Billionaire Beast (Billionaires - Book #12)

by Claire Adams

  “I wanted you to try out,” he said after a minute.

  “But—I thought you just said you didn’t—”

  “No, I did, actually. I wanted you to try out, and I wanted to be the one to make the team, and you didn’t. Or we both made the team but I was a starter, and you weren’t. I just wanted to be better than you. I wanted you to know that there were some things that I could do better than you could, that you didn’t always get to the one who came out on top. And same with Daisy. I knew that you’d think she was hot, but I thought we really had this connection. And I thought it would just really tick you off if I got the girl and you didn’t.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “So you’re basically telling me your entire existence is to get back at me? I mean, it sounds like you really hate my fucking guts, Jonathan. How have you been able to stand the fact that we see each other all the time? That we work together?”

  “It hasn’t always been easy,” he said. “And I don’t hate you, Ian. I don’t want you to think that. But no one has ever made me feel more . . . shitty and inferior about my life than you have, and you don’t even realize it. I guess I just wanted one thing to work out for me, and not for you. But that doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen after all.”

  “Do you want to hit me?”

  “Of course I want to fucking hit you.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  He gave me a suspicious look. “I thought you said you didn’t want to fight.”

  “I don’t. But if you want to hit me, if you think that might make you feel better, then go ahead.” I’d always considered Jonathan a friend. No, we didn’t see eye to eye on everything, and we had different interests, but we’d known each other for so long, and we’d been through a lot. It hurt to think that the whole thing had been a façade, that he’d just been biding his time, wanting to get back at me for something I didn’t even realize that I was doing.

  “You’re saying I can hit you.”

  “Yeah. Wherever you want. Well, maybe not the balls. Go on. Punch me in the face if you want. I’m ready.”

  He didn’t say anything right away, and I thought he wasn’t going to do it. At least I had offered.

  But then he spun around and caught me right on the cheekbone with a thunderous right hook. Any harder and my cheekbone probably would have cracked; as it was my head snapped to the side and I felt something in my neck pop, though that sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The whole left side of my face though, felt like it was on fire. A giant pulsing white hot fire. My initial instinct had been to fight back, but I clenched my jaw and stood there, not doing anything. My eye started to water. Jonathan flexed and released his fist.

  “Jesus,” I said, half-expecting him to jump on me and start hitting me again, but he didn’t. “That’s some fucking arm you got there.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been working out, remember? That’s where I met Daisy.”

  Touche.

  “Thanks, though,” he said. “That did make me feel a little bit better.”

  “Well,” I said, bringing my hand up to the side of my face and gingerly touching my cheek. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system . . .”

  “I’ve been giving it some thought, though, and I think it’s time for me to move on.”

  “Move on? From the company?”

  “From the company, from the city, from this state. Maybe even the entire country. I don’t know. I want a change. Not just a change of job, but a complete change of environment. I think it would probably do me some good.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding, though I wasn’t quite sure what to think about the whole thing. My cheek was still throbbing. “It sounds like you’ve thought it through, so I’m certainly not going to try to change your mind. And hey—maybe it would be good.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it will.”

  That night, Daisy came over and we ordered take out because neither of us felt like cooking. I told her about my conversation earlier with Jonathan.

  “So just like that, he’s leaving?” she asked.

  “Just like that.” I pulled one of the cartons out of the paper bag and opened it. “I think this one’s the kung pao chicken.”

  She peered into the container. “Yeah, it is. Wow. That surprises me. About Jonathan.”

  “I know. I was surprised too.”

  She looked at me, a piece of chicken held in between the two chopsticks. “Was this before or after he hit you?”

  “After. Pretty much immediately after. I let him hit me though. Just so we’re clear.”

  “Yeah, I’m still not quite sure I follow the logic in that one.”

  “It was sort of . . . cathartic for him, I think. It’s not like we got into some sort of crazy brawl or anything. Which is what I think he wanted to do at first. So we talked about the whole leak thing, and then he hit me, and then he seemed to feel better and told me that he was going to be leaving. He didn’t say where he was going, though.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s for the better. I know I’m going to have to eventually talk with Martin, and have to listen to him tell me I told you so, in regards to whose side the leak came from.”

  “It might be better that he leaves,” Daisy said. “You wouldn’t be able to completely trust him again, would you?”

  I shrugged as I opened up another container, this one containing egg rolls. “You know what’s weird is that I feel like I still could. Even after all that stuff he said, I still feel like if he wanted to stay, that we’d just move past this. But if he wants to go, I’m not going to stop him. It does kind of feel like it’s the end of an era, though.”

