RYKER (Rogue Billionaires, Book Two)

by Olivia Chase

  “Andrea,” Dad starts, but I hold up a hand.

  “It’s too late. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I’m so hurt and tired and I don’t want to deal with this anymore. So thanks for showing me who my real family is and who cares about me.” Every fucking person other than Daria has basically shit on me. My heart is broken, but screw it. I’m gonna go back to New York City and everyone who abandoned me or tried to break me can kiss my ass. “Merry Christmas.”

  I run up the stairs and begin packing my belongings into my suitcase.

  And I feel a weight off my chest with every piece of clothing I stuff into my bag. I stood up for myself. After letting them talk down to me for years, to belittle me, I put an end to that treatment.

  I’m not perfect, but dammit, I know I don’t need to have that kind of toxic crap in my life anymore.

  I grab my phone and call Daria.

  She picks up on the second ring. “Hey! Everything okay? You get swept away by a Connecticut snowstorm?”

  “I’m coming back,” I declare. “If I still can.”

  She squeals so loud that I pull the phone away from my ear, but I’m smiling. I’m smiling big. “Duh! Your room is still here, goofball. And I knew you would! Oh my God, and just in time for Christmas. We’re going to have so much fun. We’ll decorate the apartment—I haven’t done it yet—and we’ll listen to the old lady next door play her CD on repeat.” Daria continues talking in a gush as I continue to pack my bags.

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I ignore it.

  “I’m gonna buy tickets online tonight and head back tomorrow morning,” I tell her.

  “Becca has a car. We can come get you from the station if you want.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to,” I say, “but I appreciate the thought.”

  “Andrea.” Her voice is so gentle and chiding. “You’re my best friend. Let me help you, please? That’s what we’re here for. To support each other.”

  God, I’m such a mess. I start crying on the phone and clenching it tightly. “Love you, sis,” I tell her through snotty tears.

  And now she’s crying too. “Love you too. Are you okay though? What happened to make you change your mind?”

  Another knock on my door. “Andrea?” It’s my dad. He tries to open the door but I locked it. The knob rattles. “Come out. We need to talk.”

  “I’ll call you back later,” I whisper to her. “Let me get things finished up here first.”

  “Okay, no prob.” We blow kisses in the phone and hang up.

  I scrub a hand over my face to wipe away the tears and open the door a fraction. “I’m not going to discuss this and I have nothing else to say.”

  My dad is standing there in the doorway, looking mad and helpless at the same time. “I deserve an explanation for that ridiculous outburst, young lady.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t deserve anything from me. I’m leaving tomorrow morning. And the only reason I’m waiting is so I can tell Mom goodbye tonight when she’s home from work.” My words are frosty. “Now leave me alone please. I have to finish packing.”

  He just stares at me in shock. I know he doesn’t know what to think. I’ve never stood up for myself before, and certainly not like this. He must see something on my face that shows I’m not messing around, because he gives a brief nod and leaves, walking quietly down the staircase.

  I feel emboldened. I feel like taking action. And there’s something even bigger I need to do before I lose my nerve.

  I pull up my email and find a female reporter who messaged me a couple of days ago. She works for a sports radio station in NYC. Her email to me said that she feels I’ve been treated unfairly and she wants to give me the space to explain myself to the public. She left her number in case I ever decided I wanted to talk. That as a woman in the sports industry, she imagines I must be struggling right now.

  I don’t know why I kept her message—I’d deleted pretty much all of the other requests for interviews. Maybe because of her empathy.

  I dial her number, and she picks up quickly. “Hi, is this Nancy Spiro?”

  “It is,” a warm, polite voice says on the other line. “How can I help you?”

  My heart is racing, and my hands shake. “This is Andrea Bradshaw, who formerly worked at The Baldwin Corporation. I got your email, and I want to talk.”

  Ryker

  It’s noon on Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting in my home with my car keys in my hand, dreading going to my grandparents’ house. Christmas is always the hardest season of the year for me anyway—it was my mom’s favorite holiday. Every year I just hang in there and wait for it to pass. But this year is even more painful.

  I’ve lost everything. Everyone.

  Grandma, of course, doesn’t care about my internal misery and wouldn’t take any excuses for me not to come over today. She gives solid guilt trips. I couldn’t find a way to back out of it without causing more issues. I think I’ve already caused enough.

  The days since I quit The Baldwin Corporation have passed in a daze. I spend most of my time doing whatever I can to numb myself. Alcohol, sleep, even some gambling in Atlantic City.

  But in the end, blowing a few thousand dollars and waking up with a headache that could kill an elephant wasn’t doing anything for me.

  Clearly those coping strategies aren’t working.

  I don my winter coat and head down the elevator, to the garage. Thankfully the press can’t get in here, since the place has closed access only for residents and approved guests. So I’m able to slip into my ride and head out.

  The drive is calming, just the feel of the road beneath me. The city shrinks in my rearview mirror until it’s gone, and it’s just me. I have to pull out of this. I can’t keep on this self-destructive path. But how the fuck can I ever turn things around? I lost my company. I lost my reputation. I lost everything that made me who I was. All because I became weak for a woman.

