Beauty and the Billionaire

by Claire Adams

  “There are some things I need to talk to you about,” I tell him quietly as I hold the door closed just a few more seconds. “First, I’ve got to deal with this.”

  “Who is that?” Mason asks in a whisper.

  “That’s my mom,” I answer. “Excuse me,” I correct, “that is my mother. I promise I will explain everything, but for right now, I just need you to go to my room and wait for me for a little bit. I know this is weird, but—”

  “We should probably open the door now,” Mason interrupts as someone, undoubtedly Jana, tries the knob and then knocks on the other side of the door.

  “I’ll explain everything, okay?” I ask, hoping for some sort of reassurance. Maybe I can use it as armor against whatever humiliating position my parents have gotten themselves into this time.

  Probably not.

  “Okay,” he says easily... too easily. I may have overstated my enthusiasm about explaining whatever’s about to be explained to me.

  I let go of the doorknob and the door comes open with Jana holding the other side of the knob.

  “What was that about?” Jana asks.

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to avoid eye contact. “I just had to tell Mason something.”

  “Your mom’s here,” Jana says, grinning at me.

  I hate this moment so much. Jana loves my mom, but not for any good or even decent reason. Mom, love her as I’m genetically programmed to do, is basically a walking advertisement for old money, though that’s not actually anywhere in her background.

  Her name’s not even May Weese.

  Jana and I have known each other for a very long time, and in that time, my esteemed roommate and friend has also gotten to know my parents. She doesn’t like my dad. He’s too dry and whiny—Jana’s words, not mine—but mom, Jana loves mom.

  There hasn’t been a conversation between the two of them that hasn’t yielded my friend some kind of ammunition to throw at me for her own twisted amusement. Judging by the fact I could count her teeth from the size of the smile on her face, I’d say she’s already achieved that goal.

  “Mason?” I ask.

  He stands there a second before saying, “Oh, right,” and walking past the three of us and going to my room, closing the door behind him.

  Good boy.

  “Jana, as always, I appreciate you getting my mother to tell you embarrassing stories about me, but you’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Actually, the boss gave me the day off,” she says.

  “Say, Jana, you’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?” I repeat.

  She finally takes the hint.

  “Fine,” she says, “but you and I have a couple of things to talk—” she bursts into laughter. Over the next painfully long thirty seconds, she tries again and again to finish the sentence, but every time, she just starts laughing again.

  “Just go,” I tell her.

  As I hear her laughing even after she’s left the apartment and is walking down the hallway, I realize I haven’t done a very good job inspiring fear around this place. That’s something I’m now rather eager to change.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Oh, good heavens, darling,” mom says in her aristocratic tone. “The way you speak sometimes…”

  “Mom, it’s just you and me. You can drop the stupid voice,” I tell her.

  “It’s not stupid,” she says in her natural and refreshingly boring voice. “We haven’t spoken since you called me back, and I was concerned you might attempt to do something silly like make a statement against your father and I.”

  “How can I make a statement about it before I know what you’ve actually done?” I ask.

  “Sit down, dear,” she says. “There are a few things I think you should know.”

  “I thought the best approach is plausible deniability,” I answer, but I do take her advice and sit down on the couch. “If you’re willingly telling me what’s going on, that must mean—”

  “You act as if your father and I are so predictable,” she says, tinges of that almost raspy, almost British voice creeping in at odd intervals. “This is quite serious, I assure you.”

  “Tell me you left me out of it,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t involve me in whatever scheme the two of you have been working. That’s my boyfriend in there. We just got back from court where his brother was remanded for more than a few dozen things, and I’ve just about had my fill. What’s worse, I’ve been so nervous to talk to him about this that I never got around to it, so he’s totally unprepared for any of this. Just tell me you left me out of it,” I repeat.

  “Well, dear,” she says, her phony voice now dominant, “it should reassure you that your father and I never intended to involve you in our business ventures, as we know you don’t agree with some of our more unique practices.”

  “Save it, mom,” I tell her. “If you didn’t drag me into this somehow, you’d be saying that you didn’t involve me, not that you ‘never intended to.’ Can we skip the PR and just get this over with? I'd rather be doing just about anything right now, and I even have plans for some of it.”

  “I wish you would call me mother,” she says, seeming to ignore everything else altogether.

  “Say what you have to say,” I tell her.

  “Well dear,” she says, “over the last few years, we’ve been following what we thought was sound business advice, only to find out we’d been led into crime by the greed of others.”

  “I’m trying to count how many times you deferred the blame in that one sentence,” I tell her.

  Mom says, “We were approached by a man we thought was a friend, and we trusted him. We trusted that—”

  “I’m going to kick you out of my apartment and tell the news that you’re guilty of whatever you’re about to be accused of if you don’t spare me the prepared material and get to the point,” I tell her.

