Seduced By The British Billionaire(7)

“Just one drink,” Sasha would sob uncontrollably. “I can’t bear this.” She would moan, rocking herself back and forth. It wasn’t long before Amber took matters into her own hands, dumping down every single bottle of liquor into the sink. Denial was over and anger was eminent in her friends anguished weeping. She liked to throw around colorful language, blaming the president for the war that killed her husband. “Fuck them all,” she would growl.



Amber constantly had to call out of work to be with her grieving friend. Fortunately, it wasn’t a major job, and there were plenty of opportunities for others. But it was still money that she needed. Then, on one particular Saturday evening, the day before the funeral, Amber rode the crowded bus all those miles in the pouring rain. She wore the Apron, plain brown T, and black pants from the coffee shop she worked at. Cold and soaking wet, she knocked on Sasha’s door. No answer came, which was highly unusual.



Trying the doorknob and discovering it being locked, she banged louder. Had she gone somewhere? Upon glancing behind her, she noticed her friend’s car still parked along the street. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Yelling out her friend’s name, she knocked louder. “Sasha, open up!”



Receiving no answer again, Amber stood helplessly, fear gripping her stomach until she couldn’t think straight. Whipping out the phone from her jean pocket, she saw the little white card containing Charles’ number on it. It fell to the ground, spinning on its way down. Without thinking, she dialed the gold numbers into her phone, and then pressed call. It rang for a few seconds. Those few long unbearable seconds didn’t pass fast enough.



“Hello.” A deep male voice answered questioningly.



“Charles, it’s me, Amber,” she puffed out of breath. Sweat began to bead her forehead.



“Oh, hi.” He greeted pleasantly.



Rushing through formalities, she squeezed the phone hard, trying desperately not to crack her voice. “It’s Sasha,” she yelped helplessly. “She’s not answering her door and I’m afraid something’s wrong.”



“I’ll be right there! Just hang tight.” The phone went silent.



Painful minutes dragged by until she couldn’t stand it no longer. Bombarding Sasha’s phone, she kept dialing her. Perhaps she would answer and everything was okay. Maybe she was just napping. But the tiny voice in her head kept whispering until half-crazed with worry, she saw Charles come to a screeching halt. For a second, relief overwhelmed her. He rushed over, slamming his door rather hard, and then cringing. He saw the worry lines etched on her face, then came up and hugged her.



With only a second to relish in his touch, he pulled back, stroking her hair. “Are you okay?” His first and main concern was her, which she could tell right away.



She nodded. “I can’t get in.” she pointed at her door. “I’m afraid something bad has happened.” Her voice choked over as tears of worry threatened to cross their borders.



He walked over and tried the door. There was no budge. Turning to her concernedly he asked, “Does she have a spare key you know about?”



“Not that I know of,” Amber shook her head, sinking deeper and deeper into despair. “Can you get us in?”



He nodded. Whipping out his wallet, he fumbled through his millions of credit cards until he settled on one he didn’t care about. “I don’t mind ruining this one.” He sighed, the platinum card shining in the waning sunshine. Dusk was about, and the sun’s rays were slipping beneath the horizon line quickly. He slipped his card into the side of the door, eyeballing the pedestrians around. No one was looking, or gave even gave a care. Muttering something under his breath about the neighborhoods in New York, he clicked the card and swung the door open.



They stepped inside to the darkened hall. There was no sign of disturbance in the tiny apartment.



“Sasha,” Amber shouted, hoping in the depths of her heart that her friend was merely taking a nap. “I’m here my love,” she stepped to glance into the living room.



Charles cocked his brow. “Your love.” He mouthed, a bit amused.



“Shut up,” she smacked him, then cringed when it hit home a tad harder than expected.



“Do you always hit people you just met,” He retaliated, tugging playfully on her hair.



Ignoring him, she made her way to the kitchen and then screamed in horror. Sasha lay on the floor unmoving. She had left the light on, obviously grabbing a drink of orange juice. The fridge was still jarred open. The cup of juice on the counter remained untouched.