  Not just any woman, my heart whispers.

  I grudgingly cede the point, but it doesn’t matter. I gave her up, and it’s for the best. We were never gonna work anyway. She needed someone who hadn’t blown up their entire life.

  And I was never gonna be right for her. Good for her.

  The thought sours my mood, and I crank on the radio for distraction. It’s on a sports radio station, which I’ve been avoiding for obvious reasons. I move to turn it off then decide to leave it on. Because some part of me wants to hear what is happening. If people have stopped giving a shit about me and have moved on.

  There’s the usual speculation about player health, upcoming drafts, promising college students. Then it cuts over to a talk show hostess, who is discussing prominent female athletes. I find myself paying attention out of habit. Running through scenarios in my mind about the people being featured.

  I’m drifting off in my own world when the station turns to taking callers. More back-and-forth banter. God, I find myself missing that thrill of excitement when I heard about someone new with potential.

  “—Andrea Bradshaw,” I hear a female caller saying, and suddenly my attention is snagged to the radio. My stomach wrenches. “I loved her interview and was wondering if you were planning on having her back on the show?”

  The deejay says, “Yes, Andrea is going to be joining us tomorrow morning with her analysis of the Christmas Day football game. We’re also going to have her on for upcoming draft discussions. And our next caller, please?”

  My heart is thudding so hard I can almost hear it. Andrea is working on radio now? I’m filled with a strange sort of joy to get news on her, even as there’s a stab in my gut when I realize she’s moved on without me. Is she still at the company?

  I don’t have a right to know. But I want to.

  Hearing about her has brought her right to the forefront of my mind. The rest of the drive I spend distracted, drowning in memories. Haunted by her scent, her touch, her taste. Her flashing eyes and bold smile.

  The rip in my he
art grows wider, and there’s no way for me to heal it. I abused her trust, twice. She’s better off with me leaving her alone. Even though the realization that I’ll never see her again brings a special sort of pain.

  Fuck. I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m a miserable, sad sack. I can’t bring this shit with me to my grandparents’ house. They didn’t do anything to deserve that. I need to let it go.

  I get to their driveway, pull in. Kill the engine. Grab their presents and the wine I brought for dinner and knock on the door.

  “You know you can just come in, right?” Grandma says when she opens the door. Her gray eyebrow is raised. “We go through this all the time.”

  “It’s your house,” I tell her as I brush a kiss on her cheek and enter.

  “Yeah. Okay.” A flash of emotion crosses her eyes, and she looks away. Walks into the back room. I put the presents under the brightly lit and decorated Christmas tree in front of the picture window.

  Grandpa comes down the stairs and hugs me. “Hey, good to see you.” He pats me on the back then looks around. “Where’s your grandma?”

  “She went in the back,” I said. “Seemed off. She okay?” I carry the wine bottles into the kitchen.

  Grandpa sighs, and in this moment I realize how much older he seems. He’s not looking right either. Like there’s a deep sadness in his eyes. Did something happen? Or has it been there for a while and I just haven’t seen it? “She’s…we’re having a rough one. Up in the attic earlier while looking for a certain cookbook her mother gave her, she found an old clipping of your mom’s…” He drawls off. “A clipping about her murder.”

  “Oh.” I lean back against the counter. Peer toward the direction of the dining room, where my mom’s face shines at me from a picture on the wall. “Why would she keep that?”

  “I think she was still holding out hope then that they’d find the killer.” Grandpa rubbed the top of his balding pate. “Then she couldn’t deal with it anymore and hid all those things away. She was obsessed when you were little, trying to solve it. Relentlessly on the police to do more.”

  “I had no idea.” I didn’t remember her doing any of that. Then again, I stayed locked in my new room for ages when I first moved in. I didn’t interact with anyone.

  “Not to mention she’s been worried about you.” Grandpa frowns. “You’re just like your mom, you know. She was stubborn and dealt with problems alone. Never turned to us the way we wanted her to. Like when she got pregnant with you…” He grabs a bottle opener and pops the wine cork out, then pours us each a glass. “We begged her to move in home and let us help. She refused. It hurt your grandma to never feel like she was wanted.” He gives me a pointed look. “She felt the same about you too.”

  My face burns, and I turn my gaze to my wine glass. Force myself to take a sip, though my mouth is dry and it doesn’t taste good to me right now. “All I ever did was let you guys down. Time and time again.”

  Grandpa reaches over and grabs my upper arm. His eyes are serious. “Enough of that talk. It’s just not true. You acted out, and we didn’t know how to handle you. But we still love and support you. We just wish we could help you and feel more like a part of your life. It might make the pain of missing your mom a little easier, if we could do something for her son.”

  I just stare at him, letting the words roll around in my head. I never thought about those things from their perspective. Just dwelled on my own misery. My own pain. To feel powerless, helpless…I can see how me turning them away and avoiding them caused them to feel unwanted.

  Shame washes over me, hot and hard, and my skin burns all over. Fuck. “I really messed up with you guys, didn’t I.” My words come out little more than a whisper.

  “No, you didn’t. You’re here.” He lets my arm go. “Today matters. Even if we can’t fix yesterday. You’re here right now.”

