Forbidden Love (Venture Capitalist Book 1)

by Ainsley St Claire

  She pushes her pointer finger in his chest. “You know, the partners were pushing to release you. It’s because of Emerson that you have a paid sabbatical. You can show everyone you want your job despite the fact that you’re drinking yourself to death while you bed half the women in San Francisco and hurt my best friend. Get it together, asshole, and leave Emerson alone!”

  His mouth is hanging open, apparently shocked by CeCe’s dressing down. She turns on her heels and storms off with a look of satisfaction. All the people in earshot of the tirade are staring. The women glare at him with disgust; the men have looks of pity. Dillon doesn’t seem to know what to do. He throws a twenty on the bar and leaves without his drink.

  CeCe is proud of her moment, and I’m embarrassed. Not because she went to town on him because of me, but because it’s another reminder of our feelings not matching. I love him, and he only loves himself.

  I wait about a half hour, then excuse myself and head home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Dillon

  It could be Monday, Thursday, or Saturday. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I care. I have no real memories from last night beyond going out with some new friends and drinking Irish whiskey. I don’t know how much time I lost in the darkness, or what took place.

  As I come out of the fog, I see that I’m on my bed. The lights are low. Sheets are wrapped around my ankles, soft and cool against my skin. Some girl I’ve never seen before is on top of me and we’re having sex.

  How did I get here?

  Wait. Can this be right? I’m having sex, and I’ve never seen her before. It’s as if the universe dropped me into someone else’s body. But I seem to be enjoying it. I’m making all the right sounds, at least.

  She collapses beside me and weaves her legs through mine. I wonder if I should be worried right now, but I’m not scared.

  The girl is cute and has an okay figure. “You really know how to wear a girl out,” she says, breathing hard. It seems unfair that she should know me and I don’t know her, but I’m unsure of how to ask her name.

  “I should go,” she tells me as she snuggles in closer.

  I don’t know what to say, so I stay with the stranger in the shadows of my bedroom, looking out onto The City. As she lies in the crook of my arm, I have so many questions, the loudest of which is How did I get home?

  I sleep, though not soundly. Someone’s pounding on my front door. My building has a doorman; how did anyone get up?

  Glancing at my bedside clock, I see it’s after ten. There’s daylight, so I guess it’s morning. I leave the woman in my bed and walk to the front door.

  Mason’s face is strained, and I can tell he’s angry, but I don’t give a fuck. “What do you want?” I demand.

  “It’s about time you answered the door.”

  Turning the television to Sports Center and grabbing a bottle of water from my fridge, I walk by him and sit on the couch. “I’m busy. Go away.”

  He fists his hands at his sides until they’re white. “Are you going to waste your leave getting blackout drunk?”

  “What do you care? Go home, Mason. Leave me alone.”

  “Dillon, you’re my best friend. We want you back at the office. We need you. Everything’s going to shit.”

  “I already know you and Cameron wanted me gone. It was the girls who talked you into the leave. Go the fuck away.”

  “You’re right. Emerson and Sarah came up with the idea of the leave, but it didn’t take a lot of talking us into offering the time off to you. Pull your head out of your ass. I know losing your dad sucks—I lost mine when I was seventeen—but you’ve got to pull it together. You’re going to lose your business, and some people—Cameron, Sara, Emerson, and me—may not be here for you if you can’t figure it out. Grow the fuck up. Get it together!” Then he turns and storms out of my apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  I stare at the television and replay the conversation in my head. I don’t fucking need him or any of them.

  I hear the strange woman clear her throat. She’s dressed now and heading toward the door. “Well, it sounds like you’re busy. Thanks for last night. It was a lot of fun. I hope to see you later. You’ve got my number.”

  I wave goodbye, not even looking at her. I’m still angry with the way Mason spoke to me. I know he’s right, but fuck him. I don’t need him.

  I’m out of liquor. I call to have some whiskey delivered. My head hurts. I need a nap.

