The Big Billionaire Read online

  Then he’s gone, leaving me with the most recent image of him looking at me like he’s about to devour me twirling in my head. I stumble into the nearest room, which just so happens to be something of a boudoir. Yes, everything, from the red velvet sofas to the hanging silk curtains and dark hardwood furniture, suggests sex. As if I need reminding of that as it is. No, as I sit down and will myself not to think about how chiseled Allan’s chest was, how intent and hungry his stare, instead I find myself doing the opposite, wondering about how his chest would ripple as I ran my hand over it, how the hunger in his eyes would look if I kissed him, if it would die down a little, be sated, or only swell all the more. Would the rest of him get as hard as his chest if I kissed him, would he let me go then? Or would he act with the aggressiveness I instinctively sensed in him? Back there, just now, if I’d pressed my whole body to him, would he have too? Would he have taken me in his hands and flung me into this room, onto this very red velvet couch? Would his hand be where mine was now, down my pants, on my pussy, pressing and demanding and delighting in our shared need? Would he be the one shedding my pants now? As I lie here and my finger pulses and presses and swirls around my clit, reality merges with fantasy until I’m panting with it. Breathless with the image of him naked, both of us finally giving in to the urge, the passion, the need. Him taking me the way we both needed, pressing his hard chest to mine and shoving his hard dick in me, the velvet letting us slide back and forth to it, the—oh fuck, yes—the in, the out, the rhythm—the oh, it feels so fucking good—the urge that is now building—the arousal rising, the whole room blurring away, everything secondary to this, this—oh yes!—and then I am cumming and he is too, or maybe it is just me on this velvet couch alone, or maybe it is both of us, somewhere in between reality and fantasy.

  Afterward, I lay flopped there for ten minutes, twenty maybe, I don’t know. I’m half-stunned by what just happened, touching myself, making myself cum in a stranger’s home based on a fantasy I know I can never actually let play out. Thankfully, upstairs there’s still the sound of running water; Allan’s still showering. Naked, under the warm beads of water I’m jealous of, who are delighting over the body I’d love to.

  I sit up and scramble off the couch, quickly pulling up my pants. As fast as I can, I hurry out of the room. I’ve let this go far enough, too far, in fact; I have to get out of this room now or I’ll never leave.

  The rest of the house is similarly impressive, with furniture that’s divine and a setup that would have every Martha Stewart wannabe weeping. Allan’s style is more than exquisite; it’s top-notch and unique. Every room seems to be set in a different time period, a different aura; there’s the Renaissance library with its Leonardo da Vinci Vitruvian Man replica, the modern bathroom with its electronic shower and toilet, and the Art Deco kitchen. Each area is so dissimilar as to be in different homes; the only element present in several of the rooms is her. A beautiful blonde girl who fits with Allan perfectly. She’s thin, gorgeous, and has a fairy-like ethereal beauty. She’s in pictures, on a postcard on the fridge. Even as I walk from room to room, I can almost feel her, watching me.

  When the running water sound above stops, I return to the entrance to find Allan at the top, looking down at me with a towel tied around his waist.

  “Finding everything okay? Want something to eat?”

  “Sure… I…”

  “What?”

  I tear my gaze off his impressive six-pack and shake my head.

  “I can tell you later, once you’ve gotten dressed.”

  Allan’s laugh rings loud in the broad, white room.

  “You don’t know how long I take to get dressed. Tell me now.”

  I shake my head.

  “Really, it’s not important, it’s fine.”

  “Tell me. I mean it, Eva, I hate suspense. I’m going to stand here until you do.”

  So, with a sigh, I tell him.

  “The woman in all the pictures, around the house, who is she?”

  The cocky grin on Allan’s face is wiped away as easily as if it had never been there at all. Instead, he gapes at me like I’ve slapped him. Then, in one fluid motion, he turns and leaves.

  I wait there for a second, before realizing that he isn’t coming back, that he wasn’t joking at all.

