Forever Branded (Billionaire Love Series #1) (10 page)

I threw the watch on my wrist and gave myself one last look in the black Tom Ford tuxedo.

I looked sharp.

“Is my car ready?” I asked as he brushed me down one last time.

“Everything is ready, sir.”

“Good.” I headed down to my personal garage and strode toward the black Aston Martin DBX Concept I had just bought.

This car was hot off the assembly line and I had been given a chance to purchase one before anyone else. The car reminded me of a panther with Black Pearl chromium paint giving the exterior a hard, but sleek, racecar finish over the aluminum body. An electric car, this marvel of transportation was on the leading edge of technology with cameras instead of mirrors.

I jumped in the front seat, the Nubuck leather soft as butter as I revved the engine and took off for the Lord Baltimore Hotel.

“Call Pops,” I told Siri as I sped down the freeway on my way to the cancer benefit gala which cost fifty thousand a table.

“Calling Pops,” the automated voice of my phone pronounced calmly as I turned down “Uptown Funk” thumping through my Bang and Olufsen stereo system.

“Hey, Pops!” I said as I heard my granddad come on the line.

“Hey, Bubba!” he greeted excitedly.

“What’s going on?”

“Just getting ready to go down to dinner.”

“What’s on tonight’s menu?” He loved to tell me what he was going to eat.

“Salisbury steak and green beans with tapioca pudding. My favorite.”

“Sounds good. I’m just callin’ to tell you I’ll be comin’ over on Sunday to see you.”

“You’re fixin’ to visit me?”

“Yes, Pops. I’ll be there on Sunday.”

“Sunday?” he nearly shouted in my ear.

His hearing wasn’t always the best.

“Yes. Sunday.”

“Okay, see you then.”

Click.

The line went dead.

I laughed. Charly never liked to talk long on the phone; and because he did whatever the hell he wanted, he hung up on me.

But that had always been his way.

When he declared he wanted to move to an assisted living apartment, there was no talking him out of it. So, I found him the best program for seniors and got him a pimped out suite in a high-rise building with every amenity.

He said he liked the food and the ladies.

Secretly, I think he just wanted to get away from my father.

I didn’t blame him.

I visited him as often as I could, since he was the only family I actually liked.

I was an only child.

You would think my parents would have doted on me.

You would be wrong.

I was an afterthought in their lives. Someone to trot out for company.

My dad never really wanted a relationship with me. To him, I was an extension of his image. A commodity for him to pawn at will.

Growing up, I always had the best of everything—name brand clothes, the newest technology, the best sports equipment, and world-renowned hockey trainers to help me gain an edge. My dad threw money at everything like it could solve any problem.

I tried not to let it get under my skin that he was never there for me, but it was damn hard. The only time he showed up in my life was to ride my ass about hockey or order me into some photo op for the society pages.

My mom wasn’t much better. She was a raging alcoholic behind closed doors. She cleaned up well, pasting a public smile on her plastic face for her charities, but on a regular afternoon, she was knee deep in her Gin and Tonic. I didn’t talk to her much.

My parents separated when I was five and I went to live with my dad. The lesser of two evils. My parents would never divorce. That would be too much of a scandal for Baltimore society to handle.

So they maintained separate residences, but came together on the rare occasion to act as if they could stand each other. Usually for a photo op.

By the time I got to high school, I was tired of tolerating my dad’s crap. It seemed like I dealt with the same shit every day, listening to him micro manage me.

It started at breakfast. Bounding down the marble stairs, I arrived in the dining room as the comforting aroma of crisp bacon and Kona coffee washed over me. That was about the only pleasant thing about those morning drill sessions.

I couldn’t stand eating in the all white dining room, which exuded a cold, formal air dictated by my father’s need for clean lines.

We ate here at his insistence. I would have preferred to eat with the staff in the warm kitchen where laughing and smiling were allowed. Instead, I was forced to endure these daily breakfast sessions, mostly so he could ride me about hockey.

“Are you wearing that to school?” he questioned as he glanced up and nodded at my preferred T-shirt and jeans.

I refused to wear the expensive, preppy clothes he routinely bought me. “Yep, this is what I’m wearing.”

“Are you ready for your game on Saturday?” he asked as he put one corner of his morning newspaper down, so he could peer over at me.

The only time I had my dad’s full attention was when he wanted to talk hockey.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said as I buttered my toast.

I lived and breathed hockey. I was ready to go.

“That’s not what Coach Ralston told me. He said your snapshot was looking a little shaky.”

I resisted rolling my eyes. “That’s because I was tired after shooting the puck over a hundred times!” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice.

He clucked his tongue over his teeth a couple of times. It meant he wasn’t pleased with me. “Still, I think you should get in one more practice.”

I had worked my butt off all week for this game. “Dad, really, I’m good. I’m ready.”

His blue gaze filled with intensity. “Now, Bubba, is that how we become the best? By saying, ‘I’m good’ or ‘I’m ready?’ Shouldn’t you just get out there and practice one more time?”

This was the kind of shit that drove me crazy about my dad. He always put the screws in me to get me to do what he wanted.

“Fine, I’ll go right now before school. Satisfied?” I threw down my napkin and deliberately scraped back my chair as I stood up.

He stared stone faced at me. His blue gaze cold. “I’ll be satisfied when you’re in the pros on the first line, making seven figures.” He casually picked up his newspaper again, effectively dismissing me.

