Jacks: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 1) (3 page)

“Just bring it by in a half hour,” Owen said, his voice low and even.

I forced myself to meet his eyes. Soaked in coffee, thoroughly disgusted by my lack of grace and painfully aware that I was practically naked in front of him, I expected to see judgment or perhaps a bit of a smirk… But, no. His expression alternated between concern and intense interest at his eyes skipped over the drenched, now-transparent shirt that clung to my skin.

I was reasonably sure he could see my nipple through the lace bra by the way his eyes lingered in a tight circle thereabouts. He didn’t seem amused at all. He seemed… hungry.

“Owen, I need to go change. Melita knows where your office is. She can--”

“No,” he said decisively, his teeth clenched. All the usual lighthearted jokiness was gone from his voice. Part of me was taken aback by his sudden change, and part of me was turning swiftly to jelly.

“Bring it in thirty,” he growled, not meeting my eyes again. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, leaving me at the counter with my mouth hanging open, my skin burning under the clammy fabric, my inner turmoil still at red-danger-zone levels.

The glass door closed again with another chiming of the bell and Melita and I stood there staring at it for long seconds.

“Brienne, I just wanna say--” she whispered. I flung up a hand between us.
Stop.

“I do not want to talk about it,” I growled through my clenched teeth.

“I’m just really sorry!” she squeaked.

“Dave?” I called out as I walked gingerly to the back room, holding my shirt out from my chest with my fingertips. “Uh, Dave!”

I heard the sound of chair wheels on the linoleum floor and Dave stuck his head out of the office door horizontally. Making a face, he retreated, then reemerged, standing. He held his arms out in dismay.

“Wh-- what happened to you?”

“Um, coffee? Coffee happened to me?” I looked down. I was soaked to my knee. “The splashing, burning kind?”

He waved me off like I was beneath contempt. “Fine, go,” he sighed. “Tell Carl we are out of two percent. Thanks.”

I grabbed my sweater and purse from the hook and snuck out the back door. Luckily, mornings by Lake Michigan were pretty chilly even in July, so I always brought a sweater when I started my shift at 4:30am. Now, it helped keep me from looking like a wreck and drawing too much attention to myself as I hurried down Clark Street toward our apartment on Waveland.

Chicago really sizzles in July, and a few pedestrians glanced at me as I strode down the blazing white sidewalk with my sweater hugged tightly around me. People quickly averted their eyes as I approached.

Oh great, they probably think I’m a bag lady run amok. Nice. I probably look completely nuts.

I fished for the keyfob in my purse as I walked, gracefully unlocking the security gate without breaking my stride. I ducked and waved at the postman who was rolling his cart up to the building just before mine, hoping he couldn’t see the seeping stains across the front of my body.

Keying into both heavy doors, I breathed a sigh of relief when the cool air blasted into my hair and the ring of coffee-scented sweat around my neck. I jogged lightly up the stairs and down the nearly silent hall, pausing at our door to pick the next key out of the bunch, then stopped.

A voice inside the apartment was laughing, getting louder. I looked up in surprise. The bolt snapped open and the doorknob turned.

“--Oh, I know, right?? Ha ha ha!” came a voice as the door swung inward.

“Whitney?” I said dumbly, squinting at her shadow in the sudden blare of light.

My friend Whitney spun around at my voice. I cracked a smile at her automatically, though I was confused. Did I get the wrong door? Why was she here? Whitney’s mouth opened and then closed. She went pale around the rust-red stain of her lipstick.

“What are you…” I stammered, confused. Then I realized I knew the look on her face. She was surprised to see me. In my own house. I was not supposed to be here.

“Oh no,” I growled, the wave rising in my belly. “Not again! Oh, no no no!”

Stepping forward, I pushed the door the rest of the way open. Whitney put her hands up and backed against the hallway wall.

“Where is Carl?” I demanded, my voice a crazy bleat. “Carl?? Carl!”

Carl stumbled out of the hallway in a pair of baggy pajama pants and no shirt, skidding on the shiny wood floor in his bare feet. His eyes flew wide and his mouth opened as though ready to offer some explanation. Then he looked me over with shock and concern.

“What happened? Are you OK?”

I saw myself briefly through his eyes: sweat-soaked, coffee-stained, and red-faced from the hot walk. I probably looked terrifying. I sure hoped so.

But when I opened my mouth, nothing would come out. Whitney edged toward the hallway and I spun on her, pointing. She stopped in her tracks. Carl held out his hands.

“Listen, this is not what you--”

“Stop!” I said, finding my voice again and disappointed by how thin it sounded. “This?” I asked nonsensically, my hands flapping toward Whitney, toward the apartment, toward his shirtless, skinny torso.

