The Billionaire Game 3(5)

I burst into a fresh round of sobs, trying not to wonder if the neighbors could hear me.

When it seemed like I’d either run out of tears or else my overworked tear ducts had joined a union   and gone on strike, I stood on shaky legs and walked to the window. The view, as always, was not exactly scenic.

A plastic bag twisted in the branches of a tree, trapped by the breeze. Two little old ladies chatted, arms flying in animated disagreement, as they walked past the run-down McDonalds whose golden arches were practically vintage and whose sign always had at least one misspelling. In the corner of the parking lot, I saw two guys in skinny jeans and faded purple mohawks trading cash and little baggies of weed.

Oh, San Francisco. You crazy, messed-up, beautiful, ugly city that stole my heart. You finally gave me my dream, and all I can do is pick at all the little pieces of it that don’t line up with the way I wanted things to be. Am I greedy, San Francisco? Am I ungrateful? Because I had another dream, San Francisco, and now I don’t know which I want more, or if I can have both. Why does everything look like ashes to me today, San Francisco?

I didn’t say any of this out loud, and also, you know, San Francisco isn’t actually alive, so there was no answer.

My verging-on-committable-for-psychosis reverie was interrupted by the phone buzzing again from its hiding place on the end of my couch. It sounded almost apologetic, like a puppy that knew it shouldn’t have peed on the carpet.

…and I was anthropomorphizing my goddamn phone now. Asher had really done a number on me.

Speaking of numbers, what the hell was up with this one? I had picked up the phone intending to turn it off—I didn’t like to do that, since who knew when another emergency might hit the store, but clearly it had taken it into its little mechanical head to do nothing but torment me today—but before I did, I had glanced at the display and seen that the call was coming from a blocked number. And that—that irritated the hell out of me. What, did Asher think I was born yesterday? Oh, ho hum, a blocked number, well that’s definitely not the Prince of Lies, I’ll just pick it up and answer since I’m a ditzy woman with a head full of silk and lace and airy nothings! Did he really think I’d fall for that?

Probably, the condescending asshole.

That thought almost made me hurl it at the wall—but no, I needed this phone for work, and I’d heard that responsible professionals had this thing called ‘impulse control.’ Seemed overrated to me, but I guessed I could try it out and see how it went. And since hey, today was apparently a day of trying new things, maybe I’d finally face the Asher ‘Stop Having Feelings and Let Me Just Explain to You’ Young situation head on.

I glared at the phone as if it had made this decision for me.

“Okay, fine,” I told it. “I’ll speak to him just this one time, but only to make it clear that I am not ready to have this talk and he needs to back the fuck off. Preferably so far the fuck off that he falls of the edge of the Grand Canyon, but since you can’t have everything in life, I’ll settle for him staying out of my sight.”

The phone didn’t say anything back, probably because I’d cowed it into submission with the strength of my arguments, and also because it was a phone.

Goddamnit, Asher.

I answered the call, stuffing as much vitriol into the word ‘hello’ as was humanly possible. I must have done a bang-up job because there was a pause as Asher probably reevaluated his decision to contact me while I was still in fire-breathing-dragon mode.

“Hello, Miss Jameson.”

“First of all, what the hell, stalker—” I began ripping into him with relish, before my brain caught up to my voice and informed me that whoever was calling me ‘Miss Jameson,’ it certainly wasn’t Asher Young. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t as deep as Asher’s, and it had a little more crisp East Coast in the accent. Shit. “Er. Oh. I’m sorry,” I said weakly. “I was expecting a call from someone else.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad I’m not them,” the man said with a laugh. “No need to apologize, I’m sure whoever it was deserved it.”

“And then some,” I said. “Can I ask who actually is calling, Mr., uh…”

“Dalton,” the voice said. “But please, call me Brody. We’ve actually met before…”

My blood curdled, boiled, and froze all at once. That was why the voice was familiar. This was Asher and Grant’s asshole friend, the one Asher had won the bet against, thanks to me. Was that why he was calling? To try to find some loophole, some way I hadn’t succeeded, so that he wouldn’t have to pay Asher the ten million?