HEAT: A Bad Boy Romance (11 page)

F
or a full minute
after Janie leaves, I’m able to keep it more or less together. I try to go numb—God knows I’ve got enough practice at it. But the numbness doesn’t come quick enough and before I know it I’m imagining my father’s face when I tell him I blew it, and I can hear him already coming up with some other plan.

My hand aches, and it’s not until that moment that I realize I put it through the wall. The thick plaster and drywall topples out of the hole when I pull my hand out and falls to the floor, shattering.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have lowered myself to take part in Reginald’s delusional “grand plan,” and I shouldn’t have kept myself closed off from Janie like I did. All the guilt and anger just serves to illuminate what I already realized.

What I had with Janie wasn’t an act. I didn’t need to put on a mask to make her fall for me—I just fell for her and that was all I needed to do.

Flexing my hand, I sink down onto a stool at the bar, staring at my scraped knuckles. My whole life is told in that one image. Daddy says jump, and I ask how high, and deal with the injuries afterward. And what does he have to offer me? Money?

I don’t need it. I don’t need him, I don’t need the company. It’s not worth giving up Janie just to get a slice of the Ferry fortune—or even the whole goddamn pie.

Janie’s right; what she said before. Standing on her own two feet—she’s more alive than any woman I’ve ever known, and for a moment I managed to convince myself that I could have some kind of a future with her.

I could have.

D
espite the fact
that I know she doesn’t want to hear from me, and I want to give her that, I can’t help trying to make things right. I send text after text, and call her. No responses, and my calls go straight to voice mail.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“Let me explain.”

“I need to make this right.”

“Forget about the PR shit. I want to be with you.”

I stop short of telling her how I really feel—or, how I think I feel, anyway. How am I even supposed to know?

The afternoon comes and goes, and finally I get a response. When the phone goes off, I practically fall over myself to get to it, momentarily intoxicated by the hope she’s cooled down.

But, no. Of course not.

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

Reginald has no idea what he’s made me give up. I plan to tell him. But not sober. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? I want to throw my phone into the ocean outside and disappear. Could I? Is there any place I could go he wouldn’t find me? Or would he even bother?

Probably not.

It’s not in me to run away, though. I need something to distract me, to get me out of this hole. Previous experience has taught me that the best way to crawl out of this hole is to get into a different one.

I finally leave the beach house. Probably I’ll never come back here. As I stand beside the Benz I took from the garage to get out here, I consider burning it down.

No. Even if I was inclined to risk it—it’s been a hot, dry summer—the thought of destroying the memories that are in the place now is painful. Instead, I promise myself that I won’t come back here until I can come back with Janie.

When I pull away from the place, I fully expect it to be the last time I lay eyes on it.

A
short drive
and half a bottle of cognac later, I’m at a bar even farther north. I can’t go home yet, and going to Ferry Lights means being across the street from where Janie is probably seething hatred in my direction. Not sure I ever want to go back there.

Instead, I’m staring into the mirror behind the bar, at myself, just to see if I can still do it. Just barely. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe the cognac’s dulled my emotions to the point where I can stomach the sight of myself.

There are beautiful women here. Objectively, I mean, they’re gorgeous. We’re right on the ocean, and these women are the kind that never get into a two-piece unless they can rock it, and they are. A few of them pick up on my mood, I guess, and come by to ask what’s wrong. The first few I can’t even talk to, and in short order they leave me alone, casting nervous looks at me. A guy my size with an expression like the one on my face—I’m probably terrifying.

One of them, a tan brunette in a sarong and a bikini top, though, isn’t so put off. She watches me silently after she orders a drink, and I know the game she’s playing. “I’m not interested,” I tell her. “Sorry.”

“You look like someone just pissed all over your parade,” she says. “Come here to lick your wounds, big boy?”

I can’t even muster the energy to sneer at her. I just shake my head slowly.

“Must be girl trouble,” she sighs. “I can always tell. Or, is it boy trouble?” She arches an eyebrow.

She purses her lips when I finally turn my head to look at her, and drums her fingers on the bar. “Definitely girl trouble. What she do? Cheat on you?”

“No,” I tell the girl. “I fucked her, fell in love with her, and then told her she was worthless.” May as well have, anyway.

The brunette whistles, and finishes her drink.

“Wow,” she says when she puts the glass down. She stands from the bar, and the look on her face is a mix of pity and disgust. “I guess you deserve to be right where you are, then, don’t you?”

She walks away, hips swaying, and I can’t find a single fault in her assessment of me.

And I realize with a flash that I was never doing it for my father. That was only an excuse for my heart in case Janie didn’t want me.

T
he launch party
is looming ever closer, and between being torn up over Jake—no matter how many times I remind myself he’s not worth getting torn up over—and stressed beyond belief, it doesn’t occur to me to panic about the fact that I’ve started throwing up my breakfast until I’m a week late for my cycle.

Stress does that, though, right? Messes with your rhythms, makes it difficult for your body to regulate the heinously complex chemical cocktails it’s constantly shaking up. Right?

