The Billionaire's Past (His Submissive, Part Ten)

by Ava Claire

  The Billionaire’s Past (His Submissive, Part Ten)

  Ava Claire

  Copyright 2013 Ava Claire

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  The His Submissive Series

  The Billionaire’s Contract (Part One)

  The Billionaire’s Touch (Part Two)

  The Billionaire’s Passion (Part Three)

  The Billionaire’s Heart (Part Four)

  The Billionaire’s Girlfriend (Part Five)

  The Billionaire’s Secret (Part Six)

  The Billionaire’s Lust (Part Seven)

  The Billionaire’s Promise (Part Eight)

  The Billionaire’s Desire (Part Nine)

  The Billionaire’s Past (Part Ten) **coming June 21**

  The Billionaire’s Trust (Part Eleven) **coming July 26**

  The Billionaire’s Forever (Part Twelve) **coming August 23**

  E-book License Edition Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Section One

  We held our breath, side by side, our issues forgotten as we watched Jacob for some sort of clue that Mia was alright.

  Naturally, he gave nothing away.

  "I'm assuming if the girl was dead it would be all over the place," Natasha murmured with a shrug.

  For someone that walked around like they knew everything, Natasha clearly didn't know squat about being human.

  She mouthed a ‘what?’ to Missy and rolled her marble blue eyes at me as I let out a scoff of disgust and turned back to Jacob. I didn’t have the time or patience to get into it with her again. Not when it was getting harder and harder to breathe, waiting for information about Mia.

  Overdose.

  That word brought back a chilling memory. Freshman year--everyone buzzing with their first taste of adulthood. Life without parents. The dizzying power of responsibility. Staying up as late as you want. No one forcing homework and sports down your throat. No wonder so many people packed on the Freshman 15 or in my case, 30, when you could have pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  Still, I’d be lying if I said sometimes I didn’t wake up and forget. Ache for home. Expect to hear the low drone of Mom watching some terrible soap opera or the mechanical buzz of Dad at work in the shed. But my first college roommate was ten times worse. She'd cry herself to sleep, always on the phone with her parents, texting the boyfriend that she left back home.

  I tried to involve her in things, inviting her to the cafeteria, offering to walk with her to class, but she turned me down. I knew she had to be lonely. She was miserable when she couldn't reach them and only smiled when she spoke to them.

  And then something changed.

  She started opening up to me. Telling me about her past and what she wanted for her future. She even started coming down to the dining hall instead of eating in the room alone.

  All her progress halted when her boyfriend broke up with her. She stopped going to class altogether. She stopped using words, communicating through grunts and eye rolls. She didn’t even leave her bed, curled up in her comforter like the world outside was just too painful.

  It was horrible of me, but I kind of thought she was just being ridiculous. That she needed to grow up instead of dealing with a rough breakup in the worst possible way. I had no idea there was something much darker going on.

  About a week later, I came back from my morning classes and realized she hadn’t moved in hours. Usually she'd shift to a different side of the bed or her body would curl in a different version of the fetal position. When I saw that all of the pill bottles in the bathroom were empty, I freaked out.

  I could still remember dashing to my desk to call 911. The way the girls lined the halls, whispering as the medics wheeled my roommate out on a stretcher, trying to resuscitate her. Apparently if I hadn’t called when I did, she would have died.

  She moved back home and I never heard from her again.

  Did I miss something this time too? So caught up in being vindicated that Missy’s approach was too brutal that I missed how far gone Mia really was? Should I have gone after her instead of trying to figure out a way to convince Jacob that I deserved to be heard on her case? Because now there was only silence, a deafening, hollow quiet--and a worry that I could have done more.

  That I could have saved her.

  Jacob lowered his phone, his face unreadable as he ran a hand through his dark locks, waves swishing back in place. We were all antsy, waiting with bated breath. When his eyes settled on me, the knots that ground in my belly slackened.

  “She’s still alive,” I said softly, relief crashing into me.

  Missy moved forward, her dark ponytail slashing the air. She needed to hear it for herself. "Mia Kent's alive?"

  "Yes," Jacob confirmed with a crisp nod. "She's at Mercy General. They pumped her stomach and she's under suicide watch."

  "We have to--" I looked to my left and saw Missy and I had both taken a step forward. We both had spoken the same words and had the same urgency in our voices.

  I was pretty sure I'd lost a good chunk of respect for Missy after she tore down a girl that was a walking cry for help during and after the meeting, but the remorse that blanched her features pooled together the scraps that were left.

  I turned back to Jacob. "We should go talk to her. Let her know that she's not alone. And the press..." Locusts were more accurate. Snapshots of Mia's washed out, unconscious face were proof that the friend who called 911 made another call first.

  "Of course." Jacob moved to where I stood, forgetting that we weren't the only two people in the room. I relaxed in his arms, breathing in the warmth. The safety. I knew what he was gonna say before he even said it.

  "I've already arranged a car. If you want me to accompany you, I'm there."

