Top Love: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (Young Adult Stepbrother and Billionaire Romance Stories) (26 page)

He groaned and slapped his hand on something.  “But I don’t need it.  I don’t need the money.  You know who I am.  You know I don’t need it.  What bothers me is your total lack of responsibility.  The only reason I want to keep pursuing this issue is to teach you a lesson.  But you’re not going to learn.  You’ll just blame rich people.  Blame the Hollywood type.  Play the victim.  Well, you just do that.  Because that’s the essence of who you are.”

He hung up just as he struck me in the heart and a tear began to well up in my eye.  At once I felt relieved, and sick and disgusted.  He was probably right, but dammit—if I had his money, his life, I would never be in the position would I?  He had the audacity to wag his finger in my face, probably not even remembering what it was like to be working two jobs and barely a quarter of a paycheck to look forward to on Fridays.

Of all the nerve.  No wonder Alfred Banes wrote his villain characters so well.  He was an absolute asshole. 

The guilt and emotional trauma of it still lashed me, but his relenting did at least soothe me into a stupor of non-activity.  I got back in the bathtub and sank into the hot water in surrender.  Never wanting to see another day.  Never wanting to hear from him again.  Definitely despising the inevitability of me returning to work, living life as blissfully as always, not caring that the sky was falling.

And as I reached a state of comfort, of tranquil nothingness and noise of popping bubbles and human skin sliding in comfort, I started to dream. 

Not about owning my own salon or any silly ambitions like that.  More like, what would it be like to be at his mercy?  Maybe that’s all I would ever be or ever amount to is a play toy of the rich and famous.  To think that I could still turn heads, even of powerful and wealthy men.  Oh sure, every now and then a cute delivery boy or college student checks me out.  But to think that I could still be royalty, still be the preferred choice of a billionaire playboy with the world at his feet…it was just the mental fuel I needed to make this a bubble bath for the ages.

Thinking of the worst case scenario, the most absurdly paranoid plot of all, didn’t seem to stress me.  It actually felt more serene than a semi-feasible outcome, like an angry Banes reporting me to the police.  No, what if he were to go from rich asshole to absolute monster prick?  Maybe he would insist that I pay him back in some way, with some assets, even the ones I held most precious.

What if he threatened me or blackmailed me, telling me to come meet him at his mansion?  For no other purpose but his amusement, he would tell me to strip to my bra and undies, just so he could take a long hard look and see if it’s something worth cash settlement.  I would stand humiliated, waiting on his word, hoping to appease his wrath.

He would then tell me to turn around and bend over, just to thoroughly examine everything I am, I have, and can offer him.  I could say no…I could take my pride and walk away.  But then I would be right back where I started.  His humiliation would be worth enduring.  It could change my life.  Maybe he would even fall in love with me. 

Or maybe it would be a much less romantic scenario.  Maybe he would let me work off my debt as a slave.  Not really a maid or cook, since my skills are average at best.  But as a kept woman.  Not a girl, not a model, but a mature, handsome woman whom he keeps around just to relieve his urges.  It feels horrible to my ego…but strangely taboo and tingly for my body.

Yeah right, my logical mind says, shoving my hyperactive imagination aside, reminding me that the real life Alfred Banes is annoyed at me and will likely never talk to me again.  Still, cold reality didn’t stop me from the heated safety of a hot bath.  I thought of his face, his damaging words and his indecent proposal.  Yes, it felt good.  It felt wrong.  But it worked and I shook the bath for a good twenty minutes, splashing soap and water to the floor. 

Tomorrow I was sure to get a rude awakening.  But for that day, my moment lasted forever.

I never thought I would hear the name Alfred Banes again.  I went about my life in full denial of my humiliation and his offensive reply to my plight, and just pretended as if nothing happened—it’s what I do best, I suppose.

Then one day just as I came home and was ready to watch my favorite fantasy epic on cable TV, another writer’s universe usurped my attention.