  He’s right.

  There are things in my life I can’t fix. Losing my company. Ruining my reputation. But for far too long, those are the only things I focused on. The only things that mattered to me. Meanwhile, my grandparents just wanted to be a part of my life, and I kept them at arm’s length. Same as I did to Andrea.

  I put my wine glass down on the counter. “Grandpa, I fucked up with a woman I fell in love with, and I think I need help. I don’t know how to win her back.” I haven’t asked him for advice since I lived here. I haven’t tried to be close to them at all. But somehow, I feel like I’m being given a second chance with them. They should see that I need them around. Because they’re my family, and they love me, and we can find a way to make a relationship work.

  He tilts his head and nods. “Better get your grandma in here for this. She’s better at advice than I am. And let’s pour her a glass of wine. She says it helps her think.”

  When I wake up on Christmas morning, stretching across my king-size bed to shut off the alarm, I find a text from my grandma on my phone.

  You can do this. Let us know what happens. Love you.

  My heart gives a funny skip. I never had that kind of relationship with them, where we engaged in talk that way. But talking to them yesterday afternoon forged a new, unexpected connection.

  Turns out, Grandpa was right. Grandma is incredibly insightful about relationships and gave me a lot of perspective about women that I never considered before. I was blunt and honest, told them everything that happened. To their credit, they didn’t shame me for my behavior.

  Instead, they reminded me that today, that every day, I could wake up and be the person I wanted to be. That I don’t have to be shackled to the past. I can let the old Ryker Baldwin go and become a new man. It was the most we’d talked ever.

  I admit, I drove away from there feeling a bit skeptical about their thoughts on reinventing myself. How could I do that when the public believes the worst about me now? Who’s going to take a chance on someone like me—especially Andrea?

  I told them my tentative plan to see her today. Grandma approved, but recommended I try not to force her. Honesty and vulnerability, she said, are key. And apologizing my ass off. Quote unquote. I admit, I snorted hard—I’ve never heard her say a swear word before.

  Even Grandpa laughed, though he teased her about cussing the day before the Lord’s birthday. I pointed out that the word “ass” is in the Bible, and he mock scolded me, but Grandma gave me a wink for coming to her defense.

  I text her back and thanked her, then went about getting ready. My whole body is tense, on edge. Anticipation. I’m afraid—legit afraid. That I’ll bare my heart to her and she’ll reject me. Even as I tell myself I don’t have a right to be afraid of that, I remember Grandma telling me that feelings aren’t right or wrong. They just are.

  I still have so much to learn about emotion.

  When it’s finally time to leave, I’m too nervous to drive, so I have the limo driver take me to the radio station where Andrea is going to be featured as a guest in the studio. I’m not sure I’ve ever sweated this much in my entire life. Even when I was playing the seventh game of the World Series. Somehow, those stakes didn’t feel as high as they do right now.

  “I’ve got this,” I chant to myself.

  My plan is pretty sparse, admittedly. To get her out of the deejay booth and convince her to talk to me. Apologize and plead for another chance. The fact that I’m publicly disgraced right now will actually work to my advantage—I don’t think the radio personas will hesitate to let me in once I promise them an exclusive interview.

  I found Andrea’s interview on YouTube last night, the one hinted at on the radio yesterday. I listened to it twice. Relished the sweet sound of her voice, the strength emanating from her as she explained what happened.

  That she had feelings for me, even as she fought against the feeling, and how I defended her when another man tried to dishonor her. That she was passionate about her work and she hopes someday to get back into a sports agency. But for now, she’s going to spend her time focusing on get
ting herself in a better place. Finding a solid job. And exploring her proud new home, New York City.

  She had feelings for me, I know. Does she still?

  My mouth is dry as fuck, and my tongue is a clay slab as I exit the limo and enter the radio station. I walk up to the receptionist, a pretty blonde in her twenties.

  Game time.

  “Hi,” I say in my most charming voice. I lean forward and rest my forearm on the countertop. I spin my yarn for her, telling her who I am and what I hope to achieve.

  By the time I’m done, she’s clutching her chest and gazing at me. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and she whips out a tissue and dabs the corners. “And on Christmas, nonetheless. But I’m not really supposed to let people back here who aren’t expected.”

  “I hope she agrees,” I say wryly. I straighten. “Can you go get Nancy Spiro out here so I can talk to her? If you’ll do that, I’ll be eternally grateful. I’ll plead my case to her.”

  She sighs. “She’s on the air…” Her lips thin. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll send her a note and tell her you’re out here. I can’t make any guarantees though.”

  I smile. “That’s all I ask.” Then I step back and sit on a reception room chair.

  Minutes tick by. My anxiety grows second by second. Maybe no one gives a shit about me and my story anymore. Maybe Andrea heard I was here and said she doesn’t want to see me. Maybe—

  The side door opens. “Mr. Baldwin,” a woman says, coming out with a smile. She extends her hand. “I’m Nancy. Sorry, we had to finish the halftime segment.” She takes a seat beside me. “I understand you’re willing to grant me a personal interview if I bring you back to talk to Andrea?”