The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5)

by Bec Linder

  I laughed, stupidly, and Beth turned her disapproving gaze on me. “Be serious,” she said. “Come on. This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It isn’t funny at all. In fact, it’s deadly serious. You’re taking that bed.”

  Her mouth hung open, a shocked circle. “What—”

  “You heard me,” I said. “Sorry. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. Actually, I guess I am. You’re going to the shelter tonight.”

  She looked back and forth between Renzo and me. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Better believe it, sweetcheeks,” Renzo said, and I had to cover my mouth with my sleeping bag to muffle my laughter.

  Beth’s mouth twitched with a reluctant smile. “Okay. Fine. You jerks win. But don’t get used to it!”

  I exhaled silently. Good. Beth would be safe, and it would be easier for me to slip off into the night with her at the shelter.

  God. That was really my plan, then. To vanish without a word.

  Okay. I could do this.

  I stole the notebook the next morning. Beth was still at the shelter, and Renzo was still asleep. I went out into the cold and walked for half an hour to get out of range of our usual haunts. Animals don’t shit where they eat, and I didn’t like stealing from anywhere too close to the places we went on a regular basis. It was bad manners, and also not very smart. So I walked until I found a drugstore I was pretty sure I hadn’t been in before, and then I went inside and slipped a notebook inside my backpack while nobody was looking.

  The woman at the register eyed me suspiciously on my way out. I had the demeanor and self-assurance of a rich kid, but I looked a little grubby and unkempt. Storekeepers rarely knew what to make of me. But she didn’t say anything or try to stop me. Nobody ever did. I looked like I had a rich father who would kick up a fuss if someone tried to arrest me.

  I did have a rich father, but he didn’t know where I was, and he would probably let me sit in jail for a few days anyway, to teach me a lesson.

  I went into a nearby coffee shop and bought a coffee with the spare change rattling around at the bottom of my backpack. It was mid-morning by then, and the shop was largely deserted. I sat at a table in the back and took out my stolen notebook and a ballpoint pen I had found on the subway. And then I tried to figure out what I was going to write.

  It took me hours. I wrote a draft, hated it, made some revisions, copied out a clean version, hated that one, too. There was just no good way to say, I’ve been lying to you for months and I’m not who you think I am.

  I had decided by then that I was going to tell Beth my real name, give her my home address, and ask her to come find me. At the very least, I could give her and Renzo my allowance money.

  If she ever came. If she ever forgave me.

  Dear Beth, I wrote, and followed that with everything that was in my heart.

  The sun was low in the sky by the time I left the coffee shop and walked back to the squat. The letter was folded up and tucked in my backpack. I would give it to Renzo that night, and be home with my sister by morning. I had it all worked out. I felt like the lowest scum of the earth.

  Beth and Renzo were at the squat when I got back, sitting with the lower halves of their bodies inside their sleeping bags, and playing a card game. They both looked up when I came into the room.

  “You’ve been gone for hours!” Beth exclaimed. “Were you panhandling?”

  I shook my head. “Just walking around. What are you playing? Can you deal me in?”

  She and Renzo exchanged a look, and I thought for a moment that they would start nagging me about walking around outside when I was “sick.” But Renzo shrugged and said, “Sure. Have a seat.”

  I squirmed into the sleeping bag with Beth, and we played cards with her leaning against me, a warm weight against my side. I knew it might be the last time, and I savored every moment, the smell of her hair, the way she laughed. My heart was cracking open inside my chest.

  It grew dark. Renzo turned on a flashlight and set it against a gallon jug of water we kept around to serve as our impromptu lantern. We finished our card game, and Beth yawned and stretched, and said, “I should get going. Curfew’s soon.”

  She gathered her things and bent to give me a kiss, brief, casual. I longed to hold her against me, but she was suspicious enough already. I had to let her go.

  “See you kids tomorrow,” she said, and she was gone.

