansas.

  I put down the paper, releasing a long, slow exhale. I would have thought by now that Liam had sent Willow packing. Why hadn’t he? If she was an employee, did that mean the two of them were now involved? No way. Even if they were, it was none of my business. They were both consenting adults.

  I’d be lying if I said my feelings weren’t hurt that my friend had chosen her partying lifestyle over starting a new life with Nathan and me, but there wasn’t much I could do now.

  The rest of the day, I performed my job as if sleepwalking. My body was present, but my mind wandered to Liam. Had he actually been at the party? If so, was my former best friend his latest toy? If not, did he blame me for Willow’s poor behavior? I felt beyond lame for even caring about any of these issues, but I did.

  Would Liam always haunt me to this degree, or would time cleanse me? Would I no longer crave his emerald stare or the way his slow, crooked grin made that Frisbee in my belly soar?

  I walked home from work oblivious to the wind’s bite, uncaring that it tugged at my hair, whipping it across my eyes. The truth was that I no longer wanted to see. The farther removed I became from Liam, the more I wondered why fate had been so cruel as to even bring him into my life. If for no other reason than the fact that he’d taken me so far from Blaine, I should always be grateful to him. Instead, I resented the way he’d bulldozed my carefully ordered days.

  Liam

  “See this?” Garrett tapped the Chronicle’s piece about the arrests made at my penthouse. “She’s got to go.”

  “I know . . .” I sighed, rubbing my eyes with my thumbs and forefingers. Letting Willow stay had been a monumental mistake. After her latest party, it had taken a cleaning/maintenance crew of ten two days to put the penthouse back in order.

  Owen downed his black coffee, then helped himself to a cheese Danish from a tray Carol had placed on my office conference table. “Another thing—stop with the whole employee thing. If you want to date a woman, date her. Don’t tie her to our company. Garrett and I have looked the other way on this too many times to count, but no more. The potential for liability is too great.”

  “Agreed,” Garrett said.

  “Christ . . .” I tossed my half-eaten Danish back to the tray. “I thought we were talking about opening an office in Brazil. Had I known it was national Bash the Shit Out of Liam Day, I’d have stayed in bed.”

  “It’s not like any of this is new,” Garrett was all too pleased to point out.

  “I get it,” I said. “Consider Willow fired and evicted. Only, one thing I don’t understand—I thought we only had Willow sign nondisclosure papers. I never wanted her hired.”

  “She wasn’t. She took it upon herself to tell the press she works for you. Apparently, she fancies herself quite the media darling.”

  “Shit . . .” How had all of this happened? All I’d wanted was to make Ella’s life easier. To make her forget her abusive ex and think only of me. What I’d gotten was her disaster of a friend, whom so far, Ella hadn’t seemed especially eager to visit.

  “Say the word and I’ll have her out of there in ten minutes.” Garrett’s offer was touching. I could always count on him to say just the right thing. For all my sarcasm, I knew he was right. This game had already gone too far. As much as it killed me, I needed to admit defeat, only I couldn’t. Ella was so close. I could be with her in under an hour. But if I made the first move, she’d skitter like a fallen leaf. This whole exercise had been intended to coax her out of her shell, but if anything, all of my—in hindsight, ridiculous—tactics had been worthless. I never should have left. But then if I were dead honest with myself, I never should have brought her to California.

  “Wait until after Christmas,” I said, giving myself—and Ella—a few more days. “Then,

  Willow’s gone.”

  Christmas night, rain fell like messy tears.

  Owen invited me to spend the holiday with his wife, Natalie, and their five kids and parents and in-laws and pets and God only knew who else, but that wasn’t my scene.

  I usually spent Christmas at the beach house, but this year, I couldn’t bear to be there without Ella. I didn’t want to be anywhere without her, but especially there. I’d have imagined her in my bed, her hair fanned like dark coral against my favorite pillow. In my dreams, she’d smile, beckoning me closer, deeper into her spell. I’d follow wherever she led, drowning in the pleasures of her scent, her voice, her touch. In recent memory, I’d never wanted anything more. Maybe because it was only in my current incarnation that I’d learned I literally could have just about anything—anyone? To wield that power, only to now be denied, was unthinkable. Her rejection shattered my carefully constructed illusion, casting me back to my own personal hell. She made me remember who I used to be and I hated it, but then in the same breath, that honesty, the raw, real edge of a man I didn’t even know, but maybe in some strange way wanted to know, was cathartic.

  She made me feel somehow beyond the past, so that I could see the possibilities of our shared future. The sensation was as disconcerting as it was novel. It was a rush. And I wanted more.

  More than anything, I wanted to go to her, make some over-the-top gesture guaranteed to get her attention, but if my jet and penthouse and cash incentives hadn’t wowed her, I wasn’t sure what could—if anything.

  I ate the turkey and fixings my housekeeper had left in the fridge, watched the tail end of

  National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, then was heading for the Ambien when my cell rang.

  My pulse revved. Was it her?

  Garrett. Strange. “Thought you were in Barbados.”

