by Bromberg, K
“I’m at my mother’s house.” I ripped a paper towel off the roll. “She’s selling it. I’m annoyed at her. Not you.”
On the way to the crumb pile, I kicked a Matchbox car. It spun out and smacked against the far wall, near where—at some point—a crack in the paint that I’d always imagined looked like a lightning bolt had turned into a fissure.
When I was little, I’d put my dollhouse against that wall and pretended the family inside was safe during a thunderstorm. The family lived, but time had broken the lightning.
“I have to ask you something,” Emilio said, snapping me out of the imaginary rain. “Russell’s PR got some Instagram influencers on the invite list. Including but not limited to Lyric Crowne. Four million followers. She posted about Bistro Bungalow, and it went wild. So…”
“I met her.” I gathered the crumbs in the paper towel, which was physically impossible to do efficiently. “She seems like a normal person? I don’t have any deeper intel.”
“Okay, fine. Good. Okay.” A pot banged behind him.
“You’re going to be fine.” I stuffed the paper towel and crumbs in the trash. “I’m serious.”
“I know. But she put up a shot of the Bistro Bungalow burger, and that’s what went crazy. I don’t know if I should put a burger on the menu. Maybe a special for the night?”
He was a wreck. He needed to relax, and the last thing he needed to hear was that he needed to relax.
“Emilio Spaghetti-O,” I said. “Listen to me. Listen to every word. You know who you are and what you want. You know how to get it. Stay on track. Between now and the opening, you’re going to focus on what you can control. You’re going to keep your eyes on the work, put one foot in front of the other, and move forward. You’re not going to borrow trouble. Do you hear?”
“I hear you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Stop worrying.”
“The work, Emilio. Stay with the work.”
“I knew I called you for a reason. Okay. I have to go.”
“Go. Bye.”
I hung up. My family was on the other side of the sliding glass doors. The kids were playing again, and Mom and Isabelle were talking. I was in the kitchen, the sun angling into the house with the day’s last gasps of light.
Stay with the work.
The house was a part of me, but it wasn’t my work. It was my mother’s.
If I was going to take my own advice, I’d have to do what needed doing and stop letting my heart borrow trouble.
Chapter 21
BYRON
The OBT check was on my dresser, folded into four sections like a receipt I’d forgotten to give to my bookkeeper.
It was supposed to go to my accounts manager. Why had I placed my father’s note in a wooden box and let the check sit in limbo? I’d wanted the money—needed it to do things that would attract buyers who could afford the most luxurious house in Bel-Air.
And yet, there it sat while I plowed through my own investment, making the thing bigger.
When it had been assumed I would take over Crowne Industries, my entitlement to the One Big Thing was tied to that. It was an ace waiting to be played, and I was eager to show it. I sought out acquisitions, but none of them was the exact right size or shape for the company I was learning to run. There was no point in asking for it if I wasn’t going to make the most of it.
Samantha had talked about that money as if it was for spending. A house. A boat. How far it would go before it ran out.
Old money wasn’t always deep money. Old money got lazy, and though it might take a few generations for it to catch up to the times, finite was finite. I hadn’t known the Bettencourts were broke, but once her father told me, I knew why and how it had remained a secret. The family lived for their image and brand presentation.
My fiancée hadn’t been like that. Not completely. She’d never bought it as reality, but she’d craved harmony, so she played along while it all tore her apart. Keeping up. Presenting the best face. Lying to her friends. Making sure she was photographed at the most exclusive events because it kept her parents from fighting.
She hadn’t cared for it. Had hated it. Felt used and objectified. But she kept on, the little trouper. When she took it out on me, I didn’t care. I loved her, and I was strong enough to take whatever she needed to give me because she wasn’t strong enough to direct it where it belonged.
So, on the days it was my fault, she accused me of stalling the wedding. She wanted to get married now. Tomorrow. Yesterday. City Hall. Elope. Just get it done so she wouldn’t have to worry anymore. I could save her from her mother, who was planning to divest assets for a huge wedding on a yacht they couldn’t pay off.
Sometimes, in the quiet parts of the night, I looked for ways I’d failed her.
I wondered if asking for my family’s gift would have saved her life or postponed the inevitable. I tried to remember what I was feeling or thinking when I’d uttered the last words I’d ever say to her. How stricken she’d looked. Face drained of blood. Mouth open.
Eyes afire, she’d asked me why I was marrying her.
As I emptied my pockets on my dresser, I bounced the question back to her.
Why do you think?
Wallet. Car key fob. Handkerchief.
Answer me, Byron!
I’d been doing the same thing. Emptying the day from my pockets.
I’d sighed. Maybe it was the sigh that did it. I’d just gotten back from a trip to Saudi. I was tired and as lazy as old money. If I told her I loved her in twenty-five words or more, she’d be soothed. That was what she wanted. Some form of overblown bad poetry so she’d know that between us, it wasn’t all for show.
Knowing what she wanted wasn’t good enough anymore.
