BILLIONAIRE (Part 6) (6 page)

My
only answer to this question was that Alexander’s behavior had kicked up an
innate, survivalist defiance in me.  My piece of mind and sense of safety had
been profoundly violated as a child, shattered many times over.  As much as I
loved the protectiveness Alexander showed towards me, there was a line that had
been crossed.  It pissed me off, too: I’d
told
him about all that.  Had
I mentioned how
he
, the monster, had locked me up?  Had I made it clear
how terrifying that had been for me?  That Alexander
knew
all that – or
at least
some
of it – and
still
chose to lock me in his
admittedly luxurious prison, it just didn’t sit well.  At all.  I needed a
break.  I needed some time to think and to breathe.

Still,
I missed him.  I missed the haven of him.

Of
his apartment and his money.

Of
his strong arms.

I
missed his face.

Had
I acted too rashly?  Probably.  The two glasses of champagne I’d chugged had
given me a frantic courage and, now, cast the city light in a soft, sparky
glow.  The fact that I had no money and no phone seem less urgent than maybe it
should have.  I could always go to Eva’s, I reasoned.  She probably had another
roommate by now, but I knew she’d let me sleep on the couch if it wasn’t
already being occupied.  Or even in her bed, if
that
wasn’t already
being occupied.

I
didn’t feel like going there yet.  In fact, after thinking it through, I
decided I wouldn’t go there.  Alexander would look for me there.  He knew where
Eva lived and it would be the first place he’d search.  I wanted him to worry
about me.  I wanted him to be anxious, after what he’d put me through.

What
I felt was completely reckless.  Utterly lost.  Free, in the loosest sense of
the word.  Not
good
free, entirely, but adrift.

“Wow,”
a male voice said, diverting my attention.  A man stood next to me, and he was
facing the window, but his head tilted towards me, stealing a glance.  His eyes
roved my face, my lips, my hair, wandering to the low cut of my dress and the
curve of my breasts.  “That leopard sofa is amazing.”  He wasn’t looking at the
sofa.

His
eyes were green.  He had dark blond hair and a business suit on.  A nice one. 
Expensive.  He wasn’t excessively handsome but he was nicely groomed.  He was
making the most of what he had.  “My name’s Mick.  Mick O’Neil.”

“Hi,
Mick O’Neil.”  I wasn’t feeling especially social.  I turned back to the
window.

But
Mick O’Neil was persistent.  “Can I buy you a drink?  Or something to eat?  I
was just going to that new fusion restaurant on the corner, and I’d love some
company.  If you’re not busy.”  He was a flirt, and his eyes were friendly,
edged with undisguised interest.  He had that Irish thing going on, of smiling,
open-faced eagerness.  He seemed harmless enough and I
was
hungry. 
Famished, in fact.  In the end I hadn’t eaten much of the ice cream, I
remembered, feeling a stab of curling woe at the memory.  Among other things. 
Mick noticed the blush that rose to my cheeks as I recalled the only form of
nourishment I’d had so far today.  Mick couldn’t have know what caused me to
blush but he seemed riveted by it.  “You are
incredibly
beautiful,” he
said.

I
glared at him, suddenly wary.

He
immediately backtracked, smiling apologetically.  “I’m sorry.  That was out of
line, maybe.  It’s just that … you are.  I couldn’t help noticing.  I’ll try
not
to notice, if it offends you.  So, how about that drink?  Will you join me?  My
treat.  I hate eating alone.”

“Sure,”
I said, mindful of my empty wallet, my nonexistent bank account and my craving
for another glass of champagne.  I was destitute, unemployed, at least
temporarily estranged from my perfect, obsessive billionaire boyfriend.  What I
felt like doing was getting wasted.  To forget about Alexander for a few
hours.  I wasn’t a big drinker, after watching my mother slowly wither away and
die from her disease, but I knew I was nothing like her.  I didn’t just want to
forget my troubles, I wanted to have
fun
.  Right now.  Mick O’Neil
seemed like a festive, upright sort of a guy.  And he was paying.