  “Yeah. Merry fucking Christmas to you, too. I am in Barbados, which is why this call’s pissing me the fuck off. Your pal, Willow? She’s at it again, only this time, we’re not talking about a little party. A guy’s dead.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I sliced my car through pouring rain, doing 120 on the 101.

  By the time I reached the city, calls were blowing up my cell.

  I turned it off, needing my full concentration to maneuver through the crowds choking every intersection, wielding their umbrellas and holiday smiles, never knowing how much their cheer made me want to punch a wall. I wasn’t mad just at Willow, but at the world. Myself. I never should have allowed things to get this far. Had I followed Garrett’s advice, Willow would have been long gone, and my name wouldn’t now be connected with a kid’s death.

  I rounded the block seven times before finding an open parking space.

  My building looked like a Christmas caricature—dolled up in lights, but they were all wrong. Instead of cheerfully blinking, they strobed in garish red and blue.

  Reporters bookended the doors, the plastic sheets wrapping their cameras collecting raindrops that in turn captured the chaos, reflecting it hundreds—maybe thousands—of times over. It had been the same with my mother, only not on such a grand scale. Only in my heart did the pain loom so large.


  “Liam!” A woman I recognized as the lead anchor for KPIX shoved a microphone in my face. “Is it true you’re involved with the woman who allegedly shot the deceased?” I wasn’t even going to dignify her question with a no comment.

  Kenny caught sight of me and opened a door, ushering me inside. “Mr. Stone. Man, am I glad to see you. It’s been crazy around here.”

  “Sorry about that. I promise, after tonight, things will calm down.”

  “I sure hope so.” I nodded toward the growing mob outside. “Do me a favor and don’t let anyone in who isn’t a tenant or cop.”

  “You got it.”

  Nick, the night elevator man, asked, “Penthouse, sir?”

  I nodded. I’d met him a couple of times and he seemed okay, but I preferred Oscar.

  The elevator opened on a nightmarish scene. The normally pristine white foyer floor was blood-streaked. At least a dozen cops milled about, some in rumpled suits, some in uniforms.

  A portly member of the uniformed brigade stopped me from exiting the car. “Sorry, sir. No visitors allowed.”

  “Good. I’m not a visitor.” I brushed past him, steering wide of the body lying just in front of the window and the men and women performing their various jobs. I wasn’t interested in any of it—especially not the way the victim’s eyes peered at me, accusing me of causing his death by foolishly not following Garrett and Owen’s advice. As much as it pained me to admit, they’d been right about Willow.

  And Ella? What about her?

  Had she also been a mistake?

  The double doors I’d imported from Marrakech were open. I strode through, ignoring the pissant cop nipping at my heels.

  “Sir, you really can’t go in there.”

  I kept right on walking. Past Olga, who I caught in my peripheral vision, crying at the kitchen table while a detective type no doubt drilled her. I passed more cops, who poked and prodded and meddled with my private property. My private affairs.

  “Sir, please . . .” the cop persisted.

  “Look”—I spun to face him—”this is my penthouse, my fucking building. I’m not leaving, so back off.”

  For an instant, he tensed as if planning on taking this further, but then he held up his hands, leaning in to say, “If my superior catches you in here, my badge is on the line.”

  I took out my wallet, found a business card, then handed it to him before continuing my search. “If my actions cause you any grief, come work security for me.”

  I didn’t stop long enough to catch his reaction. I had to find Willow—not because I cared about her, but I needed to know if Ella was in any way mixed up in all of this. The guy I had tailing her told me she’d spent the day at her boss’s home and her night holed up in that shit-hole apartment with Nathan, but I had to be sure.

  Christ, she had me walking a tightrope in my own head. The mere fact that I’d sunk to the level of having her tailed spoke entire libraries about how mental she’d made me—or, I guess I’d made me, considering I was the one who’d stooped low enough to hire a PI to keep track of a girl who wanted nothing to do with me. I was sick. The fact that I knew it, recognized it, but didn’t even care made my situation all the worse.

  I charged through rooms with it barely registering that my hideaway had been trashed. Bottles and beer cans and a rainbow of Solo cups littered the floor and every flat surface. Custom sofas were stained to the point of no return, and some idiot had thrown up in the courtyard fountain.

  I was the biggest idiot for ever letting Willow aboard my jet.

  I found her in the gym, huddled into a corner, crying. Those two walls were mirrored and her macabre reflection was multiplied. Mascara smudged her eyes and dredged garish lines down her cheeks.

  A suit-wearing detective type straddled the end of a weight bench. He held a pocket-sized blue spiral notebook and a red Bic pen. “Willow, I know this has got to be tough, but I need you to tell me in your own words what exactly happened after”—he consulted the notes he’d already scribbled—”Jess fired shots.”

  “What the fuck do you think happened?” She spat the words, looking more like a trapped animal than the self-assured girl I’d once known. Was she high? Or coming down? “Like I already told you, Jess was all pissy about me dancing with Pentagram, and when he saw—”

  “Just to clarify—that’s the victim’s name? Pentagram? Because his wallet tells a different story.”

  “Shit, how am I supposed to know? It’s not like when I felt for his cock, I first asked to see his ID.”

