Stripped 2

by H. M. Ward

  I swallow hard and look at her. I’m way off my normal path, too, and for once I’m not staring at the scenery. I’m intently focused on what lies ahead and the woman standing in front of me.

  “I love you, Cass. You have no idea how much.” I try not to smile at her with a full-on toothy grin because I’ll look like a fucking lunatic, but I want to. My entire body is vibrating with a glee I can’t act on.

  She returns a shy giddy gaze. “I love you, too.” Her cheeks redden and she drops her lashes, hiding her eyes, and grinning at the street.

  My chest is ready to burst. I’m normally an emotional vacuum—at least, I try to be—but Cassie has me strung high, and I don’t want to come down. Ever. I press my lips together and hold out my hand. “Pick out a tux with me, and then I have a surprise for you.”

  She lifts a brow at me while placing her hand in mine. “Really?”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to have to hang around with me all day and part of the evening.”

  She pushes out that plump bottom lip. “Tonight too? But I wanted to see my other boyfriend after this.”

  I can’t help it. I rip my hands out of my pockets and grab her, pulling her close. I blast her with my most charming smile. “Your other boyfriend doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh. This surprise is that good. You’re going to love it.”

  “That’s a lot of talk, Ferro. Are you sure it’ll live up to the hype?”

  I press my head to hers and feel her little nose against mine. “All that and more.”

  * * *

  The tux shop has my new Kiton ready, and Cassie nearly chokes when she hears the price. Her eyes are dinner-plate-sized, and she leans toward me, whispering, “How are you able to buy this?”

  It’s a fifty thousand dollar custom-made tux. We’re at the flagship store on 54th Street in Manhattan for the final fitting before I can take the thing home. We’ve been standing near a small display of about ten jackets, each perfectly pressed and perched on thick wood hangers. The tags have no prices, and she finally asks about it.

  I tell her, “When you’re in a place like this, money isn’t an issue. You’re here because you want the prestige that comes with the brand.”

  I sound like an asshole, but money takes on a different feel when you have more than you could spend. Five grand feels like five bucks, so a fifty thousand dollar suit doesn’t make me blink.

  Cassie looks like she’s ready to hurl. “Jon, they cut you off. I don’t understand. Did you buy this before that happened?”

  “Not exactly. It was ordered, not paid for.” She turns greener. I smile over at her. “I’m glad you’re concerned about my welfare, but I’m not destitute. Besides, it’s for Pete’s wedding. I can’t show up wearing something off the rack and get shown up by the turkey vulture's tuxedo.” Crazy though it sounds, Sydney plans for that bird to waddle down the aisle with her. A smile creeps across my face as I imagine my mother's reaction.

  “You’re not?” Cassie's voice snaps me back to the present. “I thought you were broke.”

  I didn’t say anything about it because she works so hard and I didn’t want to come off sounding like an asshole. It’s difficult to fight preconceived notions, plus I’ve been a total dick so often that those perceptions aren’t unfounded.

  I hold out my hand for her and she slips her palm into mine. We wander over to a set of leather club chairs in the center of the room. I think they were made in Naples along with the rest of the stuff in here. They’re a shade of green that matches Cassie’s worried pallor, and surrounded by dark wood walls. It’s a dude store. It smells manly. The chairs are supple and comfortable. The thick rug beneath my feet is hand woven and cost a fortune. I know because a similar one graced the floor of my room at the mansion. I haven’t been back there since the night I bought the club. Mom may have torched it in my absence.

  Claiming to have no money in a place like this will spread rumors faster than anything. I lower my voice when I speak. “Cass, I’m fine. I had assets in my name. I lost the inheritance, but that’s it. I have other forms of income.”

  She blinks at me. “You do?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, what do you think I do all day?”

  “Hang out at a strip club.”

  I watch her, wondering what she really thinks of me. Gazing into those brown eyes, I can see her affection, but the money is an issue. She missed something, and I kind of hid it from her. I wonder if she’s going to be pissed. I might as well tell her. “The club is a novelty endeavor I took on the side. I have a few other businesses going, most of which began to thrive after I met you. There’s the private school in Jersey I already told you about. We’ve been using that as the flagship school, trying new ways of teaching, and experimenting with curriculums. Affluent families like that. There are three established so far, two more coming. That’s a large source of my income. I have some traditional financial investments—stocks, bonds and mutual funds I picked up over the years—along with some other ventures that maintain a decent return. I own a hotel on Madison Avenue, a string of vacation homes in the Hamptons, and some commercial property on Long Island I can sell off if I ever need to. I don’t need to, so I’ve been leasing it out for different events…” I trail off when I notice she’s gaping at me. “What’d I say to make you stare at me like that?”

  Her jaw flops around like a fish, and she sputters, “You’ve been sleeping on my floor. You’ve been wearing cheap clothes. You made a big deal about buying Beth tape. I thought you were poor!”

  The corners of my mouth lift. “I made a big deal about the tape because she wanted it so much. Plus, it was fourteen dollars a roll, and there was nothing on it. The silver duct tape is less than half that price with twice as much tape.”