  I fall asleep on the couch. The doorman rings my apartment and informs me that he has a delivery from the liquor store and a box the postman delivered for me. He brings them up to my apartment.

  The box is from my mom. I’ve been ignoring her calls. I’m such a shitty son. Pouring myself a tall glass of whiskey, I sit down to open the package.

  I’m not sure I want to know what she sent. I finish my second whiskey before I relent and finally open it. Inside the box looks like little gifts, small packages carefully wrapped in white tissue paper. Unwrapping one item at a time, my heart hurts as I look at what she sent me: my dad’s college class ring from the University of Michigan; a picture of my parents taken when I was in high school in a delicate silver frame; a pocket watch that had belonged to my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my dad, and now I guess to me. There is a picture at a Stanford football game of me and my dad—me in my football uniform, him dressed in a winter coat and scarf, obviously handled a lot based on the frayed edges. There are a few other small wrapped items, but once I see my mom included my grandmother’s engagement ring, I lose interest in the remaining packages. I stop and stare at the ring.

  I realize the only woman I have ever considered making any commitment with is Emerson, and I’ve fucked that up royally. She hates me, as she should. I’ve entirely alienated her. If I weren't such an asshole, I would’ve realized I’m completely, utterly, and irrevocably in love with Emerson.

  I feel alone. I miss my dad. I miss my friends. And I miss Emerson.

  I finish my whiskey and call two old friends, Brittney and Champagne. They’re always up for a good time, and what better way to get over a girl than to get under two at the same time.

  ***

  I consider letting my ringing phone go to voice mail, but it’s my mom. I might as well talk to her.

  “Hey, Mom. I got your package. Thanks.”

  “I tried to tell you it was coming, but you’re so busy. How are you doing?”

  I have an internal debate, then decide I might as well tell her the truth. “Things aren’t going well at work right now, and my personal life is a wreck. I’m a mess, and I can’t blame it on anyone but myself.”

  “I received a call from Mason. He tells me they’re worried about you.”

  Running my hands through my greasy hair, I fight back tears. “I’m sorry they had to do that.”

  She says softly, “We’re all worried about you, sweetie. Why don’t you come home for a few weeks? I need you, and I think you need me. Maybe we can manage our grief together?”

  I cry into the phone. “I miss Dad so much… and I’ve fucked everything up so bad.”

  “I miss him, too. Come home, sweetheart. We can figure out how to fix this.”

  We talk for a bit longer, and I book my flight home for tomorrow. Going home will be good for me, I’m sure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Emerson

  It’s shortly after six o’clock in the morning, and I’m hitting a bucket of golf balls at the driving range. With each shot, the pressure between my shoulder blades releases a tiny bit. The temperature is cool but at least dry, and with the constant motion, I’m breaking a sweat.

  The golf pro approaches. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Emerson. I thought maybe you’d fallen in love.”

  I stop to smile at him, welcoming the short break. “No. I sold my company to a VC firm here in The City and my time isn’t always my own anymore.”

  “Good to see you back. You still have the best swing around here.” He
waves as he goes to greet his lesson.

  I’m in the mood to play a round this weekend. At least eighteen holes. I wonder if I can talk Dillon into a game. As I’m thinking of how to ask, my cell phone pings, indicating a text. It’s from Dillon. I’m going home to Michigan today for a few months. If you wouldn’t mind, please grab my mail about once a week and check on my place. I’ll leave a key in an envelope with my doorman. Thx.

  I text him back, No problem. Call me if you ever want to talk. I miss you.

  He never responds. I want to call him, to hear his voice, his laugh. I want to feel him close to me, but if I do, I know I’ll never get over him. My superpower is the ability to locate the most obvious asshole wherever I go and attract him to me. It’s a gift. Now if I could figure out how to not fall for them once they came close.

