Her Two Billionaires and a Baby (14 page)

“I give, Jill! I surrender!” she shouted, her voice carrying like crazy through the stairwell. “You win! Uncle! Uncle! I can never be you. Dylan and Mike can't even tell me that you left them more money than God. You are perfect from the grave! You even made the balls on the warlock waitress at Jeddy's! You're a fucking legend!” Laura's arms outstretched as she screamed the word “legend,” her shoes flying out of her hand and tumbling down the metal railings,
plink, plunk, plonk
as they rattled and rolled, landing who knows where.

As she rounded the twenty-fifth floor, retrieving her shoes, a security guard poked his head through the door, then entered the staircase. The older gentleman reminded her of her grandfather, a beer gut and kind eyes crashing through her overwrought sensibilities. “Excuse me, Miss?”

She didn't stop her slow trek. “Yes?” she called back.

“Are you OK? We're hearing reports of someone yelling in the stairwell.”

“Oh, I'm fine. Just getting some exercise.” Her voice had that shaky hitch to it she got when she was upset, but she tried to cover it up by acting winded. “And boy, do I need it.”

He followed her, and as she passed him on the spiral one floor down, she saw him pat his stomach. “I'm with you there,” he chuckled. “I'll walk down behind you if you don't mind. Just making sure it's safe here and that there aren't any troublemakers.”

Great. Just fucking great. She couldn't even vent without having it ruined.
Fuck you, Dylan. Fuck you, Mike.
Why would you lie? She thumped and skipped her way down, moving faster now that she had an audience, hoping she could get to the bottom without making herself dizzy. She'd been a tad lightheaded these past couple days and didn't need the added dose of unreality from spinning around and around as she descended thirty-two floors.

She was somewhere around floor eight when the old man gave up. “See you!” he shouted, waving from five or six flights up. Waving back, she sped up, eager for sunshine and a flat walking surface. The balls of her feet were scraped up from the no-skid surface at the edge of each stair, and her hamstrings and IT bands were screaming. Tomorrow, she'd pay for this.

Today she just needed to get to Josie. If she fixated on that, she'd be OK. Falling apart at Josie's apartment would be the best possible solution here. Fear that Mike or Dylan – or Mike and Dylan – would get to her first drove her. Dylan was likely on his way to her office to explain.
Explain, explain, explain.
She huffed as she hurried around floor five. Of course he had an explanation. She could just guess.

“Um, well, it's
complicated
.” His tone of voice, the little sidelong look with a half-smile, Mr. Charm turning it on to cozy up and sweet-talk his way out of discomfort.

Well, Dylan, have fun snuggling up to those complications, because that's what you'll be fucking. Not me.

And you, too, Mike.

Anger seeped in, like an old friend who was a lousy house guest, but you forget every time he leaves how much you wish him gone, and welcome him heartily when he reappears. Anger was so much easier than hurt, or heartache, or regret, so anger it was. Welcome my old friend.

Bursting through the street-level door, the morning greeted her with hot, sultry air and a brightness that made her squint and cringe. She balanced herself on one foot to put on one shoe, then the other, and took a moment to rebalance herself. Ouch. Her feet felt like raw ground beef right now, but that was fine. Anger would keep her going, dull the pain, make it
alllll
better until she could collapse at Josie's.

Hailing a cab was easier than usual; maybe she looked as pissed off as she felt. She knew it would be a quick, cheap ride, and as the cabbie raced to deliver her she massaged her feet and ignored the increasingly-active smart phone in her purse. If she looked she knew she'd find a ton of messages.

Ring! Ring!
A quick peek showed Dylan calling. Nope. She turned off the phone; five minutes from Josie's meant she didn't need to worry about missing a call from her. The cab was stinky but clean, carrying the residue of countless cigarettes, the stale odor of nicotine and coconut air freshener giving her something to gag on. Something other than sheer anxiety and panic. A quick nudge of the window button and she gave herself an inch of fresh air. The cabby shot her a look and turned up the air conditioner, then looked again.
Sorry, Bud
. Whatever he saw in her return look made him shift his eyes down and keep his mouth shut.