  My stomach is reeling. How dare he? How dare Allan invite me here, look at me like that, say those things to me, when this woman, whoever she is, still clearly has his heart?

  I wait another five minutes and am halfway to the front door, when Allan returns.

  He comes down with a gray shirt and gray pants, as if he dressed to convey his mood, which is now dark, somber. He lingers at the bottom step for a minute eyeing me, while my anger flares even higher. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.

  “Would you rather I leave?”

  My question jolts Allan awake. Not even looking at me, he nods.

  I pause for a minute, searching for the look that never comes, the return of the Allan I know from this stranger. But Allan stands there, his face pained, staring ahead blankly as if he can’t even see me at all.

  Once I’m out the door and in my car, I sit there for a moment, willing the tears not to come. No, not this time. I’m not going to be sad, upset—I’m going to be furious. I’m not going to be hurt; I’m going to be angry. At Allan Dane. The liar, the misleader, the jerk. No, I’ve learned my lesson this time. Allan Dane and I, we are business partners, nothing more.

  Chapter 9

  That night I go straight to bed without saying anything to Angel or so much as looking at Popper. I wake up to a text from Allan:

  Sorry about before, will explain another time. Am going away for two weeks to figure things out. I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you it will help us. I’m sorry.

  I reread the text a few times before turning my phone off. If I’ve learned anything from these past few weeks with Allan Dane, it’s not to take what he says or does seriously. So, as long as my app’s still a go, what he does is of no concern to me. There is no “us” as he says it; there never was.

  The next week is more Allan than ever before, even though he’s not here. He texts me constantly—morning, noon, and night, funny pictures and videos, interested questions and interesting observations—all this he meshes in with dialogue about the app to ensure that I respond, while any attempt at ignoring him sends him into a texting frenzy, until I have no choice but to respond. Still, each and every text I send and receive, I remind myself this guy, this Allan Dane is my business partner, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

  At work, things are back to normal, worse even. Geno is now less of a possessive megalomaniac, and more of a whining, all-around jerk, who delights in any opportunity to grumble about my work. Friday, after I’ve stayed until 5:30, fielding the repetitive questions of a never-satisfied group of customers, Geno corners me in the back.

  “I see you’re trying to duck out as soon as humanly possible, eh?”

  My eyes narrow.

  “Need I remind you, Geno, that my shift is supposed to end at 5, not to mention I’ll be out of here in a few weeks.”

  Now Geno’s haughty sneer becomes a downright scowl.

  “Oh yeah, because of your so-called deal with Mr. Allan Dane, repeat convict? Yeah, real responsible guy there, Eva, I can totally see why you’d leave your steady job for the word of that man of all people. I mean, hasn’t he been thrown in jail for just about every offense in the book by now?”

  Different retorts rise and fall in my head, before, finally, I push past Geno and leave.

  At home, it only gets worse. I’m only one foot in the door when Angel pounces on me.

  “Careful, Popper pooped.”

  I look down to see that, sure enough, the squishy thing that I’d just stepped in is Popper’s poop. I shoot a furious look at Angel.

  “Why?”

  “I forgot. Besides, you have to hear this.”

  At my continued silent glare, Angel sighs.


  “Okay, okay, I’ll clean it up. Jeez, Eva.”

  Once the floor and my shoe are cleaned up, Angel gestures me over to the couch. It lets out a renewed groan as we both sit down. Popper, as if sensing my leftover resentment from the poo incident, takes off into the bathroom.

  I can feel Angel looking at me, but for some reason I don’t want to meet her stare.

  “So, about Allan Dane…”

  I turn to see Angel eyeing me like she’s unsure how to phrase what she’s about to say.

  “Yeah?”

  “How well do you know him exactly?”

  I shrug.

  “Not super well. We’ve talked a lot, sure, and lately he’s been texting me, but that’s it. Why?”

  Angel nods, looking relieved.

  “Good. So, you haven’t like, kissed him or anything like that?”

  “Angel. What’s this about?”

  Angel’s biting her lower lip in the way I know means that whatever she has to tell me, it can’t be good.

