Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance)

by S. Ann Cole

  Noah doffs his robe and moves in, predatory, buck nekkid.

  “In the mood for a quickie?” he mumbles, kissing on my neck as he unties my robe and pushes it off my shoulders, the fluffy garment pooling at my ankles.

  “We can’t,” I reject in a tone that begs to differ. “Gloriel…we don’t ha—hmmmohgod…”

  My refusal dissolves in a breathy moan as his fingers find my clit in the same time his mouth latches onto my nipple. I’m reduced to nothing but a melting pool of desire, defenseless. My hands grip to his shoulders for balance as my head falls back, prayers of pleasure drifting to the heavens.

  Dropping to his knees, Noah hooks my left leg over his shoulder, my fingers automatically digging through his hair. Growling into my heat, he sucks me to celestial heights, another life-space, heat racing up my spine…

  We don’t have a quickie. As Noah does not know the definition of “quickie.” What we have is a halfie, which, for regular people, is a full round.

  Our session ends abruptly, while I’m bent over a chair, Noah pounding into me like mad: Gloriel calls up to the room, demanding to know what’s taking us so long.

  There’s a long pause on the phone, and, as if she guessed what we were doing, I swear she snarls into the phone.

  A Gloriel who’s been driven to the point of snarling is not to be trifled with, Noah tells me, so in less than five minutes, we’re dressed and out of the suite.

  On our way to the private dining room at Parallel 7, Qwesie materializes from out of thin air and intercepts with a confused expression. “Mate, where are you off to? The meeting is that way. The Lounge?”

  Noah is blank. “What meeting?”

  “Expansion meeting with Trevillo Nelson,” Qwesie replies, slowly, as if he’s talking to a kid.

  “Shit,” Noah curses, “I forgot.”

  “You forgot?” Qwesie appears shocked by this. “Mate, you never forget anything. Ever. Your memory is so annoyingly sharp it sucks the fun out of everything.”

  “Obviously, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Noah grits out, gesturing to me.

  Qwesie studies me, hand to his chin. “Yeah, I can see how this fire-tongue chit could be a lot on your mouth—er, I mean, mind. But hey, if she’s too much to handle, I’d be happy to lend a hand with…”

  He trails off when he notices Noah’s glare. “Watch it,” he admonishes.

  Qwesie’s palms raise in surrender, though his grin contradicts the gesture. “Well, excuse me for trying to be a helpful chap.”

  Noah’s gaze slides down to me, his fingers touching the side of my neck. “Remember your birthday gift?”

  “The concert?”

  He nods. “Tickets were completely sold out, and in order to get us our own section, I had to agree to meeting with Trevillo Nelson.”

  “The billionaire nympho?”

  His gaze narrows at me. “What do you know about Trev?”

  “Except that he’s drop dead, torture-your-libido, melt-your-panties-right-off-you hot?” I shrug. “Eh. Nothing.”

  Now he’s flat-out glowering at me, green as a dollar bill, and I have to restrain from bursting out laughing. “That settles it,” he decrees, “You won’t be meeting him, or any of his brothers, until my baby’s in your belly.”

  “Awwww,” comes Qwesie’s voice. “He’s so green you could spend him.”

  Ignoring him, Noah tells me, “Anyway, I can’t flake on this meeting, so I’ll have to bow out of dinner.

  “No problem.” But then I flash him an impish smile. “As long as you promise to take a selfie with him and forward it to me before you start talking business.”

  This request leaves Noah appalled. “Lotty, I’m not taking a selfie. What am I, nineteen?”

  “If I don’t get a selfie in ten minutes, I’m going to barge in there and tell everyone I walked in on you taking a hand-job from Q.”

  “Oooh, yes,” Qwesie bounces with a grin, rubbing his hands together. “This sounds fun.”

  “He wasn’t giving me a hand-job,” he snaps. “He’s just a kid in a man’s body.”

  “Not from my vantage point,” I argue. “And doesn’t that make you, like, a pedophile? You know, liking little boys in grown men’s body?”

  “I was so giving him a hand-job,” Qwesie supports. “He told me to talk like a six-year-old and call him ‘Poppa.’”