  The detective sighed, then looked my way. “Who the hell are you?”

  I wore jeans, an old Stanford hoodie and brown leather Eccos. I didn’t exactly blend in with the uniformed crowd.

  “Leave him alone,” Willow mumbled. “He didn’t have anything to do with what went down.”

  The fact that she absolved me of any blame lowered the volume on my rage. In that moment, I didn’t see her as a monster, but a scared girl who’d made a doozy of a mistake. But then, hadn’t we all?

  The detective said, “How about you let me call the shots?” He looked to me. “Who are you?”

  “Liam Stone. I own this place.”

  Leaning back, the guy grinned before lightly shaking his head. “You’re shitting me—like the Liam Stone?” I nodded.

  “This night is like the gift that keeps on giving. Mr. Stone, were you even here when the shooting happened?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve gotta pee,” Willow said in a raspy voice from her corner.

  “Yeah, go ahead.” The detective waved her toward the adjoining bathroom. Back to me, he asked, “Lay this out for me. Is she, like, your girlfriend? Or just a tenant? Or what?”

  “It’s complicated.” I rammed my hands in my jeans pockets.

  He emitted a dark chuckle. “Lucky for me my in-laws are in town and I’d like nothing better than a long night away from them.”

  This wasn’t going the way I’d planned. I couldn’t remember why I was even there. I mean, as usual, I’d wanted to see Ella—if only to catch a glimpse of her profile or whiff of her hair. I’d known she wouldn’t be here, but I’d come anyway. And I was a fool. Once and for all, I needed to get it through my thick-ass head that whatever I thought we’d shared hadn’t been real.

  “Mr. Stone?”

  I wasn’t feeling this whole scene, so I turned to leave the room.

  The detective I’d taken for a slug was already upright and blocking the door. “Where are you going? Thought we were friends?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “This whole thing has nothing to do with me, so I’m leaving. Didn’t think I needed your permission.”

  “Surprise . . .” His deadpan smile didn’t reach his gaze. “Once you chose to bust in on what’s now my party, it pretty much became your basic ‘Hotel California’ situation. I assume you’re familiar with the song? Eagles. Ringing any bells?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Now see, why you gotta get all testy with me, Mr. Stone? That’s the sort of thing that makes me think you might have a lot to do with this mess. It leaves me asking myself why a man like you would come charging over here on Christmas, of all nights, to check on a girl who, by my estimation, isn’t exactly on your socioeconomic level.” He cocked his head, scratching his clean-shaven chin. “But then, maybe that’s why you like her? She’s disposable?” He kicked a red Solo cup. “Kind of like your taste in party ware.” I took my phone from my hoodie’s pouch.

  “Who are you calling, Mr. Stone?”

  “My attorney.”

  That earned the man’s first genuine smile. “Yes. I love it when guys lawyer up. Tells me you’ve got something juicy to hide.” He held up his hands, curling his fingers like paws around his notebook and pen, then thrust his upper teeth over his bottom lip, chomping like a rodent.

  “That’s why I’m good at my job, Mr. Stone. Like a rat, I know where to find plenty of cheese.” Right. That was my cue to leave.

&nbs
p; “You’re leaving?” The asshole dogged me out into the hall. “You’re hurting my feelings, Mr. Stone. It’s not every day a guy like me meets a guy like you. How much are you paying our Miss Willow—if that’s even her name? Is this like an hourly thing? Or do girls like her charge by the—”

  I punched him.

  And then about eighteen cops cuffed the shit out of me. I didn’t care. Was beyond caring.

  Two uniforms were escorting me to my own damned elevator when from behind me, I heard, “Someone call the paramedics! We’ve got a situation!”

  Julie

  “Nathan . . .” We’d spent Christmas morning sleeping late and the afternoon at Yvonne’s, with her husband and two grown kids and friends and the few other part-time employees who made up her extended family. She’d roasted a duck and we’d sung carols around a cheery fire. If only for a little while, it had been nice to forget the circumstances that had led me to be thousands of miles from everything and anyone I’d ever known—especially Liam. But in his case it wasn’t distance keeping us apart, but an emotional chasm I couldn’t bridge. Now that it was Christmas night, I sat cross-legged on our lumpy living room sofa, turning Nathan’s tiny, red-foil-wrapped box in my hands. “You weren’t supposed to get me anything. I thought we were saving for tuition?”

  “We are. But I saw this, and it made me think of you.” His hopeful smile broke my heart. He’d made no secret about wanting there to be more than friendship between us. Agreeing would make everything so simple. “Go on, open it.”

  I did, only to find an antique leather ring box. My stomach sank. Why was he doing this? He knew how screwed up I was about Liam. I lifted the lid to find the prettiest vintage ring. It was shaped like a skeleton key.

  “It’s not gold—only brass. The lady running the antique shop said it was from a sorority—Kappa something—but I liked the key, and how . . .” He angled sideways, taking my left hand. “This is going to sound cheesy, but I feel like you’re my own personal key. Like before meeting you, I didn’t have any goals or anything.” He raised my hand to his mouth, kissing the tips of my fingers. “You make me want to be better. I know I’ll never be as rich as