Jokers: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 2)

by Meg Watson

  “It'll be okay. We will figure this out," she said, but I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  “I just can't believe it,” I muttered as I stared at the Access Denied message on the screen. “I don't even know how he had time to do all this. How can he lock me out of every single account?”

  “Well but that money was yours, right?" Melita asked frantically. “I mean, he can't just keep it from you, right? I mean, there must be something you can do!”

  “It's already done,” I said through a grimace. "What am I going to do? Go to every single credit card company and get a new card? Even if they gave it to me, if I’m not banned from the accounts completely, I'm still screwed for weeks or whatever until the cards come. God… they probably wouldn’t even send them to this address...”

  “But what about your checking account? Can't you just go to the bank and show them your ID or whatever make a withdrawal?”

  I dropped my forehead into my palm.

  “I'll bet he's already done that.”

  “Well, check… Check and see,” she implored me. “Can you log into the bank?”

  “That was the first thing I checked, Mel. He changed the password so I can’t log in to see if my money is even still there. Oh my god that was like… Fuck. Twenty grand or so in savings.”

  Her face went pale and sweaty.

  “Bree, no…. You gotta go to the bank like now! Let’s go!”

  “Melita, let's face it… He won.”

  “He didn't win anything,” she shot back.

  I turned in my chair to face her. Her hands covered her cheeks and framed the O of her mouth. She looked so lost, so devastated that I forgot for a second to feel bad for myself.

  “He just got there first,” I said in a calmer tone of voice. “I think… Well, maybe there's a way that I can get this back but it's going to take some time. There is no immediate solution that I can think of. I just… Oh my god I can't believe he would do this to me.”

  “Yeah, you would think that sleeping with another one of your friends was as low as he would be willing to go.”

  "Well, I guess I'm learning all kinds of new things about Carl, aren't I?”

  We stood there in silence for a couple of minutes as the realization of the situation settled into the room.

  I have no money. None at all. I have no access to the money that I earned. No way to pay the bills that are going to go to the house I don't live in anymore.

  Oh my God, I am so screwed.

  “Wow, I had no idea who I was sleeping with. I mean… I just had no idea.”

  The sheer size of the situation started to drown me. There was that well of anger again, the one that I had been avoiding. Now it looked like I was going to have to face it whether that meant drowning in it or not.

  No matter what, I wasn't going to just be able to walk off in a new direction like nothing had ever happened. It would have been nice to act like the last few years were just some kind of absurd commercial break that I was going to be able to fast-forward over. Now Carl was creating work for me. Now I had a list of chores to do that meant I was going to have to think about the relationship for a while longer. And it was going to massively suck.

  “Really makes you wonder about people,” she whispered. “Really makes you think.”

  “Well I sure didn't expect to be homeless and penniless in the space of 24 hours, I'll tell you that,” I said with a wry, humorless chuckle.

  “You're not, um… Well, I mean you're sort of… Yeah,” she slapped her hands against her thighs in a futile gesture. “I'm sorry, I got nothing. You really are screwed.”

  “Ugh, well…”

  Silence clapped around us again. My thoughts started to ping-pong around the room. I wanted to duck. I wanted to crawl under the bed and go to sleep there, curled against the back wall.

  “Wait!”

  Melita threw up her hands between us and then slapped them together with a resounding crack. “Wait just a second!”

  I quirked an eyebrow at her and prepared myself for an awkward peptalk.

  Okay. This could be entertaining.

  “Hold the phone!” she continued. "Remember before you got together with Carl, about three or four years ago, when you had that shopping thing?”

  “Shopping thing? I don’t… You mean my late-night eBay compulsion?"

  For about two years during grad school I had insomnia. Around three or four o'clock in the morning there are a lot of really interesting auctions from China ending at odd times with free shipping. It was the free shipping that always got me.

  She nodded avidly. “Remember the intervention?”

  "Yeah, I remember you made me give half of that crap to Goodwill,” I said sourly, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "And I really liked a lot of that stuff too.”