  I giggle, and Noah’s fingers rise to his temples, massaging. He then jabs a firm finger at me. “I am not taking a selfie.” Before stalking off in the direction of The Lounge.

  Fighting back a laugh, I call after him, “Gay pedophile it is, then!”

  Qwesie, before turning to follow Noah, winks at me.

  Grinning, winning, I continue on to Parallel 7.

  I walk into the private dining room and my heart explodes at the sight of Graham. The last time I saw him was at Mom’s funeral. He emailed me on numerous occasions since, but I replied only once in a while to assure him I’m alright. Never told him about Noah, about Andrew, about anything, except that I’m still breathing.

  I’m hoping Gloriel hasn’t spilled to them about Andrew, because I don’t intend on having that conversation with them, at least not until the court meetings starts.

  Graham Cooley—six feet two, perfectly gelled blonde hair, identical blue eyes, and a million-dollar smile that melts hearts—pushes up from chair, rounds the long dining table, meets me in three long strides and picks me up in a massive bear hug. “Lotty,” he sighs in my hair, emotion thick in his voice. “It’s really you. You are alive and well. I hate you so much for hiding from me. I hate you so much.”

  “I love you, too, Gray Ham.” I giggle as he spins me.

  Putting me down, cupping my face in his hands, he scans me from head-to-toe as if checking to ascertain I’m in good health, and then he presses a hard kiss to my forehead and hugs me some more. Tight. “Mom’s worrying you didn’t want to come down to see us. But I told her if I had to wait five hours to see you, I would.” He pulls back, stares down at me. “It’s really cruel what you did, you know. Shutting me out.”

  Embarrassed, I avert my eyes. “Graham, you don’t understand…I was going through a lot, my life was a mess—still is, actually—and I just didn’t want you worrying about me so much. But I think about you every day, I swear it.”

  Giving me another once over, he tsks, seeming impressed. “Well, you’re starting to look like your old self again. You’ve gained weight, you’re hair isn’t greasy, and you look, well, happy.” He pauses. “Comparing to the last time I saw you, I mean.”

  I eye Gloriel who’s seated at the table across from Sarah. She’s looking somewhat emotional. “That’s because Mrs. Van Der Wells over there doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. She’s been playing fairy godmother. So, thank her.” I take care not to mention Noah, and the look Gloriel gives me tells me she appreciates that. She’s not on board with others knowing our relationship as yet, and, for once, we’re on the same page.

  Leaving Graham’s embrace, I walk down the length of the table to Sarah. She stands as I approach. Sarah’s never been anything but kind to me, but the expression she’s wearing right now reads reflective and uncertain. Like she doesn’t know what to make of everything, what to say.

  Mom’s death. Dad’s death. My wandering. My constant refusal to her offers of help. My hiding, distancing… Her standoffish reticence is understandable. But it’s not what I want from her, from a woman whose smile and touch are nothing but warm and inspiring. Always.

  Sarah Jensen-Wilbur stands around six feet in heels, with bobbed brown hair and a svelte frame. Not a curvaceous vixen like Mom was, or even nearly as gorgeous. Her beauty is muted, subtle. Her style is modest, demure. Her voice quiet, unobtrusive. The total opposite of Mom.

  Her eyes follow me, gauging. To ease her dubitable emotions, I circle my arms around her, enveloping her into a hug. At this, I feel her slender frame relax in my embrace, arms hugging me back.

  “Thank you for being
good to me, Sarah,” I whisper in her ear. “Inside and out. Thank you for never shunning me on account my mother. I’m sorry…I’m sorry we broke up your family.”

  “Hey, hey,” she draws back and cups my face, tender brown eyes settling on mine. “You didn’t do anything. Besides, I couldn’t hate you even if I wanted to. You wouldn’t let me.” She laughs. Then sobers. “Forgive my honesty, sweetie, I know she’s your mother, but she wasn’t a good person. Yet you’ve grown to be nothing at all like her. That’s why we adore you, your brother and I. Keep on being the loving, honest person you are, Charlotte. It’s the only way to be.”

