The Billionaire's Club Trilogy: Deluxe Box Set

by C. L. Donley

  Dale is completely unphased.

  He doesn’t even slow his train of thought as he sends me an effortless wink.

  He turns his attention back to Grayson, without even waiting to see my reaction.

  I notice my dry mouth as I quickly turn back to the girls on the couch. Clearly no one knows what’s happening to me right now. They’re still asking Maggie and Amara about working at MeTV. I try to seem interested as I patiently wait for my pulse to slow down.

  Why am I suddenly reacting to his every attention on me? I mean honestly, who winks anymore?

  Is it because of rehearsal? Because he saw me dance, or because he liked it?

  Just how long had he been watching me?

  “What are you over there in your feelings about?” Kim suddenly breaks through my thoughts.

  “Nothing,” I dismiss. I abruptly get up from my seat.

  Okay, Abernathy. I know a thing or two about being sexy too, I think to myself. If Dale likes dancing, then he’ll love this.

  I go up to the DJ to ask if he has and Kim and I’s club go-to when we want to feel like untouchable bitches on the dance floor.

  He does.

  When I hear my jam coming through the speakers as I walk away from the DJ’s table, Kim’s eyes suddenly find mine and nothing else needs to be said.

  Now, I’m Beyonce.

  Of course. The dancing. Sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake.

  I let the track completely envelop my senses, I ready my muscles for expression, the strings and the synth skim across my bare arms. My fingers snap to the bass line. The vocal begins and my arms lift up over head like I’m willingly being shackled. I look in Kim’s eyes, who is also letting the song hold her captive, much more eagerly of course, and instead of cracking up laughing like I want to, I instead rhythmically make my way over to where she is on the dancefloor. At this point, no one seems to want to share the dance floor with us just yet, they want to see what’s about to happen.

  The energy rises to a familiar boiling point, one I recognize immediately. I usually only feel it on stage and not so concentrated. I wasn’t ready for that. I guess the less people are watching me the scarier it gets, somehow. At least Kim can be relied upon to soak up the excess. I only distantly focus on it since the chorus has now kicked in, reassuring me that this moment is the greatest moment. In reality I’m shy, but I’m also a dancer. And dancing and reality are two separate things for me.

  I let Kim back herself up on me and the company around us whoops and hollers. It takes no discipline whatsoever not to look over at the billionaires table, because in this exact moment, they are a bunch of nobodies.

  Amara

  The rest of the girls get up to dance after Kim and Mya’s provocative and completely improvised routine. The guests are loving it and everyone joins in. Everyone except me, that is.

  “C’mon girl, I thought you were gonna turn up?” Mya says to me.

  “I cannot get up there gyrating in front of Grayson right now,” I say.

  “Girl, you better get up here and fuck him up,” Kim says.

  I laugh, knowing full well she has no idea what she’s talking about.

  Kimberly Prichard has been a big ball of talk since we’ve known her.

  She always either has a crush, a boyfriend, or a break up. For a good year or so when we were 14, we were pretty convinced that Kim had indeed lost her virginity. The account was simply too detailed. We didn’t know yet that the lifestyle her mother was leading gave Kim all the material she would ever need.

  By the time I came along, Kim was already essentially living at Mya’s. As far as I knew, their parents had for some reason decreed a perpetual slumber party, and life was great.

  Kim knew why, and simply didn’t wish to talk about it.

  She’s notoriously obsessed with sex, and anyone who speaks to her would think she was an independent, 3rd wave feminist pleasure seeker.

  But now that I’ve actually had sex and plenty of it, I suspect that Kim is deathly terrified of it.

  But if Kim has a grand scheme like Mya does to have sex on this trip, that’s just fine with me. I’ll vouch for any guy here, and any chaos Kim and/or Mya could cause among them would be good, needed chaos.

  I tried to plant the seeds about Dale in Mya’s mind. And it looks to me like there’s a helluva good chance they’ve taken root.