He
started walking and I followed, falling into step beside him.  “You haven’t
told me your name,” he said.  “You don’t have to, of course, but since we’ll be
having dinner together, I’ll need to call you something.  Just in case I need
to say something like, ‘Pass the butter, Miss Ridiculously Sexy’ or ‘Can I
offer you another glass of wine, Gorgeous?’  See, I don’t want to offend you
again.”

“Lila.”

He
was a congenial guy with a sense of humor that might have appealed to me if I
hadn’t had the day I’d had.  Make that the month I’d had.  I was used to
Alexander’s lofty, almost-arrogant steadiness.  I’d liked that about him, how
we didn’t feel the need for constant, banal conversation to fill the gaps; we’d
been as comfortable with silence as we had with words.  Our personalities had
fit together, somehow.  His idiosyncrasies and flaws had meshed with my own.

Until
he went and fucked everything up.

We
entered the restaurant, which was glinting with modernistic chrome and shiny
glass.  Mick took my coat and hung it on a nearby hook.  His jaw visibly
dropped as he took in the sight of my clinging mini-dress, but he caught
himself, forcing his gaze elsewhere.  It was a dress Alexander had bought for
me in Paris, to wear, he’d said at the time, in private. 
You’re a goddess
,
he’d said when I tried it on. 
I can’t believe you’re real.  And you’re
mine.

Efficient
staff offered us a table, filled water glasses, gave us menus, recited
specials, took drink orders.

I
sipped champagne and listened to Mick O’Neil’s chatter, wondering if Alexander
knew yet of my desertion.  I looked at my watch, the gold one he gave me.  In
Paris.  I was surprised to see that almost two hours had passed since I’d left
Alexander’s apartment.  He’d probably answered his emails by now.  I pictured
him returning to his bedroom, finding me gone.  The thread of satisfaction I
felt, knowing he’d be frantic – no,
crazed
– when he found me missing,
was laced with guilt, and sadness.  I wanted him to worry, yes, but I also
wanted to comfort him.  To reassure him.  To explain to him that he couldn’t
act like that.  Like a dictator who held the only key.  I couldn’t handle that
kind of treatment.  I didn’t want to be trapped, or locked up.  It scared me. 
It scared me to the depths of my lonely, broken soul.

I
wanted to forgive him.  I wished I could.  He must have had a reason for doing
what he’d done, even after I’d tried to explain to him.  Maybe I hadn’t
explained well enough.  My thoughts felt muddled and hazed by the effects of my
turmoil and the alcohol I’d consumed.

“Lila?”

Someone
was speaking to me.  Mick O’Neil.

“Here,
have the last of it,” he said, topping up my glass.  “I can order another
bottle if you want.”

Oh,
God, I’d drunk the whole bottle, while stewing over Alexander, feigning
interest in Mick O’Neil’s stories about his work as a stock broker and his
seven half-brothers.  I’d tried to eat some of the sushi, but the more I drank
the less hungry I felt.

Mick
was sitting very close to me in the retro-style booth.  So close, in fact, that
his thigh was touching mine.  My dress, I noticed then, had ridden up to the
very top of my thighs.  It was indecent, really, especially since I wore
nothing underneath.  “Lishen, Mick,” I said, and was surprised to hear that my
words sounded slurred.  I made an effort to steady myself.  “Thanks so much for
dinner, and the champagne.  I really think I need to get going now.”  I tried
to stand up but the room tilted, and I sat back down.

Mick
O’Neal’s hand slid over my thigh, and the expression in his eyes changed,
almost imperceptibly.  Like a shadow had drifted across his face.  I recognized
that look.  Intensity.  Danger.