  “It’s just today, while I was at the grocery store, I bumped into this girl. She said she used to date Allan, that he’s pretty messed up. I mean, she looked a bit messed up herself, but if you were there, Eva, you would’ve seen what I had, would’ve sensed it. This girl was telling the truth. She mentioned he has a severe drug problem and a ton of dark secrets; she said he may have killed someone.”

  Angel’s words don’t register; they’re so fantastical they slide right off me. I have nothing to say because nothing’s been said.

  “Eva?”

  Angel’s hand touches my shoulder tentatively.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, what should we do? Do you think this’ll affect the app?”

  I don’t look at her, don’t want her anxiety to become mine.

  “I don’t know. He has already cut us some checks for expenses, but you’re right, he’s unpredictable. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “And you’re sure, you and he aren’t…”

  I leap up.

  “I’m sure.”

  And then I’m storming into my room, slamming the door, my head ringing with Angel’s words, which aren’t true. Can’t be. I might not know Allan well, but I know him well enough to know he’s not a murderous drug addict. I know him well enough for that, right?

  Chapter 10

  The next week, when Allan texts me, I don’t respond. He sends questions, observations, pictures, and then calls me three times. I turn off my phone. Days slip past. Angel and I meet with statisticians and graphic designers, acting as if our business partner wasn’t off the handle, as if I wasn’t ignoring him at this very moment. At night, I dream of Allan Dane, although during the day I’m free of him at least. That is, until Monday. Angel’s taking a nap in her room with Popper, so it’s just me and the TV. Playing on the TV is some program I’m not watching, just on and loud enough to blare away the silence. And yet, it’s not quite loud enough to drown out the knock on the door. I wait, don’t move. I’m not in the mood for talking to whatever neighbor or canvasser’s at the door. When the knock repeats, then again, I get up. Clearly, the TV has given me away, and I’m not going to get out of talking to whomever’s at the door that easily.

  I open the door to Allan. He looks upset, tired.

  “Why haven’t you been responding to my texts?”

  “Are you doing drugs?”

  My question surprises him just as much as it surprises me. We gape at each other for a minute, before anger flashes over Allan’s face and he shakes his head.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Well, have you? My friend ran into a girl you used to date, and she said you have a severe drug problem and a bunch of dark secrets, maybe even killed someone.”

  My words don’t have the expected effect. Allan’s anger just changes into more fatigue. Stepping back, he shakes his head.

  “I’ll be in touch when I’ve handled the situation.”

  When I watch him go, his fury becomes mine—at what he’s said, what he’s left me with, all that’s unsaid. Allan Dane is toxic. It seems the more I pull away, the more he drags me into this whirlpool of madness that is his life.

  --

  Another week passes. On my last day at work, during my break, Angel and I have brunch at Picklebucket. We split a big breakfast, so that we both get a generous helping of warm eggs, succulent bacon, delicious ham, and perfectly done sausages. We’re just starting on the toast when someone sits beside me.

  “That’s some brunch you’ve got there.”

  At the familiar voice, my whole body stiffens. It’s Allan, smiling innocuously, as if the last conversation we’d had wasn’t about the possibility of him being a murderer and drug addict.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He sticks out his hand to Angel.

  “I’m Allan Dane, as I’m sure you already know.”

  Angel tentatively accepts his hand, and then Allan returns his insistent gaze to me.

  “I’m sorry about these past few weeks. A lot has happened, and I can’t tell you more for the time being, but I can tell you this: I don’t have a drug problem. I used to, but I’m two years sober now.”

  As a waitress passes, Allan hails her.

  “Two side orders of bacon, please.”

  The waitress, Helena, the nicest and most rule-abiding waitress of the bunch, shoots me a questioning look. It is 2:15 p.m., fifteen minutes after the brunch cutoff, after all. However, when I nod, she whisks away obediently. Allan turns his thoughtful gaze to me.