  Renzo rubbed his eyes. “Time for bed, I guess. Shit, I feel like we don’t do anything but sleep, and somehow I’m still tired all the time.”

  “Winter,” I said. “It’s the cold.”

  “Maybe so,” he said.

  We brushed our teeth and spat the paste into a tin can. In the morning, I would take it downstairs and empty it into the non-functioning bathroom sink. Except I wouldn’t. I would be gone. That would be Renzo’s job, now.

  Renzo fell asleep quickly. I could tell by the change in his breathing. I had been awake for more than thirty-six hours at that point, and sleep tugged at me. I fought it. I had to stay awake now. My plan was to wake Renzo after an hour or two, and hope he was disoriented enough that he wouldn’t question me. I was going to give him the letter, and tell him to give it to Beth. And then I was going to leave.

  It would work perfectly. Nothing would go wrong. Renzo would let me leave without arguing or trying to stop me. I would walk out onto the street and go to the subway station. The train would be waiting for me at the platform. The doorman at my parents’ building would smile at me and open the door without a word. And my mother and father would still be awake, sitting in the living room, and they would cry and hug me and it would be like I had never left. And then in a few days, maybe a week, I would hear the doorbell ring, and I would go downstairs and Beth would be standing there in the lobby, shivering a little and looking around like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing, and I would go to her and take her in my arms and never, ever leave her side again.

  An ambulance wailed down the street outside, and the ceiling flashed red. Renzo murmured something in his sleep.

  I squirmed out of my sleeping bag.

  It was time.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Beth

  After my mother moved into the group home, life went back to normal. The director was taking over most of the administrative stuff I had been dealing with—paperwork, applications, parole—and the day after the move, I slept until my alarm woke me an hour before I needed to be at work. I felt well-rested for the first time in a week. It was glorious.

  The letter arrived two days later.

  There was no return address, but I recognized Renzo’s handwriting on the envelope, slanted and crabbed. I had given him my address and phone number when I was in California, but I hadn’t spoken to him since. I couldn’t imagine what he was sending me in the mail.

  I sat at my kitchen table to open the envelope. Inside there was a second, smaller envelope. On the back, Renzo had written, Max gave me this eight years ago. He thought you knew. I asked him not to tell you. It isn’t his fault. I’m sorry.

  I frowned. What on earth was he talking about?

  I opened the second envelope. There was a piece of lined notebook paper inside, folded up. It was yellow with age, and the creases were soft, like it had been opened and refolded many times. I unfolded it and read.

  My darling Bee, it began.

  It was Max’s handwriting.

  I should tell you all of this in person, but I’m too afraid. I know you’ll probably hate me after you read this.

  I lied to you about who I really am. My last name is Langdon. My father owns Langdon Holdwell. I was never in foster care. My parents love me and have always treated me well. I ran away from home because I wanted an adventure. I know that sounds terrible. It is terrible, I guess. It seems pretty stupid in hindsight. I’ve changed a lot.

  I’m going home because my little sister was hit by a car, and she’s in a coma. I hope you can unde
rstand. I don’t want to leave you and Renzo, but I need to be with my family.

  I hope you’ll come find me. He gave an address, and a telephone number.

  I know that you might be angry with me for a while. If you don’t get in touch with me, I’ll assume that you don’t want to have anything to do with me, and I’ll leave you alone. But I hope that doesn’t happen.

  I love you. I hope to see you soon.

  Your Max

  I went back to the beginning and read it again. None of this made any sense. If Max was—I knew about Langdon Holdwell. It was a big corporation, one of those businesses you always saw on the news. And if Max was—if that was his father—

  Nothing made sense.

  I set the letter on the table, and cradled my head in my hands. I was reeling. The universe as I knew it had been flipped inside out.

  Was this a prank? Was Renzo trying to play a trick on me? He’d always had a weird sense of humor.

  But he wasn’t cruel, and faking a letter like this would be beyond the pale. I didn’t think Renzo would do that.

