Billionaire Beast (Billionaires - Book #12)

by Claire Adams

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work. I love Leila, and I’m not about to get mad at her for following her dreams.”

  “Oh, God, will you stop romanticizing the fact that she got a fucking job and moved to New Jersey?” she asks. “It’s about the least romantic thing there is. It’s just a thing. No, I’m not telling you to be mad at her for ‘following her dreams,’ I’m telling you to get mad at her for not wanting you to be a part of them.”

  So far, I’ve been deftly avoiding Wrigley’s finer points, but that last part caught me off guard.

  “She’ll call,” I tell Wrigley.

  “She hasn’t yet,” she answers. “Why do you think that is?”

  “She probably wants to make this easier on both of us,” I tell her. “I mean, if we’re not going to be able to be together, isn’t it better to—”

  “Closure is better,” Wrigley interrupts. “That’s the one thing I will give you about the bullshit way you decided to stop giving mama the old in-out-in-out: at least you were up-front about it and were firm in your resolve. I’m not saying it’s been easy going back to less compatible man skanks, but at least you didn’t leave me hanging. I mean, that’s just fucked up.”

  “Stop it,” I tell her.

  “You’ve got to stop idealizing her as this perfect person who could never do wrong, who’s perfectly benevolent and holds the power to make your life better at a whim. That’s why people create gods.”

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

  She smiles.

  “Nothing,” she says. “I’m just trying to tell you that the longer you put her on that pedestal, the less of her is going to be part of it.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means that the longer you idealize her, the less real memories you’re going to have to hold onto because they’ll all be slowly replaced by the fantasy. Memories are good, whether they’re of happy times or bad times. They keep things in perspective. If things are shitty, you can pull on a good memory to remind you that things aren’t always going to be shitty. If things are good, you can pull on a bad memory to remind you to keep your focus and not get complaisant.”

  “Where do you get this shit?” I ask.

  “I’m a social worker,” she says. “There’s a bit of psychological training that goes into that, you know.”

  I stop to consider the fact that Wrigley has had substantial psychological training.

  “How can I be mad at her, though?” I ask. “I’m just hurt. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”

  “Why?” she asks. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around you enough to know that you’re pretty good at being stupid when you want to be, but that’s hardly a crime.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it,” she says. “What did you do that was so terrible to deserve being abandoned the way that Leila abandoned you?”

  “Will you stop saying shit like that?” I ask.

  “Why?” she smiles. “Is it making you angry?”

  “Yeah, it’s making me angry.”

  “Good,” Wrigley says.

  “How is that good?” I ask.

  “It’s good because you’re allowing yourself to feel something else. You’re becoming more in tune with the larger reserve of emotion that you’ve been pushing down so you could wallow in your depression. Movement is a good thing.”

  “It’s so weird to hear you talk like this,” I tell her.

  She laughs.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”

  “That’s much more familiar,” I chuckle.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.

  Yeah, I get the karmic bullshit in the situation.

  I’ve been looking off into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.

  “You know you want to,” she says.

  “Wrigley…”

  “Stop being such a baby,” she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“

  “I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  “Oh, you’ve had enough for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Then, come on,” she says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn a bra, I could have—”

  “Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll take the fucking shot.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t read too much into it.”

  I hesitate.

  “Seriously,” she says. “I won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”

  I laugh, but I’m thinking about what Leila would think of the scene.

  You know what? She kind of gave up the right to care when she just left without even saying goodbye.

  She hasn’t been answering my calls, and the only reason I know she’s all right is because she sent over her stupid fucking friend—who I hate, by the way—to tell me that she didn’t care enough to see me before she took off.

  My mouth is around the shot glass a moment later.

  “There you go,” Wrigley says, running her fingers through my hair like some weird oedipal hallucination. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

  I pull the now empty shot glass out of my mouth and set it on the table.

  “You know what?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “It does,” I tell her.

  She smiles.

  “I’m glad.”

  “And you know what else?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “You were right. What she did is bullshit, and I’m not going to sit here another week feeling sorry for myself about it.”

  “Good for you,” she says. “Does that mean we’re going to fuck?”

  And my momentum is stalled.

  “Too soon?” she asks with a chortle. “Got it.”

  “But you’re right,” I tell her. “What am I accomplishing by sitting here feeling shitty about everything? I’m just making it impossible to be happy. I mean, she’s doing what makes her happy, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Okay, now I’m back to unclear as to whether—”

  “Tonight, things are going to change. I’m going to stop trying to be that guy who sits at home, bummed because his girlfriend left him. I’m going to reintroduce myself to an old friend.”

