Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(111)

“Mike, what the fuck—” Sheer terror consumed him as he turned to find Mike holding the other fifty above his head, not pointed at Dylan but rather at a small end table next to the leather couch. The crash was splinteringly deafening, the sound of Mike’s grunt as he exuded enough effort to pitch the dumbbell in a perfect, parabolic arc combining with the breaking glass to create a noise that made Dylan’s teeth rattle.

Jumping back, he avoided getting hit by shrapnel. His mind raced. Was he in true danger from Mike? Mike? His partner for more than ten years, the gentle man he’d admired and respected, who was always so compassionate and—

Mike stormed out of the room and started throwing objects in his bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing, loud thumps and thick cracking sounds making Dylan follow him, wary and ready to protect himself if needed. Entering Mike’s bedroom, which has always been minimalist and sparse, the sight before him was jarring. Everything he owned was everywhere—clothes spilling out of drawers, his closet ransacked, candles rolling in jars on the floor and pictures face down. Mike was standing near his bed, wildly shoving items into a hockey duffel bag, head down and muttering to himself.

“What happened? Were we robbed?”

Mike snorted but didn’t look up, robotically grabbing a blue sweatshirt, then a pair of torn jeans, then flip flops, all going in the bag by rote movement. “Yeah, Dylan. I was robbed. Of Laura. By you and your stupid, fucked up ideas.”

“Hey, man, you can’t pin this entirely on me.” His own rage swelled inside, ready to match Mike’s molecule for molecule. “You’re the one who primed her not to trust us in the first place.”

The look Mike shot him was pure evil. His heart sank as his ire rose. That wasn’t a look you give to someone you care about. That was a look you get when someone you love turns cold. Turns off. Views you as no one.

It was worse than indifference. And it was a look he had only received once before, from an old girlfriend, and it had made his balls crawl into his throat, his soul shrivel into a shrunken mess, and he had resolved never, ever to let anyone in who could do that to him.

So far he hadn’t.

Until now.

“I fucked up,” Mike huffed. “I own it. But dammit,” he shouted, smacking his dresser top for emphasis, his wallet and change cup falling off the right edge. “We fixed that! She took us back in! And you—you! You wanted to waste all that because you’re so fucking afraid that taking Jill’s money means you accept her death or that you loved her less of whatever fucked up emotional process you have buried deep in your ego. I can’t even look at you,” he added.

Stunned, Dylan couldn’t form a coherent thought to respond. Who was this man? He looked like Mike but might as well have been some psycho twin, come up from the dead to steal Mike’s spirit and destroy their relationship. Mike was never mean. He could be firm, and he could be sarcastic (though rarely), and he knew how to take a stand and hold firm, but he was never, ever an asshole. Had losing Laura really driven him to some sort of psychotic break?

Or was Dylan just way, way off in estimating how much he had hurt Mike by wanting to wait to tell Laura about the trust fund? Was this more about him than he realized—and not in some self-centered way, but more in an “Oh, shit, this is all my fault” kind of way?

Mike strode angrily to the front door, then stopped cold. “Where are my keys?”

“Here.” Dylan tossed them in an arc, Mike’s hand reaching up to catch them. Palm facing Dylan, the movement precise and clipped, like an athlete who had done it hundreds of thousands of times to reach perfection.

Grabbing the doorknob, Mike was halfway out the door when Dylan called out. “Where are you going?”

“My cabin.”

“What about this?” Dylan shouted, sweeping his arm out, indicating the mess.

“Hire someone to clean it up and replace everything. Bill me. I can afford it,” he scoffed, then slammed the door. A muffled shout: “I’m a fucking billionaire!” and then the fading sound of footsteps.





Chapter Five



“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead!” Josie shouted, yanking open the curtains in Laura’s bedroom, the pink cloth swaying in a pattern that made Laura’s stomach queasy. Ugh. Bad enough she was exhausted; did Josie really need to make her nauseated, too? The coarse sun blinded her with too much, the glare off the world striking her as so harsh, too unyielding. Give her a nice, grey day with white cloud coverage so she could dip herself back into life.

Let her suckle her depression, for it gave her so much comfort. Being a victim meant never having to think through your own actions, not reflecting on regret, and it definitely gave her ample excuse for eating entire pints of ice cream and wallowing in “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” marathons.