I didn’t know what she needed.
I gave her the truth, which was short, direct, and to the point.
Because I love you.
She’d acted as if I’d slapped her.
I should have used more words. I shouldn’t have acted bored or placed the punctuation where it would sound like an accusation.
She left the room. When I didn’t see her for the rest of the night, I was relieved. In the morning, after sleeping off the jet lag, I’d deal with my beloved.
Which I did.
And I swore I’d never tell another woman I loved them, because I was a monster and my love had killed her.
Knowing my logic was faulty did nothing to change it. Everyone was safe as long as I remained on the other side of my reasoning. The words were on lockdown, and that was that.
I opened the check. Everything over that number. Or nothing over that number.
I’d never know. But some phase of my life was ending, and another was beginning. If the check had four or six fewer zeroes, it would still have lifted a weight off me.
After propping the check like a tower on its folded corners, I opened the drawer under it and tipped it in, imagining a pillar of blocks falling.
On top of my things sat Olivia’s stretched underwear from our night at the Waldorf. The night she’d stormed out with my seed dripping between her legs, terrified that I’d be the father of a child she wanted so badly.
I balled them in my fist and sniffed them like the filthy pig Samantha had thought I was. Then I sniffed again. Pure fucking Eau de Pussy d’Olivia. The cotton was dry but soaked through with the smell of her. That was mine. I’d made her this wet, and I’d do it again.
I put the underwear in my pocket and went to the kitchen. My refrigerator opened on two sides. A vertical glass window between them exhibited everything my sommelier had left to chill in case of guests.
The Dom Perignon popped and fizzed in the crystal flute. It was cold and bubbly in my throat, and I didn’t give a shit that I was alone. I drained the flute and pushed it away, taking the bottle by the neck so I could drink right from the source.
“I love you” was out, but you know what wasn’t?
Share this bottle with
me.
Come to me.
I’m obsessed with you.
I trust you.
I own you.
Be with me.
Don’t get pregnant without me.
Another gulp of champagne turned into three. Flavia had left dinner, but I didn’t want it. She could take it home to her kids. I took a swig and texted Olivia.
—You never answered me—
—It’s been a week—
—I’m sorry. I needed to think.—
A hand coursed through the miasma I’d created for myself and slapped sense into me. These things needed to be said in person by a man who was stable and sober.
But still… the monumental strength it had taken to leave her alone to think was being dissolved in champagne. Now I had her on the other side. I could influence her across distance. Soak another pair of underwear.
—And?—
—And we should talk in person—
—Where are you?—
—Work, no thanks to you—
For better or worse, she was thinking about me.
—What time are you getting off?—
She called, and I picked up.
“I’ll come get you,” I said, dispensing with the greetings. “Whatever time.”
“Late. I don’t know.”
“I’ll wait.”
Her answer was a sigh of resignation.
“Please.” I was begging. I was a pathetic beggar, but I didn’t know what else to do.
“Don’t come here,” she said. “Meet me at the Broken Stem. On Olympic.”
“When?”
“Ten.”
I looked at my watch. I could get sober enough to drive in four hours, but I’d never be sober enough to hear her say no. “Done.”
“See you there. I have to go.”
We hung up. The screen flipped back to our texts. I typed out a string of filth that would keep me on her mind, but it wasn’t going to convince her of anything except that I was a pushy asshole. I put the phone down next to her stretched ball of dried-juice underwear. My mind hiccupped on what she was wearing and what was under it. How sexy it would be if she stripped down to something that would reveal the marks I’d left on her.
I opened my laptop and searched for something to ruin.
* * *
I parked in the back and entered through a door with Broken Stem stenciled in white. The back hall had bathrooms, a closed office door, and an ajar door that said EMPLOYEES ONLY. She had me meet her in a dump. Did that mean yes or no? Was it a sign of what I could expect?
Past a black velvet curtain, I entered the bar. The place was dark, with candles every two inches across the bar, making it look as if a coven of witches had decorated for a ceremony. The logo made it clear that Broken Stem referred to a wine glass, because all the glasses were tulip-shaped and stemless with divots for thumbs. Mine was filled with club soda.
It wasn’t crowded, so I had a direct visual line to the front door. When she came in, the fan above blasted to control the temperature, blowing her hair everywhere. It calmed, falling over her shoulders when she stepped out of the squall, which was the moment she saw me.
“Hey.” She slid onto the stool next to mine. Her black skirt matched her jacket, and her blouse was a silver satin thin enough to mold around hard nipples.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“Only fair. I can’t keep you in suspense forever.”
When the bartender approached, she ordered a ginger ale, then crossed her legs and faced me. Her skirt slid above her knee, and her shoe dangled off her toes.
“So, you decided,” I said as the soda gun hissed.
“I have.”
She waited until her ginger ale landed in front of her and the bartender left. In the eternity of those seconds—and not for the first time, I considered what I’d do if she declined. I got my pitch together as if she was a recalcitrant architect or a buyer who hemmed and hawed over another ten thousand square feet.