  “Great, so we’re gonna—”

  “Myself!” I declare. “You know, I’m pretty fucking good company when I’m not acting like a bitch.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Wrigley says. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to stop pretending like I owe her something. We’re not together anymore.” I stand up. “Why am I wasting my fucking time when I could be out there, having fun, and I’ve really got to sit down.”

  I sit back down, and Wrigley gives me a polite round of applause.

  “That was great,” she says. “I’ve never actually been in the room when someone made an inspiring speech to themselves.”

  “Glad I could be of help,” I tell her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just stood up too quickly,” I tell her and then stand again (this time, much more slowly.) “Mark the day,” I start again. Couldn’t tell you why, but the overdramatization seems to be helping. “Tonight is the first night of the rest of my fucking life!”

  “Eh,” Wrigley says with a shrug. “A bit cliché there at the end, but I can get behind it.”

  “First thing’s first, though,” I say.

  “Yeah?” she asks. “What’s that?”

  “We’re going to need more alcohol.”

  * * *

  Wrigley and I make a quick trip to the liquor store, and we crack open the bottle o
nce we’re outside.

  I haven’t paper-bagged it for years, and damn it, tonight is my throwback to the dynamic son of a bitch I was before I met Leila. Tonight’s going to be a fucking good night.

  “What now?” Wrigley asks, wiping the vodka from the sides of her mouth.

  “Now,” I tell her, “we’re going to do something that’s not only stupid, but absolutely brilliant.”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I tell her. “I’ll come up with something.”

  She laughs and hands me the bottle. I take a swig and hand it back.

  “Are you open to suggestions?” she asks.

  “I’m open to pretty much anything right now,” I tell her, wondering whether I’m really ready to jump back in bed with her.

  “All right,” she says. “I’ve got an idea, but we’re going to have to take a little trip to get there.”

  “All right,” I tell her. “We’re young, we’re drunk, let’s fucking do it!”

  “Okay,” she says, “you’re going to need to work on your inside voice, though. Otherwise, we’re not going to be able to pull it off without getting arrested.”

  “Something that could get us arrested,” I say. “Now you’re talking.”

  She smiles and hails a cab in her usual style.

  While it may not be the most dignified technique, that shit works. We’re in a cab less than a minute later.

  “Where are we going?” I whisper.

  “Why are you whispering?” she whispers back.

  “You told me to work on my inside voice,” I tell her.

  She grins. “You can talk normally until we get there,” she says.

  “Okay. Where are we going?” I ask in my normal tone.

  She finishes taking a pull before answering, “We’re going swimming.”

  “Ooh,” I mock. “Now that’s living on the edge.”

  “It’s a little more than that,” she says. “You’ll see when we get there. First, though, we’re going to need to stop by my place to pick up my briefcase.”

  “Your briefcase?” I ask.

  “Just trust me,” she says.

  We pull up to her building and I wait in the car while she runs up. She’s back a few minutes later, briefcase in hand.

  “All right,” she tells the cabbie as she’s getting in, then she gives an address that I’m completely unfamiliar with.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I told you to trust me,” she says.

  We eventually pull up to a building downtown. It’s late, so the building is mostly dark, but there are security guards in the lobby.

  “Okay, so what are we doing here?” I ask. “I don’t think this is the pool.”

  “Oh,” she says, “they have one. Just let me do all the talking.”

  “All right,” I tell her.

  “And chew one of these,” she says, pulling a tin of mints from her pocket. “We’re not going to get very far if they know we’ve been drinking.”

  I take a mint and we walk through the front door.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Bliley,” the guards say in near-unison, standing.

  I’m not entirely sure I want to know how they know her this well.

  “Hey guys,” Wrigley says. “This is Tom Durant, he’s my new assistant, and I’m showing him what it’s like to work late. Is Phil in?”

  “He’s out for the night,” one of the guards answers.

  “That’s a shame,” she says. “Oh well, I guess it’s just the two of us, then. They haven’t locked up already, have they?”

  “Nope, the floor’s open.”

  “Great. You guys have a good night,” she says.

  “You too, Miss Bliley,” the guards say, and we walk to the elevators.

  Barely moving her mouth, Wrigley whispers, “Not a word until we’re on the elevator. Until we get where we’re going, you and I are simply professionals acting professionally, got it?”

  I nod.

  The elevator door opens and we get on. She presses the button for the 36th floor, and we stand quietly as we wait.

  The doors open again and we get out. I trail half a step behind her because I haven’t the slightest clue where the hell we’re going.

  We pass a man in a suit standing outside one of the bathrooms, and I try to figure out whether I’m walking “professionally” enough.