I received a notice from my car dealership.  Usually when they write me it’s to let me know that I’m past due or the car’s being repossessed or something horrible.  This time, however, it was an unexpected news item. 

The notice informed me that the estimates on the car from the collision, easily fifteen hundred dollars the body repair man told me, had been paid off and all I had to do was bring the car in for repairs—free of charge.  I re-read the note several times, thinking to myself, “No, this doesn’t seem like Jake at all.”

In the back of my mind, I thought Alfred, but then I shook his name off too.  He was not the giving type.  Rarely gave to charity and certainly didn’t have a kind word for me, despite knowing my financial plight.  And yes, sure enough, when I investigated the mystery I discovered that Alfred Banes was the donator.  He paid for my damages.  And his damages.  With no explanation, no ridiculous slave scenario, just out of the kindness of his heart.

It was the sort of amazing gift that is indescribable and unpayable.  It left me in tears and praising Alfred’s name as if he were a God.  Suddenly, all my haughty and chirpy sarcasm was silenced.  I couldn’t even call him on the phone to thank him, or flirt and say something snarky.  It was all gone.  He had revealed his true colors and I felt two feet tall.  If this was how Alfred Banes won an argument, I conceded defeat.

I didn’t dare disturb Alfred’s peace by calling him and making a bigger idiot of myself.  I did eventually send a thank you note to his residence but I doubt he or his assistant bothered to read it.  All I could do to show him my thanks was to buy his book, shut up and learn something from a great mind.

His next book, The Shard of Truth, was an instant bestseller and the epic fantasy love story that one might expect from Banes.  It was romantic, sexual, psychologically intense and with characters that were larger than life; some heroic, some evil, some weak and some devoted entirely to their values.

And then there was Barb Tessles, a strange and seemingly out of place character that appeared out of nowhere, had a strange resemblance to a certain airhead and her “irresponsible haircut”—as the book described, and seemed contrived all for the sake of humiliating me.

I flipped through the book, fast-forwarding to scenes of Barb and seeing just what this man really thought of me.  Dear God, I thought, as I read each scene—every one more ridiculous than the last, calling Barb dumb, petty, lazy and complacent.  And it seemed, a woman who would start a war in the book for no good reason whatsoever.  Except of course that the writer just hated her.

I was too outraged to cry.  He knew I would be reading and wrote me as an irresponsible dolt.  Sure, I was foolish in actions.  Maybe financially misguided.  But that doesn’t mean I deserve to be written as a complete idiot.

Screw it, I said to myself, as I grabbed my phone and dialed.  Being generous is one thing.  But I would never do that to him…or anyone.  Libeling someone because of a personal grudge is not forgivable.  He deserved so much worse than what I was about to give him—the trash talk of his life!

“Hello?” he said tiredly. 

“This is Barbara.”

“Who?”

I squinted my eyes.  “Barbara Adams.  You know?”

“…”

“The woman who ran into you at the restaurant and whose damages you paid for?  Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Oh.  I know who you are.  Why are you calling me?”

“Oh, I think you know why.”

“No, I don’t.  Any frankly, I never gave you permission to call me.”

“Excuse me?” I said, barely getting started in my revenge speech.

“That’s right.  Don’t ever call here again.  I have nothing to say to you.  I’m not your friend.  Not your buddy.  I wish I had never met you.”

My jaw dropped and I struggled to find the right place to start tearing into him. 

“Now you-”

“Goodbye.”

He hung on me.  And I sat there, fish-faced, dumbfounded at his audacity—his blatant disrespect for a woman he hardly even knew.  I decided that another phone call wasn’t cold enough.  He deserved something far worse. 

So I stalked him a bit and learned the location of his next Ohio book signing.  All the way in Dayton, but definitely worth a road trip.  You can’t insult me all over the world and in multiple languages and expect to get away with a phone call.

              He laid low for a week prior to his book signing appearance, at Books and Borders on Chapin Road.  He was the guest of honor and there were about sixty people crammed into the modest sized store, eager to say a word to the new novelist turned brand in Hollywood.  His first book was already being adapted into a film.  I can only wonder what kind of bimbo he would cast in the role of Barb. 