A thousand things rushed through my head in a swift, torrential monologue - how could you? How could you do this again? Why Whitney? To hurt me more? Why not just leave? After everything? After I moved here to be with you? After I get up at 4am every day to work your stupid lame coffee house you ungrateful pig? WHY?

But instead I looked from one to the other and said nothing.

Fighting is what he wants. And I am not giving him what he wants.

I took a deep breath and glared furiously at each of them, then turned on my heel and stalked to the bedroom. I dragged a rolling suitcase from the back of the closet and stood with it in my upraised arms. The bed was unmade, the blankets scrolled into an S across the rumpled sheets. The pillows were bunched and sideways. I felt like I could smell them, all oily and curdled like it a fog in the room.

Biting back a groan of pain I flung open the case on the bed, yanking the drawers out of the dresser and just dumping everything inside.

“Brienne,” Carl called meekly from the doorway. “Can we talk?”

I refused to open my mouth, afraid of what might spill out. The taste of blood coated my tongue as I bit my lips closed. I threw my jewelry box in the case and got another suitcase from the closet.

“Bree, it really didn’t mean anything…”

The urge to vomit surged in my belly, a rusty orange swell of anger and confusion. I swallowed it back and pulled two drawers from the bathroom cabinet, then upturned them into the case.

“It’s just, things… I mean you have to know that things haven’t been good for a while…”

Shoes? The suitcases were getting pretty full. I grabbed some flipflops and two pairs of canvas sneakers. Melita would keep me in trashy heels forever if she had her way.

“Bree, say something, please,” he pleaded from the doorway.

Handbags? Fuck it. I’m just taking the Coach ones.

I grabbed a new t-shirt and jeans from the bigger bag and laid them aside on the bed.

Wait, Plain Jane? No I do not think so.

Vengefully I stuffed the jeans back in the case and drew out a pretty, flowered a-line dress, instead then zippered up the cases for good.

Turning, I walked toward Carl who backed quickly into the hallway with a terrified look and his hands up around his ears. As soon as he was clear, I slammed the door in his face and snapped the lock into place.

That felt pretty good
.
At least he finally cares how I feel, even if he’s just afraid I’m going to hit him.

Peeling off my damp, sticky clothes, I turned on the bathroom tap and threw a washcloth under the water. A shower would feel great, but I wasn’t about to get naked with him anywhere near me ever again. The razor glinted at me from the corner of the tub and I stopped, washcloth in mid-air.

You know what, fuck this.

I left my clothes in a pile on the floor and turned on the shower full blast, stepping in when the steam was choking and too hot to bear. I scrubbed the coffee off me with the cloth, nearly scalding myself, rubbing too hard at my neck and underarms, suddenly feeling as though I’d been coated in shellac. I wanted it all off.

The soap felt good, and the too-hot water felt like the scour I needed. But still there was more. I wanted to peel him off me. I couldn’t even really think about it directly but the urge was distinct and undeniable: remove that man.

Taking the razor in my trembling fingers, I balanced my heel on the tub ledge and squirted a handful of foam into my palm. With my chin to my chest, I took a good look at my wide hips, my full belly, and the dark, untended triangle of pubic hair I thought was sort of feral and sexy.

One deep breath in, and I drew the shaving foam across my undercarriage and up through the triangle. Like cake frosting, I used my fingers to artlessly maneuver the foam into the crevices I could see through the dripping sheets of water that covered my eyes.

The first stroke of the razor chattered and hissed like a faraway conversation. It sounded rough and dry. I cleaned the razor and started again from as far back toward my ass as I could reach, around the side of my nether lips, to the front and up. Over and over, clearing more of a view with every stroke.

At some point I sort of realized I had never actually seen myself before: never bothered to look, certainly never seen my labia without their furry covering. That seemed weird: my boyfriends had seen parts of me I never had. Even strangers. Just a couple.

Checking myself out felt like unearthing an artifact I’d only ever heard about. The smooth, plump, dusky lips. The lighter pink center peeking out like a shy secret.

Hey. That’s sort of cute.

After a few moments’ thought, I decided to just shape the unruly triangle into an orderly one. What were ladies really doing with their pubic hair these days? I didn’t know, but I sure didn’t want to spend the next two weeks regretting some kind of dramatic all-bare action, so I figured this was conservative. Moderate, even.

I snapped off the tap and stepped out of the tub, dripping and freshly scoured, head to toe. My reflection startled me a little bit in the long mirror near the door. Usually I avoided it entirely, but in the foggy, steamy air I could barely make out my shape: too-curvy, too-wobbly, a lot of fleshy swells. But the neat, dark triangle in the center was like a bull’s eye. It made the whole image seem different, somehow, like I did the big girl thing on purpose.

Don’t get weird. You’re still the same girl.