  She holds up her hand lazily, saying, “Oh, Ashley, you have so much fire in you. I don’t understand why you can’t make it work with a man.”

  “Get out,” I tell her, standing and pointing toward the door.

  “I’m telling you,” she says. “Calm yourself.” She takes a breath and starts again. “Your father and I are about to be accused of being involved in a real estate scandal,” she says.

  “Specifics, mom,” I say. “What did you do, how much time are you looking at, and am I involved somehow? The answers to those questions are the only thing I care to—”

  “I am your mother, and I will not be spoken to in this way!” mom says. Her protest probably wouldn’t seem so hollow if I haven’t had to say similar things so often in the past.

  Still, she continues.

  “We purchased a number of houses in decent areas throughout the state,” she says. “We didn’t know the realtors were accepting multiple offers and then absconding with their ill-gotten gains.”

  Of course they knew, but I’m not going to interrupt when she’s giving me the closest thing to the truth I’m ever going to get out of her on the subject.

  “What’s even more outrageous than that is that these horrible people are now saying that it was us who had instructed them to do these terrible, terrible things,” mom says. “When they gave us the money from the sale of the houses, we just assumed that everything was accurate, that the amount we were receiving was legitimate. How were we supposed to know this sort of thing was going on?”

  “First off, nobody’s ever going to buy that. It’s just about the stupidest explanation I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “How much money did you spend on the houses? All put together, what was the total?” I ask.

  “Six or seven million,” she answers. “Your father has the exact figures.”

  “And how much did you make from the sale of these homes?” I ask.

  “The money isn’t what’s important,” she protests. “What’s important is that your father and I are being slandered by people trying to get out of taking responsi
bility for their own actions.”

  “I’m sure they’ll say the same thing about the two of you and you’ll both be equally right,” I tell her. “How much did you make off of the sale of the houses?”

  “Again, your father would have the exact figure with him,” she stalls. I don’t respond. I just glare at her until she finally answers the question, “I believe it was somewhere between forty and fifty million.”

  I whistle when I hear the sum. “That sounds like a pretty glaring problem,” I tell her. “How are you going to convince people you didn’t know what they were doing? Even with your claims of innocence peppered throughout everything you just said, upon hearing it, I’m absolutely convinced that you not only knew what they were doing, but you put them up to it.”

  “You always think we’re capable of the most horrible things,” mom says. “Your father and I truly believed that the amounts we were receiving were reasonable profits.”

  “You’re still missing something,” I tell her. “You told me what you did and I can figure out what kind of time you’re going to get as a result of that. The internet’s great for that sort of thing. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. I know I’m involved somehow, otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me any of this.”

  “Dear, you know that your father and I have put a lot of our money into the charity,” mom says.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “Well,” she starts, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’ve been experiencing a bit of a financial crisis over the past few years—what, with so much of our money going into the charity.”

  “Oh, can we please stop referring to you and dad’s bank accounts in the Cayman Islands as ‘the charity’ and just tell me?” I ask.

  “In order to purchase the last house, we needed a little extra money—you know how your father deplores bringing too much money back without some sort of respectable reason,” mom says. “Respectable-looking” probably would have been more accurate. “So, keeping in mind that we never intended for any of this to happen, we may have used your name and information to apply for a few loans from our bank which could help us pay off the last couple of houses.”

  “How many houses were you trying to cover?” I ask. “You’re not agreeing with yourself. And what kind of loans can you apply for in someone else’s name?”

  “Well, that part was an oversight on the part of your father and I,” she says. “I wanted to come here and warn you personally that you may be audited when you get your taxes back. You would have been unaware of a few of the student loans that are in your name, and so wouldn’t have mentioned any of them on your taxes. They check that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Student loans?” I ask.

  “Yes, dear,” mom answers as if it’s a perfectly rational thing.

  “Student loans,” I repeat.

  Mom says, “Ashley, are you feeling quite—”

  “How about you don’t call me Ashley and I don’t call you mom?” I interrupt. “Ash and mother, can you live with that?”

  “Fine, dear,” she says. “I know you’re upset, but we only did this with your best interests in—”

  “How is implicating me in your crimes by forging my signature and getting student loans I never applied for, much less saw any of, in my best interest?” I interrupt again.

  She’s covering her mouth with her hand as if it’s my behavior that’s shocking. “We were going to surprise you by paying off your college with our profits off of the houses,” she tells me.

  “I can’t believe this,” I tell her. “I really can’t believe this. I mean, I know you and dad have done some idiotic things in the past, but—”

  “Now hold your tongue,” mom chastises. “I have told you before that I will not be spoken to in this manner, and I will have you know I am quite tempted to show myself out the door right this minute!”

  “You’re going to make a public statement,” I tell her. “You’re going to tell everyone I wasn’t involved.”

  “Of course, dear,” she says.