              I dressed in something nice—something he might not even recognize me in, since the first time our eyes met I wore a blouse and shirt.  I was with family, no one to impress.  This time, I wanted to make a stunning entrance.  I wanted to turn heads, particularly his, right before I gave him the revenge speech of a lifetime.  A great speech where I chopped him down to size and reminded him that just because someone irked his patience, doesn’t give him the right to destroy someone’s reputation.  You know how many people irk me every day at a thankless job?  I don’t write about them or disparage them.  I take it. 

Just like you have to learn to take it, Alfred Banes.

I wore a beige summer dress, just the right combination of legs and arms but not a hint of cleavage.  Sexy enough to turn heads, smart enough to give nothing away for free.  It was a man-eating dress and one that I wanted to throw in his face.

“Hi,” I said, after patiently waiting in line for a half hour.

“Hey,” he said with a forced smile.  He didn’t even look up at me but went straight to signing the book.

“Do you recognize me?”

“No.”  He looked up slowly, as if humoring a deranged fan. 

“It’s Barbara!” I almost screamed.

“Oh.  Yeah, crazy woman who backed into me.  Wow.  I was sure hoping to run into you again.  Er, figuratively speaking.”

“Oh my God!” I replied loudly.  I bent down to meet his smug little face.  “You know why I’m here.  Barb?  Your new character?  The dumb bimbo who starts a war?  You really thought you could get away with mocking me in your book for the whole world to see?”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.  She’s obviously based on me.”

“What, because she’s dumb you think it’s based on you?” he said in confusion, followed by a belly laugh.  “Well gee, it sounds like you hate yourself more than I do.  I don’t even think about you that much, sweetie.”

“Well, you obviously do.  You wrote me into your book.”

“Why?  Do you have the word Barb trademarked?  For your information, I know a half dozen Barbaras.  What makes you so special?”

“I just know it’s me.  The way you worded it.  You’re obviously angry at me for what happened.”

“Angry at you?  For backing into my car and then giving me a sob story promising to pay for the damages?  And then a bunch of excuses?  And then…”

He finally got pissed and stood up for a dramatic pose.  “And then you have the gall to verbally assault me because I wrote a book and wrote about a character named Barb…after paying off your damages and dropping the whole thing?”

I turned my head and puffed out my lips.  I pouted, I wanted to scream.  But deep down I knew I had no case.  Not really.  That a rich man was disrespectful?  That he didn’t do more for me than he had already done?  All I could do was eye him back in regret.  For all of this.  For ever meeting him in the first place.

“And so you’re upset because I portray Barb as a bit of a dolt?  Well, I don’t know what point you’re trying to prove here.  But go ahead.  Keep talking.  Prove your point.”

Alas, all I did was prove his point.  That “Barb” was indeed a silly woman.  Out of her league.  Barely a memory to cling to, and not much ammunition besides his arrogance.  Still, it was arrogance brought on by my own mistakes.  I couldn’t apologize.  Not there.  I just had to excuse myself.  Enough was enough.

“Forget it.  I don’t need an autograph.  I’ve bothered you enough,” I huffed, walking away from the table and clutching my book close to my heavy heart.

Through the corner of my eye I saw him waving at me.  Then he raised his voice.

“Hey!”

I ignored him the first time.  But he repeated himself, insisting I acknowledge his request.  “Barb?”

I turned to him slowly and hid my eyes from revealing their true grief.

“Look…uh…you want to go somewhere?”

“What?  I want to go home.  That’s where I’m going.”

“I mean, do you want to have coffee or something?”

“With you?” I asked, my eyes retreating in suspicion and my whole face shifting away in disbelief.

“Yeah.  I’m almost done here.  So you’ll wait around a bit.  Read a book, you know.”  He almost smiled and looked into my eyes, a bit differently.  Like I was a person.  “Then we’ll go somewhere.  And chill.  And maybe put this whole awkward thing behind us.”