Her Billionaires(98)

Spew. He shot drops of coffee all over his desk, choking, the coughs racking his chest as he set down the mug. Oh, my God. Oh, my fucking God. Dylan had been so wrong. Why hadn’t they told Laura? She was going to kill them.

No. Worse.

She was going to leave them.

He jumped up, tipping the travel mug on its side, a pool of tan coffee inching its way to contaminate the papers, the stapler, the tape dispenser. Shelly grabbed the mug and uprighted it, plucking tissues from a box on the desk to mop up the mess. He was out the door as she shouted, “Where are you going?”

Getting to Laura before she heard the news was his only rational thought. If she heard before they told her...Sprinting to his jeep, he frantically searched his pants pockets for his keys before he realized he’d left them back in the office. By the time he got back there, Shelly was finishing her cleanup of his desk. The words “thank you” were about to exit his mouth as he searched for his keys, eyes methodically cataloging the desk’s surface when she tipped her face up with a dismissive expression.

“Looking for these?” The keys dangled from her finger. No words. He grabbed the ring and left as she screamed, “You’re welcome!” to his disappearing back.

Unlock car. Climb in. Insert key. Turn. Reverse. Gas. Thank God for autonomous responses, because he was working on muscle memory right now, the jeep racing down the mountain to go to the city, to find Laura, to—

To what? He had no plan. Punching the steering wheel, he flipped the radio to the channel most likely to be chattering about him and Dylan, a stupid DJ show known for caustic comics and nasty, biting commentary on local sports and characters.

Traffic report. Great. Now he knew everything was backed up before exit eighteen eastbound because a tractor-trailer jackknifed. How critical. And now the sports report. Another football player with CTE. Yet another arrested for abusing his wife. And now someone accused of doping. The miles passed as he balanced speeding with getting caught.

Ding! His phone notified him he had a text. He was guessing it was Dylan. Ignoring it, he just...drove. Wasn’t sure where. Just needed to get closer to Laura.

Ring, ring! If Dylan was using the phone then he must know. Mike reached into his shirt pocket and answered. “Hello?”

“Shit, Mike. Have you watched the morning news shows yet?” He sounded as panicked and sick as Mike felt.

“No, but Shelly just told me everything. Fuck of a day to be there super-early for inventory.”

“We need to get to Laura.”

“Where is she?” The clock read 8:12 a.m. “At work by now?”

“That’s what I’m guessing, too.” The radio DJs started saying something about firefighter billionaires. Mike’s brain couldn’t process driving, talking with Dylan, and their banter. Situation fucked up, though, if this was all over the morning commute. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I told you we should—”

“You can chew me out later, dude. Let’s work on fixing this.” Steel edged his words, filling in the spaces where panic receded. Don’t fuck with me right now, Mike, he seemed to say. I don’t have it in me.

“Fair enough.” Silence.

“She works at the Stohlman building downtown. Thirty-second floor. Meet me at the reception desk. How far are you?”

Mike ran a quick mental calculation. “Twenty minutes?”

“I’m a little closer. Probably beat you by five.”

“Just get there and try to explain it before she sees it plastered all over the fucking television or hears some disc jockey cackling about it.” Click. He pressed “end” and found himself practically throwing the phone out the window. His ears perked and zeroed in on the DJs’ conversation.

“So this guy is just some muscled firefighter who oils up for these bachelor charity auctions and gives some rich cougar a nice night while underprivileged kids or AIDS patients or earthquake victims get an extra grand to spend on help. And now it turns out his girlfriend dies and leaves him a billion? Where can I find some rich, young woman to leave me a billion?” Mike’s knuckles turned white against the tan steering wheel as he gritted his teeth and sped up.

Different voice, higher and more derisive. “OK, sure, I can see that. It’s like 50 Shades of Fire, right? But why’d she leave another billion to the other dude, the ski resort guy.”

Pause. A woman’s voice. “Maybe she was livin’ the dream?”

Derisive DJ: “The dream?”

Woman DJ: “You know. Two guys.”

First DJ: “That’s our dream!”

Derisive DJ: “Your dream is two guys?” The radio spilled over with giggles and full-throated guffaws.