  “Whatever,” she snapped. "You were out of control. And it worked.”

  “Yeah, you saved my life,” I said in a bored tone of voice, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. I thought she was done gloating about this.

  “No, I mean, think… do you remember the other part?”

  “What other parts? Was there more? Because I really felt like that was pretty much all that needed to happen there.”

  “No, Bree,” she said in a serious tone, her voice rising with excitement. “Do you remember what's in the freezer?”

  I searched her face, squinting, getting kind of tired of everything being over my head. What was she talking about? What was in the —

  “Oh my god!”

  “I know!”

  Melita dashed out of the bedroom ahead of me and down the front stairs. I followed closely behind, listening to the sound of our stockinged feet pounding through the house to the kitchen. She flung open the freezer door and started pulling out armfuls of frozen vegetables, foil-wrapped casseroles in glass dishes, and carton after carton of half-eaten Ben & Jerry's.

  I dragged the small Formica table closer and grabbed the items from her as she pulled them out. Soon the table was piled high with a swiftly melting array of foods to get fat on.

  Finally she pulled out a carton of Haagen Dazs. Dulce de Leche flavor.

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked, yanking a spoon from the dish strainer next to the sink. “That's where it's been the whole time?”

  “The whole time,” she confirmed as she peeled the top off and pointed the contents at me. Inside the carton was a block of ice. And inside the block of ice was a single, old, completely paid-off credit card. I wasn't ever supposed to touch it again. It was for emergencies only.

  Welcome to my emergency.

  ***

  For the second time that morning, I just sat and stared at the computer screen. I turned the spoon over on my tongue and licked the Chunky Monkey from the divot.

  “So, that’s gotta make you feel, uh, good,” Melita observed through a mouthful of Boom Chocolatta.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, squinting.

  After Melita had liberated me of my Chinese authentic knock-off reproduction jewelry pieces and handbags, she’d frozen the card in a secret location and demanded that I set up automatic monthly payments to reduce the balance. It had been paid off ages ago, but it was still open. And apparently, they were so impressed with my financial responsibility they upped my limit. A few times.

  I stared at the screen, fearing that it was going to suddenly change. Maybe I had given this login to Carl and he just hadn’t sabotaged it yet?

  But no, it wasn’t going anywhere. Finally a pop-up screen asked me if I wanted to log out or continue. I clicked Continue so I could keep looking at it.

  Credit line: $12,000.

  “You could, like, probably rent an apartment with that.”

  “Could I? Wow… I could, uh… God I don’t know. It’s only supposed to be for emergencies.”

  “Well, let’s just wait and see if something comes up,” she drawled.

  “Yeah. Okay. So I have my clothes, a credit line, a phone… Wait, no. Text me, would you?�
��

  Melita blinked with the spoon still in her mouth.

  “Whut?” she gurgled.

  I yanked my phone out of my bag. The screen sprang to life when I thumbed it but there was no new activity. I tried to open a browser: no connection. Melita punched at her phone with her thumb, chuckling.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  She snickered and then tucked the phone back into her bra.

  “I just sent you a picture of Jay’s dick.”

  “You took pictures?”

  She shrugged. “It was so pretty! Ahhhhh. Penis, penis, penis. I like you so much!” she sighed happily.

  I stared at my phone. Nothing happened. Swiped up the messaging app.

  Crickets.

  “Wow,” she whispered, awestruck. “What a complete asshat.”

  “He turned off my phone.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Seriously… He’s like… the gift that just will not stop fucking giving, isn’t he!”

  Melita leaned away cautiously. She looked me up and down as if assessing my danger level.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I mean,” I continued, starting to chuckle, “I would never have guessed he could be so organized!”

  “Bree…”

  “Why couldn’t he ever get his underwear off the bathroom floor, is the real question. If he was organized enough to have an emergency list of accounts and access codes at the ready for the day I discovered his affair with Whitney Fucking Avery, how could he not get his fucking underwear off the fucking floor?”