“I’m listening.” Over her calf and down to the heel, I stroked the silk of her stockings.
“When you say you can’t love me, I believe you. You don’t want a commitment. I believe that too.”
“Good.” I pushed her shoe back onto her foot.
“But I’m afraid.” She drank a bit of her ginger ale and put it back carefully in the same crescent of condensation. “I know you think I’m too strong to break. But I do have a heart. I can love someone. That means I can get hurt.”
I watched my hand as it ran over her heel and up her calf. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. I can love you. I can try not to, but I’m pretty sure I’m already halfway there.”
I tore my eyes away from her leg and looked at her face. Flickering candles changed the light, but her expression was steady.
“I’m not worth it,” I said.
“Women love unworthy men all the time.”
“True.”
“And you’re worthy. If we’re doing this, you have to stop saying stuff like that.”
Abruptly, my hands stopped moving. “Are we—”
“Yes.” She slid her hand into mine and uncrossed her legs, leaning forward so she could speak quietly and still fill my world. “I think no matter what, even if I’m hurt, I can maintain a friendship. But I want you to understand what a gamble this is for me. Long game? It’s worth the potential upside. But in the short term, it’s a big risk.”
She said it as if it was a challenge. She was daring me to keep her from falling in love and daring me to hurt her at the same time.
Neither would happen. I couldn’t see the future, but she had a limited count of possibilities.
“When do we start?” I pushed my hand between her knees and up until I was blocked at the spot where her thighs met like an inverted fork in the road.
“I’m ovulating in thirteen days, give or take.”
“What if you want to fuck tonight?”
The idea of getting inside her without a condom, skin to skin, truly joined, was a drug I had to take again.
“My period’s finishing up. I won’t get pregnant.”
“You want to, then.”
“I know.”
“Relax your legs.”
She did it, letting my hand travel another few inches. My lips brushed her throat, and her breath came in damp gasps. I was urgently hard for her. A glass broke somewhere outside the dome of our attention.
We were in public. There were more than emotional risks between us.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered. “We’ll seal this deal quick.”
When I felt her nod, I got up, straightened my jacket, and walked out the way I came in. I was thinking of taking her in the car, but on the way, I found a closet door still ajar.
Olivia came through the curtain, all poise and leg, blond hair pushed off her shoulders, a golden idol ready to worship.
When I pulled her into the darkness of the closet and snapped the lock, she started to say something. I took her mouth with mine, pushing her hard against the wall. She gasped, and something clattered.
“You and me,” I said, pulling up her tight skirt. “Nothing between us.”
“Yes.”
I felt her reach for my fly in the dark.
“Now.” I was growling like an animal.
“Now.” She squeaked like a wheel.
I pushed her hands off my zipper so I could shred her stockings and underpants. Owning her mouth with my tongue and shoving my fingers inside her, I filled her wherever I could reach until my cock felt as if it would break from envy.
“You ready?” I asked, releasing my erection. “Skin to skin.”
She hitched one leg over my hip, and I held it there, under the knee so I could line the bare head of my dick against her.
“Go,” she said. “Do it now.”
She was soaked. Ready. I pushed inside her. Two strokes deep. Three to the balls. She was fucking silk
wrapping around me. This was it. This was exactly what I wanted. Fucking her. Pinning her down. Taking her fully. Feeling the pulse of her cunt when she was close to coming for me.
“Say my name,” I demanded.
“Lord Byron.”
“Say it.” I laid my hand on her throat to feel how it sounded.
“Lord Byron, I’m going to—”
I put my mouth on hers, pushing against her nub with the base of my cock, feeling the rumble of her throat as she came and the tremble of her lips on mine.
When she was done, I pulled back. “I’m going to come inside you.”
“Yes. Come inside me.”
“You’re mine, Olivia. After I come in you. You’re mine.”
I exploded, writing my name so deeply inside her she’d never erase it. I etched myself there so completely she’d never forget me, even after my cold heart forgot her or her warm heart decided it had no room for me.
Chapter 22
OLIVIA
After taking me against a broom closet wall, Byron reluctantly took me to my car. He wanted to keep me up all night, and if my sex drive had been in charge, I would have let him.
But thankfully my brain was driving the bus. We’d agreed to create a life without falling in love. By maintaining some control, I was keeping the second part of the deal. I had to draw the lines between us, or he would tear me apart.
His full-frontal attack on the environment kept me working late. I trudged up my front steps, sick and tired of trying to figure out his strategy without telling my team I knew more about him than they’d be comfortable with.
A night of making small talk at Emilio’s opening was just what I needed.
I picked up my mail. Garbage mostly. One padded manila envelope with something soft inside had been wedged behind the screen door. Figuring it was a dress I’d ordered, I tucked the package under my arm with the letters and went inside.
Junk, junk. I opened and scanned a bill, leaving the dress unopened. I checked the clock. I had to get moving.