  I pulled back a little, hands against his chest as I looked up into his eyes. I knew he had a million other things to do, that he was going above and beyond. He was willing to draw those flashing lights on us, to sit beside me in the waiting room until we were allowed to see her. All because he loved me.

  As much as I could use him by my side, I needed to do this. Missy and I had to make this right.

  I brought a hand up, fingertips brushing the striking line of his jaw. “That’s alright. We’ve got this.”

  I gave Missy a curt nod and we moved to the door. My eyebrow shot upward when I heard the tap of Natasha’s heels behind us. Five seconds ago she was talking so flippantly about the overdose, shrugging it off no less. Now she cared? Now she had a heart?

  My glare nailed her in place and her cheeks reddened before she threw a glare back at me. “Mr. Whitmore was sending me home early anyway.”

  “Then go home,” Jacob said sternly, his tone leaving no room for debate. “I’m sure they’re more than able to handle the situation without your assistance.”

  She pursed her lips defiantly, but eked out a, "Yes sir" and brushed past us, feathers visibly ruffled. I was expecting some nonverbal show of solidarity from Missy, but she seemed just as relieved to be free of her as I was.

  We moved to the elevator and I cleared my throat as I punched the button for the ground floor. I dropped my hands to my side, trying to prepare for whatever excuse she was bound to whip out to explain how she had nothing to do with any of this. How it wasn't her fault that Mia
clearly had issues. She was just doing her job, after all--and passing the buck so her hands were clean and washed of any guilt. But Missy didn't say a word.

  I looked over at her. Her expression was pure anguish and her skin was several shades paler than normal, eyes glittering with...tears?

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at that and whip back to the front. I punched the elevator button repeatedly, trying to make the thing move faster. Any other day it would be like one of those rides at the fair that plummets down and your heart lurches to your feet. When I was stuck in a confined space with some woman pulling out all her acting chops to play the victim, it chose to take its precious time.

  The doors finally slid open and I stepped out, drawing a breath as I blasted through the lobby. I didn’t have time to deal with Missy. If she was waiting for me to ask if she was okay when our client had just attempted suicide, she would be waiting a very long time.

  The car was waiting at the curb, the driver immediately moving to open the back door. Missy was hot on my heels, sliding into the seat beside me, snapping her seat belt, then facing the window. Like she couldn’t stand the sight of me.

  I crossed my arms, more offended than I liked. She was a piece of work. Maybe I should have let Jacob come because right about now he’d be giving me a look that said ‘leave it alone’. But it was just me and an anger that said she was throwing some sort of temper tantrum and wanted attention. She wanted attention? I’d give her attention.

  “You’re worried about Mia, huh?” I said, dripping with sarcasm.

  She sniffled and wiped away a crocodile tear. “Of course I am.”

  Of course she is? The car merged into traffic and I gripped the seat cushion, trying to mince my words, but they were ringing in my ears. She was worried about her? Maybe if she wasn’t so busy trying to show everyone how badass she was we could have seen that Mia needed someone to talk to, not someone to berate and belittle a girl that thought her life was worth next to nothing.

  “I find that really interesting, Missy.”

  She turned to face me, her eyes flashing brown, then nearly black with rage. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m over this belated show of concern,” I said, not backing down. “During the meeting I tried to help her. After the meeting I told you I thought she needed a gentler approach. And when I saw her in the bathroom I tried to talk to you again and--”

  “What do you want me to say, Leila?” she roared. “That I’m a horrible sister?”

  The car went silent, the driver’s eyes were forward even though I could tell from the rigid set of his back that he was wondering what he’d gotten himself into--and trying to get out of the thick of this drama ASAP. I was quiet because of her last sentence.

  Because she was a horrible sister?

  I inched back, not sure what button I pushed, but feeling nervous because once again I was in a confined space with someone I didn’t trust further than I could throw her.

  “Horrible sister?” I said finally, ending the silence. “What are you talking about, Missy?”

  “I misspoke,” she said dismissively, giving me a look so acidic it could eat through flesh.

  “Okay.”

  Satisfied that I was dropping it, she turned away. I did the same, wishing that it was that easy. That I could just flip a button and turn that annoying, empathetic part of me off. It was far too late for that anyway because I was already recalling the first real conversation we had.

  She talked about a younger sister who was a fan of Mia’s back in her Carolina, California heyday. That was the first time I saw her show any real emotion besides extreme dislike. The first time I thought maybe she wasn’t pure evil after all.

  I fiddled with a corkscrew curl, debating whether I ask the question. I was wasting time because I already knew I was gonna do it. I wasn’t a hard ass. I cared about people that didn’t deserve it. My mother said it made me good, honest, but right now I just wanted to shut it off and save my concern for Mia. When Missy sniffled and tried to cover it by clearing her throat, I gave in.

  “Did something happen with your sister?”

  She went rigid, her voice low and unsure. “Why do you care?”

  “Because if something is bothering you that impacts your ability to do what’s in our client’s best interest, we need to take care of it. Mia needs us, Missy. What happened with your sister?"