  “Come on, Bree, let’s try to calm down…”

  But I couldn’t. The giggles were coming, and coming hard. I had a whole bunch of one liners ready to fire off, but they were all choked out by the sudden, convulsing giggles that gripped my chest. I laughed until I was breathless, and then until I was gasping, and then until I was sobbing and falling forward into Melita’s open arms.

  “Aw, there. There’s a girl. Shhhh,” she cooed into my hair as I ugly-cried all over her lap. It came out in gushes and embarrassing noises, so sticky and wet that as I emptied all that onto her, the volume was replaced by a deep gratitude for the sort of friend who would let me turn her lap into a biohazard zone.

  “What’s that?” I mumbled finally, when I was sodden and wrung out like an old rag, drawing my hand sloppily under my nose.

  “It’s the doorbell. It’s nothing.”

  “No, I’m okay,” I assured her, hiccupping the last few gasps.

  “Yeahhhhhh. No,” she eyed me suspiciously.

  “You can get the door,” I told her. “I’m okay now. I have to pee anyway.”

  “Just do your thing.”

  “I did my thing,” I sighed, suddenly limp and thickened and more than slightly grossed out by myself. “I’m all out of doing it. And now I have to blow my nose.”

  She nodded and got up, walking out of the suddenly stifling bedroom. How long had I been sobbing into her lap? It felt like ages. I felt lighter.

  The bathroom light snapped on and I stared hard at myself in horror. My cheeks were so blotchy they were one big blotch. My mascara went in concentric blue-ish rings all the way to my cheekbones. I tried hard not to hate what I saw because I knew Carl had done it to me and I didn’t want to give him credit for a damn thing.

  After a good scrub with four or five aloe and linen-scented makeup removing pads, I peed, wiped (gently!), and returned to the bedroom.

  “Who was at the door… Uh, what is that?”

  Melita stood in front of the bed and the enormous, matte black box that sat on top of it. Her hands were hung on her hips as she stared at it, chewing the inside of her cheek suspiciously. It smelled like money, and lots of it.

  “That was Mama ringing the bell. Apparently the groceries in my kitchen are below her standards and so she brought new ones. This was left on the porch. She thought we should call the bomb squad.”

  “Oh really? Does that mean she’s coming over again?” I asked vaguely as I approached the box. Was it humming? Or was that me?

  “Yeah yeah… she’s coming over after Tomas is off school. Jay’s taking me to a baseball game or truck racing thing or… I don’t know who cares OPEN IT!”

  “You open it.”

  “It’s not for me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Seriously, Bree. Truck racing.”

  I breathed deeply. I could definitely smell it and I knew it smelled like wealth, but I couldn’t tell you how I know. Is that scent embedded deep in our brains somewhere? Had I been waiting for it all this time?

  “OK, we will both open it,” I bargained.

  She nodded once, extending an amethyst-lacquered nail toward the corner nearest her. We each pulled upward, dragging off the box’s cover and releasing an unfurling garland of tissue paper and a hand-penned invitation resting upon some fabric that gleamed sensuously from within its nest.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” Melita breathed.

  “Yeah…. Well,” I swallowed hard over my dry tongue, “I guess I have a proposal to write.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The dress was blood red, skin tight, and utterly bad ass. The limousine arrived outside Melita’s bungalow at seven o’clock and I climbed into it feeling positively feline.

  I couldn't stop touching it. I loved the way that the thick satin embraced my belly and hips. Like the midnight blue dress that Melita loaned me, this dress had a similar cup-shaped neckline that supported me amply, but the back plunged so low that I had been forced to go braless. My breasts jiggled and bounced sensually within the supportive confines of the satin, and I grew excited at the thought of just what Lyle and Owen were going to do with that.