  In truth, I’ve no idea whether or not Dale’s good in bed, but more than likely he is.

  Maybe it’s selfish, but I’ve become obsessed with getting them together since the incident on the roof the night before.

  I hadn’t seen it at all before then, and until Dale’s doofy behavior last night I wouldn’t have put it together.

  It’s true Dale has a type, as Grayson once had one. But I’m impervious to such things now. These things can be overcome.

  Plus, Dale’s an idiot when it comes to what he needs versus what he wants. I saw Dale chatting up Maggie today, and that is simply no good. She’s a great girl, of course, but Maggie needs a “creativity” soul mate, not to be a kept woman.

  Dale needs someone else to be obsessed with, other than Grayson.

  He still seems to have trouble with Sam and I filling that void.

  Mya’s more than qualified to rock Dale’s world, every day, for the rest of his life, and that’s what he needs. Because his girlfriends, while sweet, are boring balls.

  Suddenly I’ve no more desire to get to know another one of Dale’s wife experiments, go on double dates and find common ground with someone who will inevitably move on to find someone less stable, just so she can have some semblance of unpredictability to her long, unchallenged life.

  No. Mya will be in that place. We’ll laugh together again, dine together, vacation together, plan our future pregnancies together. Be happy together.

  Operation DaMya is a go.

  Twenty Five

  Chapter 25

  Dale

  The morning of the wedding, I awake to the slow realization that I had a dream the night before.

  And Mya was in it.

  I rarely dream, and when I do it’s even more rare that I remember it.

  It’s fuzzy now, but Mya was in my mother’s old ballet studio before it had burned down, looking in the mirrored wall at herself and she was crying. It was one of those dreams where you’re a different age than you actually are. I think I was about 20 in the dream, and I was behind her, consoling her, trying to hold her and kiss her but she was fading in and out like a hologram, disappearing beneath my fingers.

  I lay looking beyond the great four poster bed to the vaulted coffered ceiling, trying in vain to decipher my subconscious.

  The moment from the dream I want to relive the most is being close to her. There’s emotion there, the other worldly kind that is sometimes found in dreams.

  When’s the last time I’ve been that close to another person? Too long, my morning wood reminds me. When’s the last time I laid in bed thinking about a woman I couldn’t— or rather, shouldn’t— have?

  Perhaps never. Unless you count my ex-fiance.

  Not Avery, the first one. Amber.

  I’ve been enjoying the company of women about as long as I can remember. I found my first girlfriend when I was six. And that relationship lasted for three years. Three years. Naturally, I only expected to get better as I got older, not worse. Amber broke up with me while we were each off at college, and I was devastated. We’d been engaged since high school. She was the first thing that ever came between Grayson and me.

  Looking back, of course, I understand. But at the time, I fell apart. I almost flunked my junior year of college, because instead of going to lecture and doing my portion of the engineering project that accounted for my entire grade in the class, I was withering away in my dorm room singing along tearfully to Celine Dion and Brian McKnight. I’ve never loved any girl like I loved her.

  But I’m not bitter about it or anything. My sister told me she’s married now. To
the manager of a fucking Walgreens, so. Karma’s a bitch.

  Meanwhile, Grayson was at home melting down, fucking bagging groceries and hacking computers’ network security at night. Then the NSA called him out of nowhere and he moved to Virginia. And during all that time, he managed to not come across the opportunity to touch a single woman.

  Grayson was an ugly duckling in middle and high school. The side effects of the bipolar meds his parents made him take turned him into a fugly duckling. He went from chubby to obese. His acne had acne. The meds gave him terrible bad breath. I was like, “dude, how is this worse than actually being bipolar?”

  So then he just stopped taking them. He didn’t tell his parents obviously. He seemed to be getting better— or at least, he wasn’t any worse— so his parents kept refilling the prescriptions, he had tons of them. We actually tried selling them, but I was too afraid of getting caught. Grayson had it all worked out, but I was a little thick back then. I knew Grayson was smart, but not in the drug selling kind of way. Now part of me wishes we would’ve tried harder, we could’ve made a killing.