  I don’t choke up. I’m too grown for that. Nope, fighting back tears isn’t the reason I’m blinking so rapidly, it’s…an eyelash. Yeah, that’s it: an eyelash is stuck in my eye.

  My phone buzzes in my purse, perfect timing to save me from this emotional moment. Saved by the buzz.

  A message from Noah. As I open it, a grin splits my face.

  Noah: You’re lucky I love you…

  Attached, is a selfie of him and Trevillo Nelson. Trevillo is biting his lips, looking like the billions of dollars that he is worth, but Noah just looks annoyed. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I wholeheartedly believe that, because Trevillo is drop-dead hot, but seeing them side-by-side, my man is way hotter—even visibly miserable and annoyed. Dammit, but I want to go find him and grind on that beautiful face until I shatter to smithereens.

  Instead, I quickly type back: Told you I’d make you pay for smacking my ass earlier…

  His immediate reply is a red-faced smiley.

  Someone clears their throat, which has me sweeping my head up, only to find six curious eyeballs on me.

  Keeping my grin intact, not in the least ashamed of being crazy in love, I slip my phone back inside my purse and ask, “So, what’s for dinner?”

  Dinner is great. We talk, we laugh, we catch up. But by the start of dessert, the serious “you tell her—No you tell her—No YOU tell her” glances being exchanged between the three make me realize this is not just a “Lotty is in town, lets catch up over dinner” kind of dinner. Something is afoot.

  “Alright, guys, spit it out,” I finally snap, setting my fork down and pushing my soufflé aside. “Seriously. Whatever it is. Let me hear it.”

  Graham raises a brow at his mother, and she sighs, setting her fork down, too.

  Leaning back in my chair, I wait for it.

  “Sixteen years ago,” Sarah begins, “your father came to visit me. He was burdened, overwhelmed, paranoid. In one breath, he confessed all he was involved in, dumping it all at my feet. He was in deep with some big, prestigious names and couldn’t back out as much he wanted to. He got in bed with these people and there was no getting out. He said he knew that one day it would all come crashing down, and he wanted, when that day came, to go down knowing his kids would be alright.”

  Oh God. My eyes flick to Gloriel, and her words from weeks ago float through my memory: There are things you don’t know, things you can’t know…yet.

  My gut dips, because I know. I know what this dinner is about.

  “Well,” Sarah continues, “you know I was born into money, with a trust fund more than your father’s net-worth at the time. He knew if he got caught, that you and Graham would lose your trust funds, and they would find any living or close relatives he had and scour their accounts for evidence that they’re banking cash for him.

  “I, however, am wealthier than him, had money before him. It would take a lot to prove every billion isn’t mine. So…you get what he wanted me to do.” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, but then just as quickly removes them, folding them in her lap, straightening her posture. Inbred decorum and propriety shining through. “I told him I wanted nothing to do with his dirty money, of course. But he knew me. He knew I loved him more than life and I’d never tell a soul what he told me, let alone allow his kids to suffer for his mistakes. As a result, every year, on June third, my birthday, he deposited four million dollars into my bank account. One million as my birthday present, and the rest split between you and your brother.

  “Graham was allowed access to his fund at eighteen. But you, because he didn’t trust your mother, he instructed me not to allow you access to your fund until you turn twenty-one.”

  I’m quiet for a mighty long time as I process all she tells me, not quite sure how to react. What to think. Should I be glad about this? Or should I feel sad that I’ll have to turn it down?

  “Okay.” I drag this word out. “So, basically what you’re saying is, I have twenty-four million embezzled dollars waiting for me to turn twenty-one and claim it?”

  More annoying exchange of glances.

  Sarah speaks again, “Like I said, the main reason he wanted to wait was because of your mother…”

  “But now that my evil, wicked, mark-of-the-beast, anti-Christ, maleficent mother is dead and rotting—thank hell for that, sings the universe—I can claim my embezzled twenty-four mil?”

  Expelling a defeated sigh, Sarah leans back in her chair and mutters to Gloriel, “I told you. I told you she wouldn’t want it.”