For that week, I can believe that. I’m short on tampons, so I even go and buy a variety pack. I’ve been late before, and it always arrives with a vengeance.

After the next week, I panic.

I’m on the phone making an appointment with a woman I never expected to see in a professional setting. My friend Annie is a doula, and I’ve referred lots of my own clients to her. She’s fantastic. She’s also a calming presence.

Almost the moment I walk in, Annie sizes me up like the village wise woman, both eyebrows raising just a hair.

I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in half the stuff she sometimes says, but that look makes my heart ache in my chest. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, no…”

Annie winces, and comes to me, pulling me into a hug. “Come on,” she says gently, rubbing my back. “You’re fine. You’ll be just fine, okay? Come sit down.”

“I’m so stupid, Annie,” I mutter, barely keeping myself together. “I’ve been so, so fucking stupid.”

“Hush,” Annie says as she lowers me into a comfortable chair like I’m already eight months along. She speaks in this gentle, calming way she’s mastered from years of practice as she fixes us both a cup of tea—very likely something herbal and caffeine-free. Oh shit. How am I going to even live my life without four cups of coffee a day? For nine months?

“I’ll order you a blood test,” she says. “We don’t know anything yet, right?”

“What’s that mean?” I ask, and immediately regret it. “Sorry… sorry. I’m tense.”

“Take this,” she says, pushing a warm mug into my hand. “It’ll calm you down and it’s good for the… well, anyway. So… what happened?”

“Do I have to swear you to secrecy?” I ask, trying to make a joke.

Annie looks like I slapped her, though. “I would never—”

“Sorry,” I say again. “Bad joke. I’m… not right, at the moment. Um… I met a guy, obviously.”

That, at least, gets a small chuckle from her.

“Jake Ferry… Reginald Ferry’s son,” I say, quietly, like there might be other people listening.

Annie’s eyebrows go way up at that. “The… billionaire Ferry? The one that opened up Ferry Lights?”

“Don’t judge me,” I beg her.

“I would never,” Annie says, God bless her cotton socks. “Wow. That’s… something.”

“A gross oversight and lapse of judgment?” I suggest. I don’t need her to confirm it. “I should have used protection, but you know the doctor told me that I wasn’t likely to be able to have kids after the ovary operation I had when I was eighteen. Still, I should be on birth control for fuck’s sake. I just… never thought it would be an issue… you know, I’m busy all the time. It’s never
been
an issue.”

“Does he know?” she asks me, tentatively, like I might bite. In fairness, I’d be just as worried in her shoes. I am not in a good mood.

My cheeks get hot, and I can’t quite say anything. Which for Annie is enough of an answer.

“Okay,” she breathes.

“If this gets out, if I tell him and… Annie, I’ll be the laughingstock of social media. People will say I slept with him and got knocked up on purpose to get a shot at his daddy’s money and after what he… I can’t be with him. I can’t.”

Christ, I never cry. What the fuck is happening to me? Is this what it’s going to be like for the next nine months? I need to be on my game, on point, for the next phase of Red Hall and…

Gloria. Jesus, that twit can’t keep her mouth shut about what soda I drink, much less that I’m pregnant. How long before I start to show? I can feel a clock ticking away to my self-destruct moment.

“Calm down,” Annie says, putting a hand on my back. I’m hyperventilating. “Deep breaths. In, and out… in… and out. Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. We’ll get the test done, and go from there. And Janie?”

I look up at her, my eyes hot and puffy from crying.

“Whatever happens, you’re going to be okay. Everything happens for a reason.” She leans in, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. Now come on, I’ll take you to the hospital. That’s the only way to be sure.”

Thank God for Annie Nealson.

“
P
lease let
it be ovarian cysts. Please let it be ovarian cysts.” As painful as it would be, and as much as I hate the idea of going under the knife, the doctor tells me it’s the other possibility when I stupidly tell him I’m not sure if I’m pregnant or not. Apparently there are a number of options, but most of them are worse.

If anyone up there is listening, I promise I will live a good and noble life of piety and celibacy if I can just not be pregnant with Jake Ferry’s baby
.

The doctor returns with the test results. Annie looks like she’s preparing herself to handle my meltdown. It was too fast, wasn’t it? Is that it? I try to peek at the other side of the clipboard like it would make a difference while the doctor makes a few marks.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Hall,” he says. “You are approximately three weeks pregnant.”

“It’s ‘Miss’ Hall,” I say, because it’s all I can think to say.

“Oh,” the doctor says, and is that the tone of someone judging an unwed mother? I open my mouth to shut him the fuck down but Annie swoops in before I unleash the titan.

“Thank you, Doctor Miller,” she says quickly. “You can bill my office. Lorna has all the information. Come on, Janie, let me get you back to the office.”

Outside, I finally break down, and Annie holds me while I sob into her shoulder. I can feel myself getting sucked straight down into a monumental depression—I know, because I’ve been there before. Not now. I can’t do this now, not again, not ever, not with so much on the line.

Annie takes me back to her office, and we schedule out the appointments. I’ve sent her so much high-profile business that she doesn’t even talk about what it will cost. She doesn’t come cheap. I love her more in that moment than I have ever loved another woman, and strongly consider marrying her. If only I could become a lesbian.