  By the time he hooked up again with Bel and I, he’d become swanlike with a vengeance. He’d just left the NSA and I got him a job working at Magellan with me and Bel. Bel and I did alright for ourselves before then, but Grayson’s very presence changed our sex life, and that was before Webster. He didn’t even have to do anything. He got us into clubs, he even got us fucking free drinks. Then he just stood there while Bel and I took the spoils.

  Eventually we took pity on him. He was obviously terrified. He wouldn’t talk to women, he was downright rude to them, which only made them more ready and willing. Grayson would always just make an excuse. The poor bastard was simply overwhelmed. And I would give him the same advice, without fail, every time.

  “Dude, don’t overthink it.”

  So it isn’t lost on me that he is now throwing the same advice in my face.

  I sit up in bed and look across the vast bedroom to see that Grayson’s bed is vacant.

  I glance at my Rolex laying on the night table. 8:30am. The jetlag has finally caught up with me and I turned in at around midnight last night, which is early for me.

  It’s no wonder I dreamed about her. I fell asleep to images of Mya literally dancing in my head.

  Catching her in the ballroom was both exhilarating and slightly painful, like a knife underneath a crusted wound.

  Because I knew that if she were still alive, my mother would’ve probably wept at the sight of Mya’s heavenly technique. At all the hard work and self discipline her very movements represented.

  Such elegance and poise, such abandon and something else… love? Life? Some raw, ineffable material that we all come from. And all without music. It was enough to uproot just about every unknown emotion I had.

  And then on the dance floor she was just as captivating, but for a different reason.

  I tried to watch someone else, anyone else on the dance floor but I found it impossible. I couldn’t turn away. Even their attention-seeking missile best friend Kim couldn’t take my attention from Mya’s smiling, free-spirited movements that masked the superior command that she truly has over her entire body.

  So she does like having fun.

  Pretty sure it was a show for all of us. It’s far from the first time that’s happened. It might’ve even been the best. Definitely in the top three.

  I’m not so sure who Mya’s target was, though. I don’t see her warming up to me that much that fast. “Warming up” is definitely the wrong term. She’s frigid as fuck all. I did manage to wrench a smile out of her that she didn’t seem to want to give away, and it was more enticing than I’m willing to admit to myself, but to get it I basically had to bleed. So I can’t see her going from that, to seductive dance moves. It’s more likely that she just really, really likes dancing.

  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my long lean torso hunches over while I’m lost in thought. I sigh. Today’s the day.

  I don’t know why, but I’m dreading the best man speech.

  As much as I want to honor Grayson and his new wife, I’m reticent to face whatever emotions are bubbling beneath the surface of me.

  Aside from the heartswell of happy and amazed feelings I feel for Grayson’s unexpected bliss, there are other feelings attached that are demanding my attention.

  Like resentment, for instance.

  The general bone deep weariness that Grayson’s friendship has caused me at times, and by proxy those connected to me.

  I’m not sure what I expected the result of all my efforts to be, but when Grayson’s life suddenly began to bloom, it changed the dynamic between us.

  It had, at first, brought relief. Then joy, and then suddenly another feeling— one unfamiliar and less than good, one that I’m reluctant to name. And the more I reflect on our friendship, the clearer into focus that feeling becomes.

  I’m starting to suspect it’s despair, which has always been Grayson’s forte. It’s as though we’re switching lives.

  I’m afraid that the tearful emotion that’s welling up in me today is the bad one and not the good one. And today’s the day I’m going to find out. In front of everyone.

  So I’m nervous, that’s all.

  Grayson

  By 10am the groomsmen are all gathered in the downstairs library waiting to make their debut in the next hour or so.

  “I’m getting laid today, fellas,” I announce.

  “You’re so sure we’re in the clear,” Dale says.

  “Since Mya was being all 7th grade with you last night, I assumed we were.”