  In a voice so soft I can barely hear it, she says, “Some companies like to keep exercise rooms and that sort of thing in the building so their employees spend more time in the office. I don’t know if it actually works or not, but that really doesn’t matter.”

  “Do you work here?” I ask.

  “No.” What?

  “Then why do they know your name?” I ask.

  “You know, it’s kind of disconcerting that even after knowing each other a couple of months, you still don’t know my last name.”

  “You don’t know my last name, either.”

  “Dane Paulson,” she says. “It helps if you pay attention. Quiet. We’re almost there.”

  We pass another man, but he doesn’t give us a second look.

  We turn a corner and there’s a glass door at the end of the hall. The lights are on, and I can see a few ripples in the water.

  “I think someone’s in there,” I tell her.

  “I know someone is,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “Didn’t you say something about how we could get arrested?”

  “We’re good,” she says.

  “How do you know that?”

  We stop at the door and she looks up at me. “Because Phil’s gone home for the night.”

  She opens the door, and the sound of people laughing and splashing fills the hallway.

  “Come in,” she says. “I’d like to introduce you to some people.”

  This just got weird.

  I walk through the door, and while I’ve known Wrigley long enough to expect this sort of thing, I am wholly unprepared for what I see in front of me.

  “Welcome to skinny swimming night,” she says, and sets her briefcase on a table. She opens it up and pulls out the bottle. “Don’t worry,” she says, “there’s always plenty to go around.”

  “Hey there, Bliley!” a naked man in his 50s, but easily in better shape than me says. “We didn’t think you were coming.”

  “You know me,” she answers as we walk over to a table holding about 20 different bottles, “swimming naked with you degenerates reminds me not to take life too seriously.”

  I’m not quite sure what she means, but I’m far too absorbed with the whole scene to ask about it.

  “Don’t stare,” she says. “That’ll get you kicked out.”

  “What happens if someone walks in here?” I ask.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” she says, placing our bottle on the table and immediately picking up a different one. “That, and we’ve got a couple of guys on watch.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Yeah, the guys in the suits: they actually do work here. We struck a deal with them—well, one of us did. I think it was Robinson. She’s the one over there with the pixie cut—”

  “The guys in the suits,” I interrupt, trying to get her back on track.

  “Right,” she says. “They let us come here once a week, and in exchange, they get to join us in rotating shifts. The hard part was getting the security guards in the front to buy that we all work in the building and that it’s not weird they only see any of us once a week and always after midnight.”

  There are about 20 people in the pool. There are men and women, almost in equal distribution.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea, though,” she says. “It’s not a sex club or anything weird like that. It’s just a bunch of people who like swimming naked, but don’t want to swim in polluted shit. Take your clothes off.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said take your clothes off,
” she repeats. “You’re not getting in the pool dressed like that.”

  I take off my shirt, but before I can get to the pants, Wrigley stops me.

  “A few rules first,” she says. “First, don’t stare at people. When you’re talking, look them in the eyes like you would at any other time. Otherwise, it’s just disrespectful, and let’s be honest, pretty fucking creepy.”

  “Got it.”

  “Rule two,” she says. “Everyone showers before they get in the pool. It’s a hygiene thing. Yeah, it’s not really different than if you were wearing a bathing suit, but it’s just best to be clean. Oh, and with that, if you have to pee, get out of the pool and go to the restroom. It’s possible that no one would notice if they didn’t put a chemical in the pool that changes color in the presence of urea.”

  “That’s an urban legend,” I tell her. “There’s actually not a chemical that detects urine in swimming pools. That one’s been around since the 50s.”

  She just raises an eyebrow and glares at me.

  “Not that I’m going to pee in the pool, though,” I tell her.

  “Rule three,” she says, still giving me that look, “is that while you’re here, you don’t get completely wasted, and belligerence will not be tolerated.”

  “That’s simple enough.”

  “Finally,” she says, “keep your hands to yourself. Any kind of touch that you wouldn’t perform in a business meeting is off-limits. Handshakes are fine, so are high fives and the occasional pat on the shoulder, so long as there’s context and you don’t overdo it. Other than that, no touching anyone, got it?”

  “I got it,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” she says, “now you can drop your pants.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” she says.

  I scoff. “You know, for such a free-thinking group, you’ve got a lot of rules.”

  “They’re rules to ensure mutual respect between everyone,” she says. “Which leads me to this: the occasional erection is just going to happen. However, in the event of an erection, your hands are to stay at or above the surface of the water, you’re not to draw any attention to it, and you’re certainly not to stand closer than two feet away from anyone while you’re facing them with a boner. When possible, you are to stay in the water until the situation has resolved itself.”