Within minutes he screeched to the front of Josie's building, a triple-decker that she'd lived in for years, a dingy grey that melted into the neighborhood, a gentrifying section of Cambridge that was always on the verge of “up and coming” but, thankfully, stayed under the radar and kept reasonable rents. They'd toyed with rooming together and renting a big place, but neither could give up their neighborhoods, Laura enjoying Somerville more than she really ought to.

She threw some cash at the cabbie and ran to Josie's first floor apartment. Her friend was already on the porch, a look of crumpled compassion on her face, and she embraced Laura without words, holding her and stroking her hair as the tears returned.

Pulling back, Josie put her arm around Laura's waist and guided her into the sunny apartment. “Let me make coffee for you this time,” she said, sighing hard. “It's the least I can do.”

If Laura's apartment looked like a Scandinavian designer with a pink fetish had decorated it, Josie's was pure '60s hippie Buddhist funk. It looked like Carole King and the Dalai Lama shared the place. Decorated in thrift shop finds and Tibetan boutique splurges, the perpetual scent of sandalwood and lavender was comforting, though it generally covered up other odors that were finally legal in Massachusetts, as long as one kept it under an ounce and in the privacy of home.

Laura slumped down on an overstuffed monk-red recliner covered in a funky silk throw, vibrant mustard yellow and rich steel blue competing with little reflector things. She could see Josie in the kitchen, the apartment a converted single-family home. Doorways were random and seemed to have no meaning, just plunked here and there. Aside from the bedroom and bath, it was open concept but with walls and thresholds, making the fairly-large place seem smaller.

Josie used a Keurig, and shouted, “Glazed donut or Breakfast blend?”

“Scotch!”

“I have Bailey's.” Her voice said she didn't have scotch, though.

“Good enough! Breakfast blend and Bailey's!” It wasn't even nine yet. Who cared? It's not like she was really into following social conventions lately, anyhow. If a girl couldn't get drunk the day one of her threesome boyfriends was outed as a secret billionaire on local television, when could she?

“How did you hear about them?” she called out to Josie. A hiss and gurgle told her the first cup was brewing.

“That stupid morning TV Show. I had it on and heard Dylan's name and, well – I texted you right away. I'm guessing they did, too?”

Bzzz
. Her phone hummed in her pocket and she pulled it out. Squinting, she read the screen. “Jesus.” Low whistle. Josie wandered into the room and handed her a steaming cup of coffee, tinted tan by the Bailey's.

“Let me guess. Dylan's texted you seventy-six times?”

“And Mike's a close second.”
Sip.
The alcohol hit her taste buds like a tsunami of flavor. It felt weird to drink this early. Weird was becoming her default
waaaay
too fast for comfort, but if that was her reality, she'd embrace it. Especially if it tasted like Irish crème.

“Fuck 'em. I can't believe they – man, Laura. Billionaires? I mean, they aren't gorgeous enough, but they have to be secret billionaires, too? Your life is like a cross between General Hospital and Desperate Housewives with a touch of Fifty Shades.”

She knew it was funny. She should laugh, right? Instead, though, she swallowed too much scalding liquid too fast, making her nearly scream from the burning pain. If she coughed, she'd scald her throat and mouth even more. The alcohol tasted weird, anyhow – a little too...something. As she gagged and choked, poor Josie ran between the living room and the kitchen, shouting, “Are you OK?”

“Ice,” Laura hissed. Josie returned with ice water, which Laura eagerly sucked into her mouth, keeping her lips closed and pooching out her cheeks to retain the cold balm against her torn, raw mouth. Great. Just great. She couldn't even manage to drink a fucking cup of coffee without something going wrong.
Don't try to walk and chew gum at the same time. Might break a leg
.

Finally, she swallowed, refilling her mouth with the ice water and feeling the sting abate somewhat, little ridges on the roof of her mouth throbbing horribly. That raw, scratchy feeling that comes from a good scalding started to sink in, and she knew she was in for a good two to three days of this. The universe could stop shitting on her. Seriously.
Cut it out, God
, she thought.
My middle name isn't Job
.

“...well, now, he can bring his fire hose to my garage any time...” a voice said, wafting into the living room.