  So it was real. Max had written this letter to me before he disappeared, and he had given it to Renzo, and for some reason, Renzo never gave it to me.

  I looked at Renzo’s note again. He thought you knew. It isn’t his fault. So Max had thought—this whole time, he had thought that I’d read the letter, that I knew who he was, and that I had chosen not to get in touch with him. Was that what he thought?

  My head spun. This was too much to deal with before coffee.

  So I made a pot of coffee, and when it had brewed, I sat at the table with the mug cupped between my hands and tried to think it through. Renzo and I, as far as I knew, had both assumed that Max was dead. But if Renzo knew all along that Max wasn’t dead, that he was alive and well and only a few miles away—

  Whose lie was worse? Who had betrayed me more?

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t think. My chest ached. I finished my coffee and I still didn’t understand anything. There was nothing to do but go to work and hope it all became clear in time.

  I was so distracted at work that Mike asked me, halfway through my shift, if I was doing okay. “I’m fine,” I said. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”

  “You should go home,” he said. “Tell Germaine.”

  “I can’t,” I said. It was Saturday, and the club was slammed. We didn’t have enough waitresses for me to decide I was too emotionally delicate to work through the end of my shift. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Just don’t sneeze on a client,” he said. He poured a shot and slid it across the bar. “Drink up. Kills germs.”

  “It doesn’t kill germs,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Drink it anyway,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

  He wasn’t wrong. I hesitated for another moment, but then I picked up the glass and downed the shot.

  Straight whiskey. It burned, going down, but then it settled in my belly, a warm glow. “You were right,” I said. “I did need that. Pour me another.”

  Mike grinned. “Good girl.”

  The rest of my shift went by in a pleasant blur. I didn’t think about anything, or worry about my inevitable conversation with Max. I flirted gently with my favorite clients, older men I had known for years and who would take my flirting in the spirit it was intended and not as an invitation for something more. It provided a nice distraction, and the folded bills they slipped into my hands didn’t hurt.

  But I was operating on borrowed time. I checked my phone, at one point, when I went to the bathroom. Max had texted me: Working hard? Can’t wait to see you.

  I closed my eyes. I was too hot. The room was too small. I wanted to go outside and run around in the night until I couldn’t think of anything but the beating of my heart.

  I didn’t text him back. I didn’t know what to say.

  Everything I thought I knew about him was a lie.

  It isn’t his fault. I’m sorry.

  All those years when I thought he had abandoned me, he was probably thinking the same thing, but about me.

  What a comedy of errors! Shakespeare would have had a field day.

  I wasn’t laughing, though.

  I shook my head sharply, forcing the thoughts to settle away from the forefront of my mind. It was time to get back to work.

  The waitresses were going out for drinks, after the club closed, and I considered going with them. I never drank to the point of intoxication, but it was tempting now, the prospect of drinking until I no longer knew my name and couldn’t be held responsible for my actions. I could show up at Max’s apartment, scream and cry and throw things, and in the morning be absolved of any wrongdoing. Got too drunk, sorry. Tee-hee, silly me!

  I didn’t do it. I knew better. I went home to my bed.

  In the morning, I took the train to Brooklyn. I texted Max on my way there. I had the letter in my purse, tucked in an inner pocket along with my lip balm. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I had rehearsed a whole speech the night before, lying in bed staring up at my ceiling, but now, in daylight, it seemed absurd. Maybe I would just give him the letter, and see what he said.

  My phone vibrated as I approached his building. Sorry, just saw this. Always happy to see you! Just ring the bell when you get here and I’ll buzz you in.

  Guilt choked me. He wouldn’t be so happy to see me once he knew what I had to say.

  I went inside and upstairs to his door. It was very nondescript: a flat black slab of wood with the unit number in silver metal. The peephole stared at me, fish-eyed. I stared back. I could turn around right now and go home and pretend the last month had never happened. I could go inside and smile and kiss him and pretend I had just stopped by for lunch and a roll in the hay.