  “About the dark secret and the murder claim—to be honest, I can’t figure out why she’d say that myself. I mean, something very bad happened to someone close to me, but it wasn’t my fault.”

  Now Allan directs his pensive look to Angel.

  “And this girl says she dated me way back? What does she look like?”

  Angel takes a bite of toast, chews then swallows, shrugs.

  “Tall, big bulging eyes, brown hair.”

  Allan laughs.

  “Okay, that eliminates about 20 percent of the women I’ve dated. If I’ve even dated her at all, that is.”

  Angel, however, maintains her ground.

  “I went to school to be a psychologist, and I have worked in therapy. The woman was telling the truth—it was written all over her face.”

  Allan takes a piece of my toast. “May I?”

  I nod and he takes a bite.

  “That may be so. If I’m going to be honest, the period when I was heavily into drugs is kind of a blur. In any case, I know that lately I’ve been a bit all over the place, but I hope that hasn’t given either of you the wrong idea.”

  Although Allan’s address is to both of us, his gaze is on me.

  “Because I’m as serious as ever about developing your app. I’ve already gotten started on the coding, and I’m 100 percent sure that this thing is going to be big. Really big.”

  In the silence after, both of them look at me. I nod.

  “Okay. You certainly have been very generous. I don’t see why we can’t continue with developing the app as planned.”

  Allan looks overly happy and relieved.

  “Great. Have you two come up with a name yet?”

  “Delicieux.”

  Allan repeats the word a few times, his gaze on the restaurant window: “Delicieux, delicieux… delicieux…”

  He jumps up.

  “I like it. Thanks, ladies. I will be in touch!”

  Again, his gaze is on me before he turns away. He’s halfway to the door, when my cry to wait reaches him. He pauses, chuckles.

  “Ah, yes, the bacon, I apologize.”

  He hurries over, deposits a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and then leaves. For a few seconds, Angel and I stare at it, and then we exchange a look. Angel slides the twenty over to me, then nods.

  “I think tonight we should do a bit of investigating ourselves.”

  --

  Although “a bit of investigating�
�� was hardly what the night ended up constituting. No, the four-hour Cheeto-fueled Google marathon ends up being a whole lot more. Turns out that Allan Dane’s escapades were even more than we had wagered; it’s harder to find a month where Allan Dane wasn’t in the tabloids rather than was. As far as being connected to any death, however, even a funeral, there seems not the slightest sign, not in the fifty or so pages we’ve scanned online, at least.

  Finally, we finish the Cheetos, and beyond exhausted, we stumble to our own beds and fall asleep.

  I wake up to a text from Allan: Dinner at Harod’s? I regret my yes as soon as it’s sent. Although I rationalize it by telling myself that it’s for “investigation purposes only.” Yes, I’m going to spend half of the lunch eating, and the other half shooting Allan well-worded questions to find out about his trip away.

  The rest of the morning I while away with Angel, making pancakes, not mentioning what I have planned tonight.

  To say that dinner doesn’t go as planned would be an understatement. Allan arrives wearing a purple shirt and can hardly take his eyes off me the whole meal. We chat about nothing important, and he easily glides by all my casual yet sly questions, indicating he went “overseas” and leaving it at that. As soon as we’ve ordered and the waitress has left, he turns his intent gaze on me.

  “I was surprised you accepted to come here with me.”

  “Yes, well, we are in business together. I just wanted to keep you in the loop, see if you had any updates for me about the launch.”

  No response. Only that intent, unwavering gaze.

  “You were gone for quite some time.”

  Now, a slight smile.

  “I thought we discussed this. I was dealing with business that would help everything, help us.”

  I avoid his gaze.

  “And did it?”

  Now he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him, relaxed.

  “Yes, yes it did.”

  Catching the expression on my face, he adds, “I’ll explain everything soon enough, in a few weeks when I have everything sorted out.”

  He takes my hand, squeezes it.

  “Eva, I am sorry. I know it seems like I’ve been all over the place, but I’ve never been unsure about just where I stand in regards to you and what you mean to me.”