By the time I make it to the car, maybe her bullshit herbal tea is actually doing something, because I’m a little calmer. I can think clearly for a little while.

I will not go back into that hole. No ma’am.

I will do what I did back then. Hurl myself headlong into work. It’s not like I’m in short supply.

It’s also just about the only way I’ll be able to keep myself from finding and murdering Jake Ferry.

N
ot another word from Janie
. I’m pressed between two brick walls. On one side, Reginald expects me to be making some kind of progress on that front and I haven’t told him yet that she’s cut me off. On the other, she’s cut me off and there’s a vise clamped around my heart from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep.

More than once I consider going to Red Hall during dinner. I know she’ll be there and there’s a part of me that knows she won’t make a scene; not after Martin, and not after I seemingly foiled a robbery. That would be cheap and manipulative, though, and that’s exactly why she cut me off in the first place.

The only positive to come out of it all is that I’m finally ready to get out from under Reginald’s thumb. If I can get Janie to hear me out, to forgive me for being the worst person on earth, it’ll be worth it. That, and somehow finagle the kind of cash that I can start a business with. Maybe if I do that—if I pursue my own dream—it’ll show her that I’m serious, and that I want to change.

I mull that over for days. Paranoia has me looking over my shoulder every time Reginald is nearby. I can’t shake the feeling that he knows what’s going on, that he knows what I’m thinking. That’s how he made his fortune, after all. Subterfuge is Reginald’s air, water, and food.

He starts keeping me close, for one thing. Oh, he acts like he’s just taking me along, introducing me to all the movers and shakers that I’ll need to know to work more closely with him. A golf game? Really?

I’ve always hated golf, for one thing, and for another Reginald has never taken me anywhere for anything.

Suddenly, though, we’re a father and son team. He praises me in front of his buddies, and I’m expected to make friends with their sons—a lineup of carbon copies. Maybe it’s Reginald’s way of pointing out who he wants me to be. Fall in line, kiddo. All the other billionaire boys are doing it.

And around every corner we turn together, he’s needling me about Janie. I’ve started leaving for a day or two, going up state to the bar on the beach, just to make it look like I’m off securing his plans for Red Hall.

“How’s Janie doing? She let you put it in her ass yet?” He laughs like he made a joke.

I laugh as well, even though it makes me want to vomit, and I shrug helplessly. “Not yet, but soon.”

Another time he wants to know intimate details. “Did you have to train her to suck a dick right?” or “How tight is that pussy? Type A girls have the tightest pussies.”

I manage to avoid answering those questions with counter jabs. “Jealous you couldn’t get into her pants yourself?”

“No,” Reginald says to that. “I could have. I wanted you to do it so I could see what you’re made of.”

His eyes are searching; he’s testing me. All of his questions are tests. I’m under examination and I know it and I’m running out of answers to his questions.

When I’m around him, which is more and more often, I can’t show any weakness. I can’t be myself, and I can’t wear my feelings on my sleeve or anywhere else. So I suffer inside, stuffing it all down because the longer I’m in the dull gray light of purgatory, the more I miss the sun. Janie’s smile. The smell of her. The feeling I had for just a little while when I could be myself and open up to someone.

By the time Reginald drags me off to a “gentleman’s dinner”—a lavish, obscenely expensive affair wherein the shareholders and some prospective business partners all get together to eat endangered species served on platters by women wearing pasties and loin cloths, who dance when they aren’t bringing food or drinks—I can feel a tear down the center of me.

I can’t do this much longer. It makes me feel sick, but I have to know how and when I can see her alone, so I carefully funnel some money into a friend’s business on the back of a few big-ticket purchases to get some cash to hire someone who isn’t a part of Reginald’s detail to follow her. No pictures, nothing incriminating. I just need to know what the right opportunity will be.

Within an hour of hiring the PI, I realize that this is exactly what Reginald would do in my situation. Looking in the mirror now, I can see more and more of him in my face. People always told me I was the spitting image of my father, but I never really saw it.

After a visit from his barber, and his personal shopper in advance of another bullshit excuse for him to interrogate me around his buddies, though… there it is. Those are my father’s eyes. That’s his jawline. Hell, I’ve even got his hairline with that little bit of widow’s peak.

It’s all I can do not to take the mirror off the wall and hurl it across the room. The sound of shattering glass feels like it would wake me up somehow, like this is all just a nightmare that I can wake up from if I shock myself out of it.

But it isn’t.

“Where are we on the Janie Hall situation?” Reginald asks me later, after he’s paraded me around like a prize pony. “It’s been weeks. I haven’t seen a whisper about the two of you.”

“She’s stubborn,” I tell him. “She wants to be sure I’m serious, so I’m being serious with her. You want me to run her off?”

His eyes bore into me. Any second he’s going to call bullshit and announce to the room that I’m no longer his son.

Please do that. Please see through me
.

“Do whatever you need to,” he finally growls. “Propose, for all I care. Knock her up. I don’t give a fuck about the consequences. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I tell him.

I’m beyond fucked.