  “You know, Gloriel,” I grit out, my chair screeching as I push back and stand. “You really ought to listen sometimes.”

  Undeterred, she shoots back, “It’s true, you’re nothing like your mother. But you are everything like your father. Proud, stubborn, and unwilling to accept help from anyone. Always wanting to prove to people how much of a man he was, how strong he was.” She makes a pitiful expression. “Look where that got him.”

  “Gloriel, it’s dirty money,” I remind her. “Would you advise your son to take dirty money?”

  She stares at me straight. “If his father was murdered and there were zero attempts at justice for his life? Yes, I would advise him to take it. Because he would deserve every penny.”

  My eyes cut to Graham. “Did you take yours?”

  He reply is swift. “Dad died for that, sis. His life is overpayment for penance. Hell yeah, I took what he left me. You call it dirty money, I call it justice money.”

  “Your father loved you, Charlotte,” Sarah says. “By the time he wanted to do right, it was too late. He was caged in, blackmailed, and manipulated. There was no way out. All he could do was take precautions for when his great fall came, do right by you and your brother.”

  Gripping the back of the chair, I feast on my lip as I mull over what the hell these people are advising me to do. They don’t need to assure me Dad loved me. I know that. I was his little girl. He loved me with all his heart. He told me so. The revelation that he’d been funding a back-up plan for Graham and me for sixteen years is enough to make me want to mourn him all over again.

  On the one hand, I want to sing and jump for joy and do the Gangnam Style, because this is a huge net. This means I’m caught, saved, and pulled from the mossy mire, by none other than the man who tossed me in it to begin with. This means I don’t have to worry about college and law school tuitions. This means…a lot.

  On the other hand, I have to think about everything said money caused: Mom’s death, Dad’s death, my abuse, a year of anxiety and fear and ever-flowing tears. Do I want it? Do I want to think about Dad and his demise every time I spend a dime?

  “I don’t know,” I mumble to no one in particular. “I just…I need to think about it.”

  “That’s absolutely fine,” Sarah quickly responds, relief cuddled with hope gripping the edges of her voice. “Think about it. If you decide not to take it, it will go to your brother.”

  “And I’ll just find a way to give it right back to her,” Graham fires, shooting his mother a displeased look.

  Gloriel’s lips are pursed, her head shaking at me.

  Head spinning, I thank them for dinner and all but run back to my suite.

  Tossing my purse aside, I strip down to my underwear, grab a Snickers bar from the fridge, and plod off to the bedroom, crawling under the covers.


  Thoughts of Mom, Dad, and my dirty millions dance around in my head as I chew off the entire Snickers bar. Crashing into a dead-end with my thoughts, I get my cell and text Noah.

  Me: Back at the suite. In a funk. Need ur tongue.

  Noah: Is that all I’m worth to you? Giving you good head?

  Me: Excellent.

  Noah: ???

  Me: U give *excellent* head.

  Noah: What’s got you in a funk?

  Me: Will tell u after u get ur ass back here & make me come.

  Noah: And now I’m hard.

  Me: Just the way I like it ;)

  Noah: Will wrap this up and be at your service in a few.

  Me: K.

  Noah: I love you.

  Closing out of his messages, I text my BFF.

  Me: Whatchya doing?

  Kiera: On lockdown with Muscles…

  Kiera: He’s tryna force me 2 do the whole ‘relationship’ talk.

  Me: How’s that working out?

  Kiera: Bad. In a good way.

  Kiera: We’re warring via sex.

  Me: HOW? Aren’t u on ur P?

  Kiera: Lady P doesn’t bother him. Told me 2 stick a tampon up there, & then anal, clit-play, & blow-jobs.

  Me: 1 word, 5 letters: GROSS.

  Kiera: Some really *gross* orgasms we’re having.

  Me: LMAO.

  Me: Have something huge 2 tell u…but u r on lockdown so 2moro.

  Kiera: What is it? Noah asked u 2 marry him & u said yes?!

  Me: LOL. Noooo. But he did tell me…those words.

  Kiera: Those words?! 0_0

  Me: Yep.

  Kiera: No. Way. How dumb is he? Falling in love with a nut like u?