God, there were times I hated him. Nothing was ever good enough for my old man. I struggled with the fact I never wanted to disappoint him even though he was a cold motherfucker. All I ever wanted from my dad was “A good job or I’m proud of you, son.” But I knew deep down, I would never get that from him.

So, I played the game. Literally. I worked my tail off to be a damn good hockey player. I was just waiting to be called up to the pros, so I could move out from under my dad’s thumb.

As I left the dining room, I caught my granddad’s eye as he ambled over to the buffet. I knew he wasn’t pleased with my dad’s actions. They didn’t see eye to eye, either.

Down to earth and a straight shooter, Charly didn’t have much patience for the uppity airs my dad put on. My granddad had never given up on his humble roots. He had made millions in the oil business after a lucky gamble on a horse provided him with money to go hunting for oil.

But he had always stayed wild. He had regular poker games with his buddies, rode his horse Mickey on the streets of Baltimore every once in a while, and best of all, he gave my father a hard time. I loved him for it.

I ran back up to my room and grabbed my hockey gear, cursing my dad the whole time. When I came back downstairs, I could hear my granddad, Charly, laying into my father. I stopped to listen in the hall outside the dining room. I grinned, loving the way Charly stood up to him.

“Oh, lighten up and stop acting like you don’t come from backwoods hillbillies. Your uppity ways, James, are going to chase that boy away,” Pops said with irritation in his voice.

“I won’t let that happen. That boy is going to get into the pros, if I have to drag him there,” my dad barked.

“Well, what happens if he doesn’t want to go?”

“That’s not an option, Dad. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m late for a meeting.”

That was my cue. “I’m going to practice now!” I shouted as I slammed the door on my way out as final ‘fuck you’.

I peeled out, knowing it would piss my dad off if I left skid marks on our rounded driveway. I headed to the rink, where I had just enough time to suit up, practice for a half hour, shower, and get to school.

Three times a week, I had to get up at five a.m. for practice, while the other days I put in a two hour practice after school. On top of that, I met with a conditioning coach and former NHL player, who was showing me the ropes in order to make it into the pros.

It had paid off to train that hard, but I would have given it up to have a better relationship with my dad.

At least, I still had Charly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Marla:

The soft patter of warm summer rain pinged against the roof of the salon as I prepared the massage room for my next client.

Besides being an esthetician, I was massage therapist. I changed the sheets on my table, checked my oil supply, and refreshed the room with a little sage to chase away the old energy as the rain slid off the window. The air was cooling down after a long, hot summer day.

I always loved days like this.

“Joanie, so good to see you,” I greeted one of my favorite clients as she came into the room.

“Get comfortable and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, running her hand through her cute dark bob.

After waiting a few minutes for her to get under the sheets, I came back into the room, dimmed the lights, and approached her as soothing instrumental music floated through the room.

I brought the sheet lightly off her slender back. “How does that touch feel?” I asked as I put oil on her back and moved my hands around, re-familiarizing myself with her body.

“Mmm... good.”

“All right. Let’s get started.” My hands explored her upper back, instinctually looking for sources of pain and discomfort.

She gave a small shudder as I glided my fingers toward her lower back.

Yeah, that was the spot.

I worked on her right side and she sighed softly as the pain was relieved. I gently guided my hands back and forth over her back, getting the muscles to relax back into place. Submitting to the tranquil rhythm of the massage, my mind wandered back to another rainy day.

The silliness of Beau trying to get me to tutor him went on for about a week. I just couldn’t believe he would put out all that effort to get my attention. If he put half as much determination into his paper, he wouldn’t even need my help.

At first, I didn’t know how to react to the Snickers on my locker or the ridiculous poem handwritten on the back of a Cheetos wrapper in barely legible permanent marker.

What a goofball.

It was sweet, but I still wasn’t going to budge. I figured, if I ignored him long enough, he would just leave me alone. Turned out, the more I resisted his efforts, the harder he came after me.

He was persistent. I’ll give him that.

That next Saturday, Emma and I took the bus several miles from our apartment and made our way to the grocery store, which was part of our weekly ritual. It helped both of us feel normal to do an activity like buying groceries.

The comforting whish of the automatic doors sliding open greeted us as the smell of ripe strawberries beckoned us into the store on that bright spring afternoon.

“Ooh, can we get some fruit today?” Emma asked, dragging me by the hand toward the produce section.

“Um... it depends on the prices, Sugarpop. If it’s cheap, we can get a little bit.”

“Okay, yum, those strawberries smell good,” she said, sniffing the fragrant air.

“Yes, they do.” I checked the price, relieved they were on sale as we stood in front of the display. “Let’s get two baskets.”

“Yay!” she said, carefully selecting out two bright green containers and putting them in the buggy. “Okay, what’s next?”

I squatted down on my haunches, putting my hands around Emma’s full cheeks, and pulling our faces together like we were in a two-gal huddle. “You know the drill. Everything must have a coupon or be on sale. You ready?”

“Ready!”

We made our way up and down the aisles while Emma pirouetted in front of the cart as she picked up different items.

“Can I get a cookie?” she asked as I studied a can of navy beans.

“Yeah, but remember to be polite and ask. Don’t just take.”

“Okay.” She set off for the bakery as I continued to wander down the aisle.

Canned food was a lifesaver. Cheap, but it still provided some nutrition. Vegetables saturated in preservatives weren’t my first choice, but they would do for now. I hoped when I graduated in a couple of months that I could get a job and be able to afford better food.

Emma came back with her pink cookie and we finished the rest of our shopping. We checked out and headed back to the bus stop. We had at least five minutes before the next bus would arrive.