  “Yeah, what were you two really up to that whole time,” Bel interjects.

  “Dude, if we’d really been ‘up to something’ we’d still be missing.”

  We all stop and look over at him.

  Dale rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Really guys…”

  “He never talked about Avery like that,” I say to Bel.

  “Because if you knew how much I liked her you would’ve freakin’ tag teamed her,” Dale replies.

  The entire room erupts in a show of offense, save for Bryan, who doesn’t typically carouse with us. But it might be a good idea. Bryan’s been with us for almost eight years now and we’ve only heard about two relationships. Very brief. Because of us, I’m sure. We keep him busy, it’s true. My pity is starting to outweigh my desire for productivity.

  Dale’s righteous indignation cuts through my thought.

  “Jessica Whatsherface, Malibu 2010!!” he shouts.

  I smile and Bel snickers in recollection. The memory is like rubbing my hand over a childhood scar.

  “Okay one, we did you a favor and two, I don’t want to talk about ancient history today,” I respond.

  “Convenient,” Dale says.

  “You should’ve let us throw you that bachelor party, bro,” Bel says to me.

  I give a look like I’ve had two helpings of cotton candy at the fair and have been asked if I want more. The guys laugh. I make a cut throat gesture with my hand, the universal signal for “that’s enough.”

  “Wow, he’s really gone.”

  “What was your first clue, Bel,” Dale asks sarcastically.

  “What would happen if a stripper was at the door right now?” Bel asks.

  “Since when was I ever into strippers?”

  “Okay, not a stripper then. A naked blonde who runs a fortune 500 company,” Dale corrects.

  “I would probably push her as hard as I could until she fell down,” I reply.

  The guys guffaw like they’re twelve at the mental image.

  Bel loves prompting me to see what I will say about anything. It’s pretty much the deepest aspect of our relationship. I think he finds it fascinating that I can understand the concept of what makes people laugh but not find it funny myself. Few things make me laugh. Dark ironies make me laugh. Social conundrums make me laugh. Amara makes me laugh.

  Bel and I don�
�t get each other, but we’re fine with each other and we share a best friend. Plus, he was a good roommate. I can’t believe I’ve known him ten years. So I guess he’s my best friend too. What else do you call a person that you inadvertently acquire a shit ton of information about over the course of ten years and vice versa?

  “Your lap dance last night from Kim should’ve been plenty,” Dale points out.

  “I think she’s the one, bro,” Bel announces dreamily.

  “If she’s ever paid for anything in her entire life… I’d be very surprised,” I volunteer from the mirror. Bel shakes his head in wonder as the guys snicker.

  “Hey, I have a question, who taught black women to look back at their own ass as they dance?” Dale posits.

  “Bro, you’re crazy if you think that shit can be taught.”

  “Good God.”

  “It’s quite possibly an evolutionary trait,” I offer.

  “Definitely DNA deep,” Bel laughs.

  “Bryan had a hard on last night, didn’t you Bryan?” Dale asks, careful to include him.

  Bryan’s looking out of the library’s massive window.

  “Yeah,” he absent mindedly says. I wonder if he secretly hates us. I don’t usually wonder what is going on inside other people. I seem to be acquiring empathy. A year of marriage to Amara will do that. And fatherhood.

  “Grayson… no disrespect to Amara…” Bel begins.

  “A bad way to start, but by all means continue,” I say.

  “But after Amara… you going back or what, bro?”

  “Here we go,” Dale scoffs, tying his bow tie in the heavily ornate mirror.

  “I wouldn’t be married if I thought I could be with someone else,” I answer. It’s not the one they’re looking for.

  “He’s speaking hypothetically, Grayson. About black women in particular,” Dale translates.

  Black women?

  I don’t understand what black women have to do with being with someone other than Amara.

  The odds that another woman with Amara’s exact traits in their exact measure, born at relatively the same time that I could come across in my lifetime in an equally fortuitous context are pretty rare. Limit the window to other black women and now they are astronomical.