  She set her container down and looked at me. “This can be the start of a new one, then,” she said. “For us, anyway. And I really believe now, more than ever, that as long as we stay true to our feelings, then that is what’s most important. Because if I had done that to begin with, we could have probably avoided a lot of the stuff that we’ve been through so far.”

  I thought back to the day she first showed up in my office for that job interview. If you had told me then that I’d be sitting here now, feeling how I did toward her, I never would have believed it, but there you have it. Things sometimes worked out in ways that you couldn’t even fathom.

  “We have been through a lot,” I said, “but honestly, Daisy, there’s no one else I’d rather go through it with.”

  She smiled. “I feel the same way.”

  Epilogue

  Daisy

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, taking a deep breath.

  Ian squeezed my shoulders. “Of course you can,” he said. “You’re going to be great.”

  I took another deep breath and tried to ignore the knots in my stomach. Everything seemed so surreal. I was about to walk out on stage, in front of a (large) group of people, and give a talk, as part of the TEDxBoston conference. My book, You’ve Got This: Overcoming the Quarter-Life Crisis, about my quarter-life crisis, had come out a few months ago and gotten some really good reviews in some very important places, and suddenly, it seemed, everyone thought that I had something important to say. And it had all started with that article I’d written at my mother’s encouragement, which, once posted on the blog, had been liked, retweeted, and favorited tens of thousands of times. Subsequent essays I’d written had later been compiled, and I’d written a few more to round out what had turned into a best-selling book you could now find in the personal development section.

  Ian kept his hands on my shoulders, massaging them lightly. “I am so proud of you,” he said.

  I took another deep breath and felt my anxiety quell a bit at the sound of his voice. “Thanks.”

  People that I didn’t even know were hailing me as an expert on my generation, despite the fact that I felt like I still knew nothing. I mean, all I had done really, was written a book—and a rather short one at that—about my experience. I spoke about it candidly, and didn’t sugar-coat anything, and ultimately, I guess I found my happ
y ending, because Ian and I were still together, because I’d put my college degree to use, because I finally felt a measure of contentedness with my life that I hadn’t before.

  So that made people believe I somehow had answers that could help them, too. The idea that I was helping people made me feel good, even though it seemed crazy that I would be someone people would turn to for advice like this.

  Even my mother had been begrudgingly happy for me, despite the fact that the deal for her own book had fallen through and she was currently looking for a publisher.

  “And after your book signing, I’m going to take you out to celebrate, and then we’ll go pick up Aaron.”

  I smiled, thinking about Aaron, who was almost two now. We picked him up Saturday afternoon, and he stayed with us until Monday morning. He was definitely not the handful that everyone told me he was going to be once he was a toddler. He was actually really fun to be around, and I enjoyed the time he was with us. Even though Ian and I weren’t married, I’d settled into the role of step-mother much more easily than I thought I would have. Eventually, I knew, Ian and I would tie the knot, but for now, living together and learning how to be parents to Aaron was good enough for the both of us. And maybe, some day, Ian and I would have a kid of our own, but there was still plenty of time for that.

  Right now, I had a talk to give.

  Ian leaned down and gave me a kiss. “You’re going to be great,” he said. “I love you.”

  I kissed him back. “I love you, too.” Then I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage.

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  ROOMIES

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams

  Chapter One

  Room Available

  Leila

  “Thanks, I still have a few people to interview, but I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

  Yeah, right. Even after the guy’s out the door, I’m still choking on his cologne.

  I’ve been in Manhattan for less than a month, and my internship isn’t cutting it. You’d think that, even as an intern, working for one of the major stockbrokers in the world would be enough to cover a simple, two-bedroom apartment. You’d think wrong.

  The big boss at my company makes something like 2,500 times my salary. Now, I don’t really expect to bring in the millions as an intern, but I should, at least, be able to hold onto an apartment.

  You know, I’m really starting to think that my landlord only rented me the place for the eye candy. The way he stares at my chest when he talks to me should have tipped me off, but I was just happy to talk to someone who heard my salary and didn’t laugh in my face.

  Right now, I’m going around opening all the windows, hoping to air the place out before my next appointment arrives.

  I’m waiting a while.

  My final appointment of the day, a Dane Paulson, is already five minutes late.

  Maybe he passed the other guy in the hall and had to be wheeled out of the building. I can’t begin to explain how, but opening the windows has only made the lingering stench worse.

  I’m in the bathroom, putting drops in to lessen the stinging in my eyes when there’s a knock on the door.

  “Just a minute!” I shout.

  The last thing I need is for a prospective renter to think I’m some crazy, emotional woman, crying about nothing. Either that would scare him away or make me appear that special kind of vulnerable that the worst kinds of people prey upon.