But after I toweled off and slipped into my panties and dress, I could feel a difference. The newly bare skin sizzled as it slipped against the crotch of my panties. I’d never been aware of my sex before unless I was
having
sex, but as I leaned toward the counter for a comb - wow - there it was again. It felt kind of weird. Startling. And kind of great.

I ran my damp hands through my dark, wavy hair and tried to make it look less insane, but nobody in Chicago had good hair in the summertime anyway. A handful of humectant gel, a slash of eyeliner pen across each eyelid and a swipe of mascara, and it was done.

“This is it, girl,” I muttered to my steamy reflection. “Do it now, and do it for good.”

Vaguely amazed at my own sense of hustle and direction, I flung open the bedroom door again to see Carl still cowering in the hallway. He looked so frail and naked with his hands still up like I might hit him. I found myself filled with revulsion as I strode past.

“Bree, you can’t leave,” he insisted.

I rolled both cases down the wood-floored hallway and picked up my purse from the dining room table where she I dropped it.

“Brienne, we can work this out, please?”

Finally, I spun around. I looked him in the eye. Memories of all the other times I had looked into those eyes threatened to flood me with rage or sadness, I couldn’t be sure which.

“We worked it out
last time
. Remember, Carl? And Dave says you’re out of two-percent.”

Snatching my keys from the hall table, I rolled my cases out the door and slammed it behind me. I looked at the keys in my hand. Inhaling deeply, I dug the keys for the Jeep off the ring, then turned around and dropped the rest through the mail slot back into the apartment. I wouldn’t need them again.

Getting the suitcases to the parking garage was slightly more challenging. I stared at the “Out of Order” sign on the elevator in disgust, then decided to just walk the bags up the ramps to the third level.

The garage was deserted. Most commuters had gone for the day and wouldn’t be back until after dinnertime. I listened to the sound of the suitcase wheels on the dirty concrete and tried not to think maudlin thoughts about my life crashing down around my ears.

Perspective
, I demanded as I walked toward my car.
You need perspective.

The rear gate on my 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee slammed shut with a satisfying sound and I took my one-thousandth cleansing breath. Turning toward my driver’s side door, I realized I was parked next to Carl’s 2015 convertible Mini Cooper. Some part of me wanted to stab through the rag top with my keys. Drag a rock down his custom orange racing stripes? Slash his tires?

I shook my head and hopped into the Jeep’s driver’s seat, then fumbled around in the passenger’s side until I found a discarded envelope. Dragging a black Sharpie marker from my purse, I wrote: “YOU SUCK” and slipped it, facing in, under his wiper blades.

The big Jeep roared to life and blew musty, hot air and dust out of the vents immediately. I made a face and fiddled with the knobs, then cranked the window down hard and breathed the comparatively fresh air of the parking garage.

I drove slowly around the ramps, trying to keep the big truck from scraping against the low concrete overhangs and the shiny late-model cars. As I left, I gazed at the electric car charging station with envy. A tiny, electric car sounded fantastic, especially compared to the behemoth my father had left me. I would be able to find parking spaces on the street occasionally… Gas it up about three times a year instead of every other time I wanted to drive it… And they had all those space-shuttle-quality digital readouts on the dash. So shiny.

In all fairness to Carl, he had suggested I upgrade to a newer model car, but I couldn’t get over my sentimental attachment to the Jeep. I remembered taking it straight up the river banks in Michigan one summer, screeching with delight as my dad executed what seemed like death-defying, gravel-spitting turns up and down steep embankments.

I remembered sleeping across the big bench seat, wrapped in an old woolen army blanket as we drove endless miles to wherever: Wisconsin Dells, Chattanooga, Mammoth Caves… Anywhere we could pitch a tent and make a fire without someone calling the cops.

“Aw, Dad,” I sighed wistfully and drove the car south on Ashland Avenue, then turned left on Roscoe and left into the alley behind Melita’s house. I hopped out to punch the garage’s security code into the keypad, then hopped back in and drove the Jeep into her garage.

I’m sure she won’t mind,
I thought as the garage door rumbled shut again.
Pretty sure. Reasonably sure.

I left the alley and walked back to Ashland to hail a cab, my dress swishing around my thighs, my crotch weirdly alive and semi-aware in my panties, purring like a cat with every step. Somehow it seemed like it improved my posture, making me taller, longer, stronger. I felt like an animal, supremely connected to my body instead of just driving it around like it was a borrowed car.

The first cab I saw slowed immediately for my upraised arm and I got into the back seat, thumbing my phone’s face as I gave the driver the address.

I’m not coming back,
I texted Melita.

Hold up what??
was her immediate reply.

Tell u everything later,
I replied and stuffed the phone back in my purse even though I heard it start ringing. I knew she would call back and be pissed I didn’t pick up, but I was on a mission that I had to complete. Now. And if I thought about it too hard, I would just chicken out.