Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(99)
Just. Just barely. She needed more time, more experiences, more of everything to understand how to function as one woman with two men, to be so wanted and craved that she could satisfy them both.
The tears flowed freely now, her nose filling, and she fumbled for a tissue. Step, click. Step, click. She stopped, searching her purse. No luck. Ah, fuck it. Her skirt felt too tight, restricting her calves as she worked the stairs, and finally, in a fit of desperation, she slipped off her heels and walked in her stocking feet, the hose snagging within half a flight and making her foot cling slightly to each step. Nothing was going right today.
She snorted, snot pouring out of her nose, and using the back of her hand she wiped the bubbles as best she could. Who cared what she looked like now? The billionaires? What a spike to the heart that thought was as she reached the twenty-seventh floor. She remembered how Dylan had casually grabbed the check, how she’d wondered how a firefighter could afford such a fancy place. Hah! Joke was on her! He was a fucking billionaire, made stupendously rich by Jill.
Jill. Of course she was a wildly rich heiress. Of course. It wasn’t enough to look like she was chiseled by people making a model of beach volleyball players. And it also wasn’t enough that she was this dead, perfect girlfriend Laura could never measure up to.
She was also ridiculously wealthy and had made Dylan and Mike filthy, stinking rich, too?
Sharp, bitter laughter echoed up and down the stairs as Laura cackled, mad with overwhelm. She just couldn’t win, could she?
“I give, Jill! I surrender!” she shouted, her voice carrying like crazy through the stairwell. “You win! Uncle! Uncle! I can never be you. Dylan and Mike can’t even tell me that you left them more money than God. You are perfect from the grave! You even made the balls on the warlock waitress at Jeddy’s! You’re a fucking legend!” Laura’s arms outstretched as she screamed the word “legend,” her shoes flying out of her hand and tumbling down the metal railings, plink, plunk, plonk as they rattled and rolled, landing who knows where.
As she rounded the twenty-fifth floor, retrieving her shoes, a security guard poked his head through the door, then entered the staircase. The older gentleman reminded her of her grandfather, a beer gut and kind eyes crashing through her overwrought sensibilities. “Excuse me, Miss?”
She didn’t stop her slow trek. “Yes?” she called back.
“Are you OK? We’re hearing reports of someone yelling in the stairwell.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just getting some exercise.” Her voice had that shaky hitch to it she got when she was upset, but she tried to cover it up by acting winded. “And boy, do I need it.”
He followed her, and as she passed him on the spiral one floor down, she saw him pat his stomach. “I’m with you there,” he chuckled. “I’ll walk down behind you if you don’t mind. Just making sure it’s safe here and that there aren’t any troublemakers.”
Great. Just fucking great. She couldn’t even vent without having it ruined. Fuck you, Dylan. Fuck you, Mike. Why would you lie? She thumped and skipped her way down, moving faster now that she had an audience, hoping she could get to the bottom without making herself dizzy. She’d been a tad lightheaded these past couple days and didn’t need the added dose of unreality from spinning around and around as she descended thirty-two floors.
She was somewhere around floor eight when the old man gave up. “See you!” he shouted, waving from five or six flights up. Waving back, she sped up, eager for sunshine and a flat walking surface. The balls of her feet were scraped up from the no-skid surface at the edge of each stair, and her hamstrings and IT bands were screaming. Tomorrow, she’d pay for this.
Today she just needed to get to Josie. If she fixated on that, she’d be OK. Falling apart at Josie’s apartment would be the best possible solution here. Fear that Mike or Dylan— or Mike and Dylan—would get to her first drove her. Dylan was likely on his way to her office to explain. Explain, explain, explain. She huffed as she hurried around floor five. Of course he had an explanation. She could just guess.
“Um, well, it’s complicated.” His tone of voice, the little sidelong look with a half-smile, Mr. Charm turning it on to cozy up and sweet-talk his way out of discomfort.
Well, Dylan, have fun snuggling up to those complications, because that’s what you’ll be fucking. Not me.
And you, too, Mike.
Anger seeped in, like an old friend who was a lousy house guest, but you forget every time he leaves how much you wish him gone, and welcome him heartily when he reappears. Anger was so much easier than hurt, or heartache, or regret, so anger it was. Welcome my old friend.