  After finishing my bucket of golf balls, I cry as I drive home. I keep thinking we revealed new and hidden parts of ourselves over the past few months. We lay exposed and vulnerable to one another, not something we do with others easily, I’m sure. I need time to recover and recuperate before I can move on. Repairing a broken heart is never easy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Dillon

  My flight home is uneventful—as it should be.

  Randomly on the plane, I text Celeste to let her know I’m coming to town. It feeds my ego that she’s interested in me and what I’m doing. We talk about once a month, and it was nice that she came to my dad’s wake and funeral. I feel like I should see her while I’m visiting. I don’t want to screw her; I just want to spend time with someone who likes me for me.

  As I get off the plane and clear security, I see my mom in a pair of light pink capris and a white collared shirt with a lime green belt and matching lime green shoes. She always looks put together. The only problem is she appears much frailer than when I left three months ago.

  Her smile is all teeth when she sees me. I swoop her into my arms and twirl her around like a schoolgirl. “I’ve missed you,” I tell her.

  “I’ve missed you, too.” After I put her down and we begin the walk to the car, she asks, “How long are you here for?”

  “Well, the company put me on paid leave for the next five months. I may not stay the entire break, but I’m here as long as you need me.”

  She gives me a reassuring hug. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

  She hands me the keys, and I drive us home. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I love the look on the locals’ faces, like they’re coming out of their dark winter cocoons and seeing sunshine for the first time in months.

  We spend what’s left of the afternoon together, though being in the house is difficult for me. It reminds me of my dad and how I let him down.

  My mom must sense my trepidation but is clearly excited that I’m here. She makes my favorite meal—her homemade version of Hamburger Helper. It’s horrible for you, but it tastes good and reminds me of my childhood. It’s straightforward—ground beef browned and crumbled, then add two cans of condensed tomato soup, a can of tomato sauce, and half a stick of butter. Bring to a light simmer and pour over a pound of cooked elbow noodles. I’m eating well tonight.

  My mom asks me if I want to play some rummy, but I decline. “I’m going to meet up with a few friends at Harry’s Bar.”

  She pats me on the arm. “Just don’t be too late.”

  I know meeting Celeste is going to be a mistake. And I know if I tell my mom I’m going to meet her, she’ll be disappointed. I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to stay here either.

  The dark bar smells like old cigarette smoke, and the neon signs covering the walls cast more light than lamps do. It looks the same as it did when we weren’t old enough to drink but they served us anyway.

  I sit on a brown pleather barstool and order a whiskey. Celeste comes in and I give her a sexy smile, my eyes roaming down her taunt, tan flesh, imagining all the ways I could make her moan. She’s breathtaking, and yet a dime a dozen. Her red blouse is see-through, and her short black leather mini skirt is more of a micro skirt. As she climbs on the barstool, I see she isn’t wearing underwear. I’m not going to sleep with her.

  The bartender approaches and says, “Celeste, good to see you. White wine spritzer?”

  She’s rubbing my thigh, inching closer and closer to my cock as she flirts back with the bartender. “Tom, you know me so well.”

  Tom delivers a new drink for me and Celeste’s white wine spritzer. She hands me my whiskey before leaning back and closing her eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

  I don’t know how to respond. Celeste puts her focus on me, watching me intently. I know she wants me to tell her I’ve missed her, too, but I can’t bring myself to lie to her. I smile and pick up my drink, taking a deep pull. I’ve been here ten minutes and already I’ve had two double shots.

  The conversation is stilted. Celeste is trying too hard, and I’m not making it easy; I’m only here because I don’t want to be at home. She wants something I don’t, and rather than be a man and tell her, I’m a jerk and hope she gets the hint.

  Two drinks later, she walks me to my car.

  “Are you sure you can drive?” she asks.

  I’m entirely too drunk to drive, but I don’t want to go home with Celeste, and I certainly don’t want her to come home with me. “Look, I’m staying with my mom. You know how she is. There’s no way you can come home with me. I’ll just sleep it off here in my car.”