  Her jaw is still dangling open. I reach out, press my finger to her chin, and press it shut. She swats my hands away. “You have money?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “You’re not poor?”

  “Far from it.”

  “And you’ve been sleeping on my floor?”

  “Yes.” I’m not sure what’s happening. She’s pissed or ready to cry. I can’t tell which one.

  She starts to talk and stops, gets up, walks in a circle, and then comes back. Palms out she tries again and stumbles over her words. “I thought. You said. The club, and,” she tugs her hair and then leans over, places both hands on the arms of my chair and stops an inch from my face. “You sleep on the floor?”

  It sounds like a question, and I admit I’m a little terrified. She’s an emotional whirlwind. I’m concerned about what’s going to come out when she can finally speak. “I do. You knew I was there, didn’t you?” I tease playfully, hoping for a smile.

  Her bottom lip curves up in the center, down at the corners and her eyes fill with tears. Shit.

  Her voice shakes when she spills her thoughts on me. “I thought you were broke. I thought you were sleeping at my place because you’d been disowned and had nowhere else to go. I thought you stayed on the floor and didn’t buy a mattress because you had no money. You stayed there so long.” Tears roll down her pale skin and drip off her cheeks as she realizes what I was doing—why I slept there night after night.

  Her glassy eyes meet mine and hold. Her lips part as she blinks back tears. I don’t know what to do. I thought she knew, but it appears that she had no clue at all. Cassie thought I was penniless and needed a place to stay. She opened her door to me and shared what little she had. It’s clear she never saw this coming, but I don’t know how. I slept next to her, on her floor. There was a cat-scented couch a few feet away that would have been a lot more comfortable. I was there for her, and now she knows.

  Cassie’s lips tug at the corners, twitch, and fall. It’s like she doesn’t know if she should laugh, cry, or scream at me. She’s nodding and pointing a finger at me when she speaks. “You stayed there for me? You slept like that for me? You could have left. You could have bough
t anything you wanted, but you didn’t.”

  “I wanted to be there.”

  She echoes me, shocked. “You wanted to be there?”

  I pull her onto my lap and hold her against me. Cassie tips her head to the side and rests it against my shoulder. “I’d do anything for you, Cass. I thought it was what you needed. You wouldn’t talk to me about work, and I couldn’t make you stop.”

  She straightens and looks down at me. “I thought we needed the money.”

  I move my head a bit and catch her eye. “You insisted on working because of me? Cass, I own the club. Why’d you think I was broke? At the very least there was income from that.”

  She waves me off. “That place was barely floating before you showed up. Then, you started giving paid days off and sick time. I thought you were hemorrhaging cash. You’re too nice to be a boss. I thought you'd lost your business sense when you purchased the club.”

  I laugh. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it. I kiss her forehead and squeeze her tight. “You pegged me perfectly with everything except the business aspect. I’ve always been about the sale, Cass. You should know that better than anyone. Once I figured out how to tie income to that ability, it was a like a golden carrot dangling in my face. I had to have it.”

  “So, you’re still rich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like moderately wealthy?”

  “Cassie, millionaires don’t shop here.”

  “You’re a billionaire? Really?” She’s shocked, staring at me with her jaw dangling open.

  “Yes. What’s the matter? Is that bad?”

  She starts crying again and swats at her eyes. “A billionaire sleeps on my floor.”

  “I love you, Cassie. I’d sleep on a bed of nails to be near you.”

  She smiles at me through the tears, and I want to stay like this forever. In that moment, she sees me, all of me, and I fucking love it.

  CHAPTER 20

  JON

  We drive down a few blocks to a Midtown heliport. Cassie blinks at me as I coax her inside.

  “But where’s the pilot?”

  “You’re looking at him.” I grab my headset and start pre-flight checks.

  I feel her eyes on the side of my face. She says something, but I can’t hear her while wearing the headset. I reach across and flick on her microphone. “Say that again.”

  “Where’s the cocky slacker version of Jon Ferro?”

  I laugh. “Back in high school where he belongs. Did you really think I’d put all my eggs in one basket? You saw who holds the handles, right? My parents are insane.” I swallow the rest of my reasons before they come rushing out. She’s not certain of me anymore. This doesn’t mesh with what she knows about me, but that was years ago.

  I didn’t stop living when we parted ways. If anything, I pulled my shit together because of her. I realized my mother could cut me off at her whim, so I took my money and stopped dicking around. I sold off the toys, invested here and there, and figured out what I needed to do.

  The pilot's license was a necessary evil. If I needed to cut my budget, I didn’t want to get stuck flying commercial between my businesses, wasting time with airport security and delays. After getting those licenses, it seemed stupid to skip the helicopter certification. It’s helpful to be able to dart above the city—especially at rush hour. So, I bought a few planes, a jet, the helicopter, and started another business offering private flights to individuals and companies who don’t want to deal with owning an aircraft. Everything I possess is dual purpose, making life easier while making money. I hate to admit it, but I learned that from Dad.