  Thank goodness for that, at least.

  “None of our family was involved in wrongdoing,” she says, looking past me with a glazed expression on her face. I think she actually believes her own lies.

  “Even if you get away with the rest of it,” I tell her, “you’re still going down for the student loans. The only way out of that is throwing me under the bus.”

  “There are other ways,” mom says. I get a chill that lasts until she follows the daunting statement with a more characteristic, almost naïve, though no less jarring one, “If you can produce the money that we took out in loans, less reasonable amounts to account for tuition, books, and housing, it won’t even be an issue at trial. As for the rest of it, John has assured us that all we’re looking at is the usual witch hunt—you know, for as much as the people of this country love the rich, they seem to enjoy our misery to a disproportionate degree.”

  “I don’t know where you think I’m going to come up with that kind of—how much exactly did you get in my student loans?” I ask.

  She looks down and away from me, almost shielding her eyes with her hand. “It was a substantial amount,” she answers.

  “How much?” I ask. “You’re trying to get me to cover for you with what I’m assuming would be some sort of a money laundering scheme—which, by the way, we are not doing—and I want to know how much you got using my name? In real student loans, I’ve gotten a grand total of about twenty thousand dollars so far. I actually had to write and sign a paper stating that I was completely financially independent and use that to appeal the initial decision to reject any financial aid due to all the cash the two of you have raked in over however long. How did you even get approved?”

  “Oh, it’s not difficult when you have the proper paperwork and know what a bank is looking for in an application,” she says. Ironically, it may be the most forthright thing I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth.

  “How much did you get?” I ask.

  “I don’t have the exact figure,” mom says, looking away again. “Your father would know. He always knows that sort of thing. I’ve never been good with numbers the way your father has. You know, your father is really very sick over how this is going to affect you.”

  “I know what you’re doing, mom,” I tell her. “Stop trying to pawn this all off on dad and just tell me.”

  She says the number and I ask her to leave.

  On her way out the door, mom says, “I know you’ll do the right thing, dear.”

  She’s asking me to take the fall for them; maybe not on everything, but on a lot of it. If I hadn’t immediately kicked her out of my apartment, I’m sure she would have gone on to tell me how she and dad were going to make sure that I was taken care of with a good lawyer.

  They’ve had close brushes with the law before, and this isn’t the first time one of them has come to me with a similar request. That kind of stuff is why I don’t talk to my parents if I can avoid it as it is.

  Now, one way or another, this is coming out and she’s put me in the position where any choice I make is going to be a bad one. Either I can snitch on my parents and definitely send two people to prison who would never make it past the first meal, or I do what my mom wants and probably end up in prison myself.

  It was an easy enough choice to make. She says she knows I’ll make the right decision, meaning her decision, but I’ve already made it. They did this to themselves and I’m not going to go down for it.

  How stupid do they think I am?

  I don’t even want to think about that number.

  Mason’s still in the bedroom. I haven’t heard him at all, but there hasn’t been a moment where I wasn’t very aware of the fact that he’s been right there in my room with the door closed this whole time.

  I open the door, saying, “I know you must have some questions, and I’m sure you heard at least some of the conversation—”


  “All of it,” he says. “I tried to stay as far away from the door as I could, but the two of you weren’t exactly quiet.”

  He’s just sitting there on my bed, calmly looking up at me.

  “Mason,” I start, but he interrupts.

  He says, “I think I’m ready to hear your explanation now.”

  Now I get to explain why I didn’t say anything after I got that phone call. Now I get to explain how I knew upon seeing my mom that this sort of thing was going to happen.

  Thanks, mom. Thanks, dad.

  Oh, and thanks for the nearly $1.5 million in student loans you took out through fraud and forgery. $1.5 million with my name and information all over the paperwork...

  Chapter Seventeen

  Quagmire and Clarity

  Mason

  I’m sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Sadler, Psy.D, going over what I want to talk about in my head as I’m waiting for the session to begin.

  I got here early. Despite my general lack of respect for the profession, in all the years I went to therapists as a kid, I don’t think I ever showed up late to a session. There’s always been that part of me that holds onto some tiny piece of hope that I might actually get some good advice.

  I’m not going to hold my breath, though.

  Ash explained what I didn’t already know from overhearing her and her mother that day. Being brothers with someone like Chris, I can’t judge Ash for her parents’ mistakes. What I’m not so happy with is that she never told me.

  With everything I’ve been through with Chris since Ash and I have been together, it doesn’t make sense that she would withhold that sort of thing. We might have even been able to bond over how screwed up our families are.

  Now, though, the last few times we’ve gotten together, neither one of us wants to say anything that might upset the other. I know the last time we had a problem like this, it was because of things I was doing. Maybe I’m just holding onto some sort of hope that eventually, things won’t be the way they’ve always been. I don’t know.