  Shimmying up to me, she pins me against the car. I feel the heat of her body as she leans flush to me, her lips searching for mine. I slide my hand over the curve of her ass and squeeze tightly as I explore her mouth thoroughly. Desire rolls through me, deepening the kiss as my body hardens.

  When she gets down on her knees, I whisper, “No…,” but I can’t seem to stop her. She unbuckles my pants and takes my thick cock into her hands, stroking me with one hand and then the other in a slow, tight fashion. My teeth sink into my bottom lip and I close my eyes, dropping my head back. Hoarsely, I whisper, “God, that feels good.”

  “Mmmm… looks good.” She moves up and rolls her tongue across my thick head before taking me in her mouth. My breath catches in my chest and I groan, lifting my hips and forcing more of my cock deep down her throat. I come hard, and she takes her time drinking it all down and licking me clean.

  Standing and wiping her chin, she says, “That’s a reminder of what you’ve been missing. When you’re ready to come home, we’ll marry and start our family. I promise you can have one every night.”

  She gets up and sashays to her car across the dimly lit parking lot. I turn to look back down the road as she walks away, honestly not caring. Taking a seat in my car, I relive what just happened. I can’t see her again.

  I finally feel like I can drive home and pour myself into bed about 4:00 a.m. still probably drunk, definitely exhausted and alone.

  I feel as if I’ve just laid down when my mom comes in, turns the lights on, opens the curtains, and shakes me awake. Rolling over, I look at the clock and see it’s almost nine. In her “don’t mess with me” voice, she demands I meet her downstairs. As she’s shutting the door, she says, “Fifteen minutes or I’m going to get nasty.”

  Uninterested in finding out step two of her wake-up call, I slowly sit up. My head is killing me and my stomach flip-flops. Finding a pair of sweatpants and a Stanford football T-shirt, I dress as quickly as I can. I can smell the coffee brewing.

  As I walk into the kitchen, she offers me bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast.

  Sitting across from me at the table, she holds her cup of coffee with two hands and looks at me. I can tell she isn’t happy.

  Typical of my mom, she’s direct. “What happened in San Francisco?”

  I’m not ready to talk about it. I already feel like a failure, and I’m not prepared to tell my mom about everything that happened. But she isn’t having any of that, so I give up and begin sharing the story of my demise. As I talk, I may embellish a few o
f the details and leave a few things out, but I make sure she knows I’m the victim in this mess.

  As I talk, she nods when she’s supposed to and asks lots of questions. I’m sure she’s figured out that I’m not the victim. My sister always said Mom had the best bullshit meter.

  “And what about that pretty girl, Emerson? From what I could tell, she was very much in love with you.”

  “I don’t think so. We have a non-fraternization clause in our partnership agreement. We can’t get involved with each other.”

  “I know that, as your mother, I’m supposed to believe you don’t sleep with women, but I know you spent every night with her when she was here at the Townsend.” I look at my mom in wonder. How did she know I didn’t stay in my own room? “So what happened?”

  To further emphasize that I’m a victim in this mess, I share, “She didn’t back me up. She told a BS story about supporting this leave rather than an outright firing. And her friend went out of her way to embarrass me about it when she felt I was stalking Emerson.”

  “You don’t believe she supported your leave? Why?”

  Feeling boxed in and humbled, I confess, “Because I wasn’t very nice to her.”

  Sitting back in her chair, she takes a sip of her hot coffee. “Ahhh. I see. I think if I were you, I would believe Emerson defended you.” She lets it sink in for a moment while I eat my breakfast. When I think she’s done with her lecture, she asks, “And last night? Where were you?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Out with friends.”

  “Celeste?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re an adult. You have a beautiful and smart woman in San Francisco. I’m not going to tell you Celeste isn’t for you, but be careful. That girl has been pining for you since high school. If you want to marry her, I’ll happily love her as my daughter-in-law.”

  “Mom, I promise I’m not going to marry Celeste.”