  Missy flipped her hair over her shoulder, clearly irritated. “I just misspoke, Leila. They really don’t have too much in common. Both are eighteen. Both are from privileged families.” She paused, her jaw twitching. “Both have been in rehab.”

  I opened my mouth and slowly closed it. I didn’t know what to say.

  Missy fiddled with the hem of her blazer. “I swear things weren’t so complicated when I was a teenager. There were still boys and hormones and alcohol and drugs. I made it out alright.” She flung a hand in my direction. “You made it out alright. Plenty of people go through it and manage just fine. And my sister was dealt a better hand than most. I just couldn't understand why she turned sixteen and all hell broke loose. So when my mother called me and said I was her big sister and Ana looked up to me, that’s exactly what I said to her. Get over it or she’d end up ruining her life or worse. Straight, no BS.” Her voice went ragged, the edges cutting at my attempt to not care, making it impossible.

  “Not even a day after our little conversation, my mother called me in a panic. Ana ran away.” A tear dashed free from her dark eyes but she swiped it away before it got too far, making me wonder if I’d imagined it. If I was imagining this entire conversation. But I could feel my nails digging into my palms.

  "She was gone for two whole weeks and my mother was inconsolable the entire time." Missy pinched the bridge of her nose. "And my father...he was barely around anyway so this gave him an excuse to sleep at the office and focus on work even though he had no idea if his sixteen year old daughter was dead or worse."

  I bit my lip, seeing the parallels between her story and Jacob's. Both came from well-off families. Why was it that the people with so much spared so little for their children?

  "And then they found her." Missy's voice pulled me back to the story. "Strung out, barely clothed in the seediest part of the city. Selling her..."

  There was no stopping the waterfall that streamed from her eyes now. She crumbled, leaning over as far as the seatbelt would allow. Sobbing.

  "I always had to be the strong one," she said in between gasps, "I had to be strong for Ana and my mother. It's what they always needed. How was I supposed to know how far gone she was? It wasn't my--" She stopped, eyes widening as she looked at me through the tears. Her body still shuddered, but she’d silenced the crying, like she realized that she was breaking down behind enemy territory.

  But I wouldn’t use this against her. That’s not who I am.

  I reached out and put a hand over hers. “I’m sorry that happened to your sister, but I’m sure she knows you love her. That you were just trying to do what was best for her.”

  “Rehab at sixteen. That’s what was best for her?" Missy said with a bitter laugh.

  “If it kept her from making a mistake at eighteen that couldn’t be fixed without permanent damage.”

  I couldn’t believe I was about to say this, but like it or not, Missy was being genuine. I didn’t think she could pull this off, turning her makeup to soup, losing it in front of me with some sort of ulterior motive. She’d made a mistake with her sister and obviously another with Mia. The fact that she was here was proof that she wasn't all bad. That there was hope for Missy Diaz yet.

  The driver pulled up to the entrance of the hospital and I turned to Missy, giving her hand a squeeze. “Ready?”

  She tilted her chin up, a look of determination on her face. “Let’s go.”

  Armed with larger than life bouquets, we avoided the flashing bulbs, heading toward the sliding doors. Some gangly, strung out looking guy was grinning big in front of the crowd, talking about
Mia. He was updating the press, letting them know that she was conscious but under close watch with no visitors except for family. I felt anger catch fire in my veins when I realized this was the ‘friend’ who found her. The ‘friend’ who had no problem selling her out if the price was right.

  “Another time, Leila," Missy said, picking up on my desire to pummel him. "Right now, let’s check on Mia.”

  For once, me and Missy agreed on something.

  As soon as we breezed to the waiting room area disinfectant and the odorless smell of sick washed over me.

  There was one nurse behind the desk and I could tell she was no joke. Built like a mountain, with eyes like jagged rocks and arms like boulders, she looked dead at us and smirked like we weren’t getting what we wanted before we even got it out.

  “Good afternoon,” Missy said warmly, disregarding the woman’s demeanor.

  The nurse grunted. I gave her an uneasy smile as my eyes dropped to her badge. Nurse Deadwood. Of course that was her name.

  “We’d like to visit a patient. Her name is Mia--”

  “You and every other Tom, Dick, and Harry with a camera,” Nurse Deadwood interrupted with a snort. “If you ain’t related to the girl, you can march right back on out of here and join your pals.”

  “How much?”

  Nurse Deadwood narrowed her beady eyes. “They’ve already been raining twenties around here like this is a strip club. You can leave or I can call security.”

  “How about a thousand dollars?” Missy countered smoothly.

  All those zeroes made my eyebrows jump but I yanked them back down before the nurse glanced at me, sure this was some sort of ruse.

  “That’s a lot of money for a photographer to be throwing around.”

  I almost corrected her, but I had a feeling that if she knew what company we worked for the price would double. Nurse Deadwood looked around and when she was satisfied no one was watching she gave Missy a nod. The envelope was pulled covertly from Missy's clutch and handed it over. It was way too bulky to hold a check.