  I brushed my finger pads lightly against the raised rhinestone crust of my small handbag. Now that I had almost nothing to my name, getting everything into a tiny, fashionable purse was refreshingly easy. Inside the bag was a neatly folded presentation, just notes printed on white paper. I relished rehearsing the way I would describe it all.

  At first I had fretted over it, glaring at Melita's computer screen like it had betrayed me. But once I told myself to just shoot for the stars - why not, what did I have to lose anyway - the words simply seemed to flow out of me like I had had them the entire time. I couldn't wait to explain my vision to them.

  The limousine pulled to the curb in front of the Nantucket theater, an elegant vintage building with all the glamour of the Old Chicago Theater District. I could feel the eyes of passersby and theater patrons swinging toward me like spotlights as I exited the limo and stood for a moment on the sidewalk to collect myself. As I stroked my hands over the curves of my dress I felt it settle around me like a second skin. I could have lived forever in that dress.

  A stranger in a tuxedo approached me, holding out his hand for mine. He cast his eyes away deferentially.

  “The Misters Jack will be slightly delayed,” he murmured politely. “They have requested that I escort you to their private box.”

  I nodded silently, praying that my mute demeanor could be interpreted as confidence and an appropriate level of entitlement.

  The valet led me through the lobby and then through a small, ornate doorway and up a flight of stairs carpeted with handsome patterned rugs.

  He bowed politely in front of a narrow door and opened it for me. I nodded to him as though I had any idea if nodding was the appropriate response — was I supposed to tip him or something? — and entered the small booth, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain with one hand.

  The private booth was dark and cozy, with three plush, wooden chairs with scrolled backs arranged in front of the ledge. Aside from the small lights at ankle height it was a completely dark, private space. I stood at the hip-high railing and stared out into the theater to watch patrons gradually filling the seats on the main floor below me. The sound of their murmurs filled the air like moths fluttering upward toward the hand-painted night sky on the domed ceiling.

  The crowd
subdued itself to whispers as the orchestra began the musical opening. I stood for a few moments more and then settled into the middle seat of the box. Though I wondered where the Jacks were, the thrill of waiting for them was delightful.

  The music swelled, filling the space with the sumptuous sound of a full orchestra. I let the reverberations of the kettle drums and low horns ripple through my chest cavity, noting with a smirk how my bosom seemed to sympathetically vibrate.

  As the main curtain on stage rolled swiftly up, I felt a change in air pressure in the booth. Though I ached to turn around, I sat completely still for a moment and then leaned slowly forward, resting my forearms on the curved wooden railing. The sultry air of the booth swirled over my bare back and my skin prickled with anticipation, knowing that the dress plunged so low that I probably was exposing more than a flirty furrow at the base of my spine.

  Peering toward the stage, I tried to focus on the beginning of activity down there. A woman in Victorian dress sashayed furtively toward the front of the stage, apparently looking for something. I breathed deeply, willing my heartbeat to settle, wondering what was going to happen next.

  As she began the first trilling notes of her song, I felt a light touch along the back of my neck. It trailed down between my shoulder blades and was quickly joined by another. The sensations of the combined touches were difficult to separate from one another and as they drew slow, symmetrical shapes down my exposed back, I felt like I could see them in my mind’s eye. Chevrons, a twisting mandala, and ziggurats of light traced paths through my mind followed swiftly by racing waves of goosebumps.

  The singer swayed from one side of the stage to the other, gesturing toward the meaning of her words and opening her arms broadly to fling her emotions across the crowd. I could barely process what he was doing as the thrill of being touched by a number of un-seeable hands multiplied. I arched my back and rolled my neck, pressing my skin into the sensation and offering myself for their touch.

  The first fingers that slipped inside the borders of my dress surprised me, but they shouldn't have. I could already feel the intention and determination of those gestures. Somehow it was completely relaxing. The familiar surge of luxurious confidence swelled within me. I felt like a goddess, like a luminous silver screen star. I had earned this extravagantly sensual treatment. I met it with a regal sense of entitlement and unabashed desire.