  That man is a genius. Everyone thinks Mom came with an endless pile of cash, but Dad’s the one that keeps a large portion of it regenerating. I didn’t understand until I got back from that summer with Cassie and caught hell from Mom. After, Dad called me into his office—which I'd always thought was there for show—and sat me down. I expected him to finish tearing me a new one, but, instead, he asked me about my net value and possessions. He listened thoughtfully as I spoke, then suggested I downsize my jet and lease it when I wasn’t using it. He explained in detail how I could earn money from it by providing an economical flight option to time-conscious businessmen, while I stared at him, shocked.

  That’s why mom doesn't walk away, why she lets him have his affairs. She needs him. She’s good at getting her fingers into everything, exerting pressure, and wielding power. Dad’s skills, though more subtle, are just as integral to running an empire—which is exactly what they’re doing.

  “Is this safe?” She glances around, yelling in the headset as she strangles her seat belt.

  I continue preparing for lift off and say something to the tower, before answering her. “Perfectly. Sit back and enjoy the ride. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the yacht club on the upper east side. I’m taking you sailing.”

  “Ooh! On a boat?” Cass is excited, and when I glance over at her, she’s beaming at me.

  She makes me laugh. The way she says it isn’t condescending. Some men would flinch at the size reference, but I know she would have called the Queen Mary 2 a boat as well. To her, it means floating, and that’s fun. I see it in her eyes.

  “Yup, on a boat.”

  CHAPTER 21

  CASSIE

  The ride over the city was unreal. I’ve lived here for years without experiencing it like that. Flying in a helicopter isn’t the same as a plane. Instead of a rumbling horizontal ascent, you take off vertically like an elevator, shooting up into the sky and soaring over the skyscrapers. Landing is a similarly abrupt plummet through the air before parallel parking between two other helicopters. I was nervous watching Jon do it, but he didn’t act like it was a big deal. His confidence has grown up and internalized. He’s sure of himself. He doesn’t project it the way he did when we were younger. He just knows what to do and does it.

  When we land at the heliport, a limo is waiting. We take the short ride to the yacht club. I glance around, seeing famous people and trying not to stare. I look over at Jon across the room. He’s speaking with someone, a man, about the yacht.

  Jon stands there smiling warmly, one hand in his pocket and a confident look in his eyes. He nods and says something, then waits for a reply. The arrogant boy who never listened is gone. He’s soaking up every word the man says.

  Jon thanks him and walks back to me. “Ready?”

  I nod, stand, and smooth my skirt. “Yup!” I’m too excited to control my grinning. My face starts to ache. When he asked me to go out this morning, I thought he meant McDonald’s. I never expected this.

  A few minutes later, we’re on the boat, and several men help to prep the vessel. Satisfied that everything is in order, the guys from the yacht club disembark and head back to the marina. I watch as Jon alone maneuvers the ship away from the dock in complete control.

  As we pull away, we head up the river and toward the Atlantic. I sit there, happy to feel the sun on my face and the spray of salt on my skin. Before we left, Jon pointed out different areas of the ship I might want to explore. I stand, kick off my shoes, and pad around the deck, ducking my head into different cabins and wandering through a large sitting area adjoining a beautiful dining room. I’m watching a chandelier sparkle and sway in time with the water when Jon walks up behind me.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, but don’t you need to steer?”

  He laughs and shakes his head, making that dark hair fall into his eyes. He pushes it back. “No, the ship has automation for that. Dinner was prepared and brought on board before we left. Should we eat in here and then have dessert on the deck after the sun sets?”

  It feels like I'm in a dream. “That sounds incredible.” As he places the dishes and silverware on the table, I sit and ask him about his businesses, surprised he speaks so freely. He leases this yacht as well. The club cares for it and helps procure lessees. An agent does the rest.<
br />
  In the middle of our meal I glance up at him. The sun is setting, painting the room with vibrant oranges and yellows. Jon’s hair is a mess from the wind and salty spray. It’s got a ruffled thing going on that makes my fingers itch to touch it.

  Jon glances up at me and places his fork and knife down. “Can I ask you something?” His tone is serious, deeper than usual with less inflection. It’s not a question he wants to ask.

  “Anything.”

  “What did you tell that reporter about Dad's mistresses? It's odd how they honed in on my parents' relationship but skimmed over the other more immoral issues there. It was almost as if they didn’t know.” He watches me carefully beneath those dark lashes. This is a sore spot for him, a festering wound with the blade still buried deep within.

  I’ve always felt horrible about this. I accepted blame for it, but I don’t recall mentioning the mistresses. I must have, in passing maybe, without realizing it. Or maybe the guy already had his story and needed someone to corroborate it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. It was my fault the story appeared.

  “I don’t remember. I didn’t think I said anything, but I must have.”

  “You talked mostly about the school and the bombing?”

  “The good things about the school and yes, your selflessness during the bombing. That was a story by itself, but he didn’t mention any of it. I wanted everyone to see the real you.” I smile sadly and stare at the tablecloth. “I didn’t even know the real you. I never knew you were capable of all this—the businesses, the analytical stuff, and then not flaunting it.”

  The corner of his mouth rises slightly and falls. “Fledgling companies are easy to take down. I hid them on purpose so they’d have a chance.”

  “You’re a lot smarter than most people recognize.”