  Neither one is an acceptable option.

  I’m at the door one minute and three tissues later.

  “Hi,” I say, opening the door. “Here to see the apartment?”

  The man on the other side is tall, tattooed, and handsome. His black hair is cut short enough to nicely merge into his scruff. He’s leaning against the door jamb like an antihero from a noir film. He’s got that self-important look with his chocolate brown eyes staring at me that makes it appear like he lives here already and is wondering why it took me so long to answer the door and let him in.

  I hate him already.

  “Yeah,” he says, acting as if he’s chewing something, which, as far as I can tell, he’s not. “Are you Lily?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I’m Leila.”

  He leans back and looks at my door as if there’s some kind of useful information posted on it, then he looks back at me.

  “I thought the ad said your name was Lily.”

  “Well,” I tell him, “it’s not. Would you like to come in?”

  He doesn’t answer, but just kind of struts in, his thumbs in his pockets. “Nice place,” he says.

  “Yep,” I tell him.

  “That’s quite the smell,” he says. “Let me guess: modeling party?”

  If it’s a line, it’s about the worst one I’ve ever heard.

  “No,” I tell him. “The guy ahead of you seemed to think it necessary to actually bathe in his—what are you doing?”

  He’s by the countertop, leafing through the newspaper I haven’t read myself.

  “I was out late last night. I was hoping to get a peek at the sports section.”

  Yeah, I already hate this guy. Sadly, though, I’m desperate.

  I have some money from my modest inheritance, but it wouldn’t last long in a place like this. And this is one of the more reasonably priced apartments in the city.

  What I really want is to get a full-time position at the brokerage firm so I can save up for a nice house; you know, somewhere far away from tattooed guy and the one who swims in cologne. I’d try for a place like that now, but I’d much rather get settled into my job before I blow all my money.

  “Take it,” I tell him, acting like he’s not being incredibly nosy.

  He doesn’t bother looking up from the paper. “That’s all right,” he says. “My team lost.”

  For the next few seconds, we just stand there: him, still going through the newspaper, me, pretending I don’t want to chuck something at his head for the impropriety.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, finally looking up from the sports section. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dane, Dane Paulson.”

  “Leila Tyler,” I say, and hold my hand out to shake his.

  He looks at my hand, then turns his head toward the apartment. “So, what is this place: 700, 800 square feet?”

  “750. Your room would be over here,” I say and start walking, but he doesn’t move.

  “Nah, that’s all right,” he tells me. “I like it. I’ll take it.”

  “It’s not that simple. I’ve had a number of interviews and some pretty solid prospects. I’ll need to know what kind of income you bring in, I’ll need to check your references. We haven’t even had our interview—”

  “I just moved here, actually. I follow the music.”

  A musician: fantastic. Not only would I have to deal with him, I’d have to deal with whatever instrument he can’t really play and all the nonsense catchphrases that go with it.

  “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I think I have enough—”

  “Guitar, mostly,” he says. He stops looking around the apartment like he’s planning a break-in and looks at me for a moment. “Sorry, most people ask what I play when I tell them I’m a musician.”

  “Sorry for my lack of etiquette. It’s been very nice meeting you, but—”

  “120,000,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Dollars,” he answers. “I make a little over $120,000 a year.”

  “That’s wonderful. Now, if I can just show you the beautiful c
raftsmanship in the hallway—”

  “I could move in tonight. I mean, I don’t know what your schedule is like, but fuck it. Why wait?”

  “Listen, Mr.—”

  “Paulson,” he says.

  “Mr. Paulson,” I rejoin. “I think it would be best if you just left. I’ve decided not to rent the room.”

  “Look,” he says, “I know $120,000 isn’t that much in New York City, but it’s more than enough to cover my half of the rent. That is the deal, right? We each pay half, have separate bedrooms, but the rest of the place is shared?”

  “That would be the deal,” I tell him, “but you’re not listening.”

  “What do you pay here? It’s got to be, what, $3,000 a month?”

  “It’s something like that. But I just don’t think it’s the right fit.”

  “All right,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you change your mind, I’m still new enough to the city and would never know if you were fucking me.”

  My mouth drops open a little. “Excuse me?”

  “Fucking me,” he says. “You know, cheating me on my share of the rent.”

  Right now, it’s down to him, cologne guy, and the woman who walked in alone and accused me of wanting to sleep with her boyfriend. Lovely.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.

  “Sounds good,” he says, as if certain the room is his.

  “Okay,” I tell him, no longer caring whether he wants to see the open room or not, “I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds great,” he says, and smiles. He turns and heads for the door. “Oh, by the way…”

  “Yeah?” I ask, frustration thick in my voice.