  I didn’t do either of those things. I knocked on the door.

  He answered, smiling, wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans hanging low on his hips. His feet were bare. He looked so happy to see me. “Come on in,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “I’m just making lunch.”

  I followed him into the kitchen, mute, numb. I felt like I was encased in a great metal diving bell. The sea opened around me, and I was sheltered from it, immune. Nothing could touch me. I would drown, or live.

  In the kitchen, a skillet sizzled on the gas range. Max picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the contents. “Are you hungry? I always cook too much. There’s plenty for you if you’d like to eat.”

  “Maybe,” I said, and then my mouth moved without my permission, and I heard myself say, “I got a letter from Renzo.”

  He knew exactly what I was talking about. I could see it in the sudden tension in his shoulders. “He sent it to you?”

  “Yes,” I said. Now I was more confused than ever. Max knew that Renzo knew that I didn’t know—

  He turned off the burner and laid the spoon down on the counter. “Let’s go sit.”

  He led me into the living room, and we sat facing each other, me on the sofa and Max on a nearby armchair. He looked concerned, sincere. It meant nothing. He was a good liar.

  I drew in a breath. Let it out again.

  “What questions do you have for me?” he asked. A good opening: not defensive, not trying to explain.

  I felt manipulated. He was too slick. I thought he had probably planned this. He knew I would find out eventually. He had prepared himself for this conversation.

  I was a dupe. They had both fooled me. Renzo and Max, brothers in arms.

  There was a knot in my throat. I swallowed it down. “You said you were in foster care.”

  “I lied about that,” he said. “I never was.”

  I swallowed again. “And you said—in your letter—”

  “Do you have it?” he asked. “It’s been so long. I can’t remember what I wrote.”

  I fumbled for it in my purse. My hands shook, a fine tremor. My fingers grasped the perforated edge. Max had torn the paper from a notebook and left the rough edges in place. Now they were
frayed and soft with age and use. Renzo had carried this letter with him all those years. I wondered how many times he had unfolded it and read it.

  Max took the paper from me. I watched as he scanned the page, eyes moving back and forth. Then, finished, he sat back in his chair and gazed at me. His face was blank as a mask. The paper sat on his lap, bent, open.

  “I feel like I’ve become really stupid,” I said. “None of this makes any sense to me.”

  “You’re surprised,” he said. “Cognitive dissonance. You thought the world was a certain way, and it turns out you were wrong. Your brain is trying to protect you.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe. Oh, Max. I don’t understand. I know you’re rich now, but I guess you were rich all along.”

  “Family money,” he said. “I didn’t do anything to earn it.”

  “Your parents must have been worried sick,” I said. It had been on my mind ever since I first read the letter. My parents love me. I thought of how my grandmother would have reacted, if I ran away. I thought of Max’s mother crying every night until he came home.

  “Sweet Beth,” he said. “That’s what’s bothering you? Yes, they were very worried, but it was years ago. I’m fairly certain they’ve recovered.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But your pickpocketing. You couldn’t have learned that—you were only on the streets for, what, a month at most before I met you.”

  He shrugged. “I learned when I was a kid. Our doorman taught me. He was a magician in his spare time. He taught me some sleight-of-hand, and he always kept candies in the pockets of his coats. If I could steal them, they were mine to eat.”

  “Of course.” I shook my head. Max the thief. Max the liar. “Is your sister—did she recover?”

  “She did,” he said. “Full recovery. She was in a coma for a month. But she’s in college now. She’s doing fine.”

  “You had to go home to her,” I said. “I understand that. And I understand now why you didn’t look for me. You thought that I hated you. I guess I even understand why you lied about your identity.” Street kids had no sympathy for rich runaways. “But what I don’t understand—” I had to stop and take a breath so that I didn’t start crying. “What I don’t understand is why I didn’t learn any of this until now.”