“Fuck!” Josie shouted, sprinting for her bedroom. The sound cut out fast. Laura's eyes filled, less from mouth pain and more from life pain. This hurt. This was going to hurt for a good, long time. And the hurt was like Ryan times a thousand.

No.

Times two billion.

Laura nursed her ice water, Josie drank her coffee, and the two said nothing, comfortable the way old friends could be, knowing that friendship meant that silence was sometimes the best form of support. She needed someone there, someone to witness her pain but not to comment on it, or judge it. A few years ago she would have needed Josie to join her in spewing rage about her being betrayed and lied to, but that wasn't what she needed today. Instead, Josie's calm, steady presence gave her the room to let reality fill in the cracks of her heart and to come to her own ready place for processing it all.

One of Josie's cats, an old calico named Dotty she'd adopted from a local rescue shelter a few years back, settled on the couch next to Laura. Her own cats weren't nearly as social, hiding away and largely independent, three puffs of fur who had come to her the same way, two of them Persians that had been owned by an elderly woman who had to go into a nursing home. No one had wanted cats the ages of teenagers, so Laura had taken in Miss Daisy and Frumpy. Snuggles had come to her from an abused animals rescue network, her ears clipped in jagged wrecks and part of her tail mangled. Snuggles liked patches of sunshine and to be left alone. Somehow, Miss Daisy and Frumpy respected that, and all three coexisted nicely.

Too bad other threesomes couldn't be so smooth.

“How's Snuggles doing lately?” Josie asked. “I never see her when I come over.”

Laura laughed, petting Dotty, who tipped her chin up as if granting permission. “I never see her, either. I only know she's real because I see a tail under the bed and she eats her food.”

Josie nodded and finished off her mug. “Like a teenage boy. Needs sleep and food.” The joke fell flat. Laura was done talking.

“More coffee?”

“God, no.”

Josie winced. “Sorry. More ice water?”

“Yes, please.” She was starting to sound like Mike. Two word sentences weren't her style but right now, it was all she could manage. Maybe this “woman of few words” schtick was something she should try on, see how the other half lives in a world of low verbal output. Was there something to not spilling every thought out of your mouth? Could Mike be on to something, being the quiet but steady type who was a deep presence without contributing to the non-stop flow of words that filled modern life?

Why was she even thinking about this? Her open mouth called out to her hands to fan cool air inside her, her tongue drying out quickly. She couldn't even drink a cup of coffee correctly. Why mull over esoteric ideas?

Because it was easier than facing the fact that they had destroyed this burgeoning relationship yet again. And, most likely, once and for all.

“So,” she and Josie said in unison. Startled, both laughed at the other, the nervous tension that filled the room making Laura's stomach turn again. She'd been queasy all day, her stomach bearing the brunt of the stress.

“You first,” Josie deferred.

“So, it looks like I managed not only to find two amazingly hot, wonderful guys who happen to be in a secret,
complicated
– ” Josie snorted as Laura emphasized that word “ – relationship and we turned it into a great threesome. Oh. Yeah. And they happen to be billionaires and never bothered to tell me because – because – ” She faltered there. Why in the hell hadn't they told her about their money?

Josie seemed to have the same thought, scrunching her face in a weird expression. “Huh. What a supremely odd thing to hide from you. I mean, their whole knowing each other and double-teaming you secret was strange, but I can at least understand it. It's really out there, and they didn't know how to approach it, and in typical clueless man style they butchered it.”

Laura's turn to snort.

“But this? I mean, wouldn't most guys consider being a fucking billionaire something to gloat about?”

Laura swallowed. Hard. “Maybe they're embarrassed?”

“Why?”

“Because it's Jill's money?”

Josie considered that, tipping her head from one side to the other. “Mmmmm, maybe.” Skepticism filled her voice. “You think they were ashamed of coming into the money because she died and left it to them?”

Laura shrugged. “I'm as stumped as you are.” As she shifted, Dotty sniffed the air, stood, and transferred her loyalties and attentions to Josie, who absent-mindedly stroked her multi-colored head.

Josie sighed. “Wouldn't you share that kind of thing pretty soon in a relationship? I've never had that kind of money – any guy who dates me gets Taco Bell, not trips to private islands in Mexico – but I'd think it would be something you throw out there to clear the air right away.”