“Don’t
go yet, sweetheart.  We’re just getting started.  Have another drink.”  His arm
slung itself around my shoulders and his gaze was on my nipples, which were
clearly outlined by the thin knit fabric.  “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.  We could
get a cab together.  I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.  Come on, I
insist.”

I
was very drunk but I could still hear the warning bells, clanging loudly.  Mick
had also been drinking.  Whiskey.  His hands were getting bolder and his manner
had changed.  He no longer looked friendly.  He looked focused.  And very, very
determined.

I
wanted Alexander.  I wanted him to rescue me, to keep me and hold me and shield
me.  And
not
lock me up.

“Sure,”
I said, a clawing sense of self-preservation kicking in.  “Let me use the
ladies’ room first, then we’ll grab a cab.”

Summoning
every ounce of self-control, I stood.  I swayed slightly but managed to grab my
bag and walk towards the bathroom.  Finding it, I glanced behind me, relieved
to see that the bathroom door, as well as that of the restaurant kitchen, were
hidden from view of Mick’s table.  I went through the kitchen door.  The room
was hectically busy, and crowded with restaurant staff.  Some glanced at me
curiously, but were too busy to take much notice of me.  I wandered through,
finding a service entrance, which led out to a back alley.  It was dark outside
now, and raining.  I almost turned back when I realized I’d forgotten my coat. 
But that would’ve been too obvious, of course.  I couldn’t go back for it.

Unsteadily,
I made my way down the alley, turning in the opposite direction from the
animal-print furniture store.  I turned another corner, walking down the side
streets, finding a dark step to sit on and let some time pass.

Was
I losing my mind?  Was I deliberately putting myself in harm’s way to get back
at Alexander?  What kind of revenge was that: hurting myself to hurt him?  What
kind of idiot puts on a dress like this, with nothing underneath, goes out and
gets inebriated with some amorous stranger whose intentions are pretty fucking
clear?  I’d known exactly what I was doing.  And I’d done it anyway.

My
throat felt tight and achy.  I felt the warm slide of tears on my cheeks, which
surprised me.

I
sat on that step and cried.  I sobbed like my heart was breaking.  Maybe it
was.  A couple walked past me, giving me a concerned glance.  But I wiped my
tears and smiled at them.  “I’m fine.  Enjoy your night.”  As I watched them
turn the corner, the tears just kept on streaming, like something had come
loose in me.  I’d never cried over my past, not once.  Not since the monster
had whipped me for doing it.  Ten years ago.  That was the last tear I’d shed
for all the unfairness and the fear.

I
sat there for a long time, until the night grew black and the rain fell
steadily in cold sheets.

I
walked back towards Fifth Avenue, where Alexander’s building was located.  I
wasn’t going to go there, but I wanted to get closer to it, to find a place to
rest for a while.  I wasn’t sure if I’d ever go back to Alexander.  I didn’t
know.  I was completely, utterly lost.

When
I neared Alexander’s block, I saw a small bar.  It looked warm inside, with
red-tinted light shining through the small, rain-streaked windows.  Trying to
be as inconspicuous as possible, I went in, finding a secluded corner table at
the back.  I was cold to the bone and soaked to the skin.  Still drunk. 
Hungry.

Eyes
followed me but there was some baseball game playing on the TV, diverting the
attention away from me, which I was profoundly grateful for.  The bartender
walked over to me.  He was old, maybe sixty.  He looked kind.  Maybe he had a
daughter, or a granddaughter.  I got the impression that I reminded him of
someone.  “You look like you could use something to warm you up,” he said.

I
gave him a weary smile.

He
shuffled off, then returned with a large, steaming mug, which he placed in
front of me.  “This one’s on the house, honey.”

“Thank
you,” I said, shivering, picking up the cup in my hands, taking a sip.  It was
hot, and sweet.  Alcoholic, and strong.  The liquid warmed me from within, and
calmed me by a single degree.  I felt out of control, dizzy, and very, very
tired.  I leaned the side of my head against the wall and closed my eyes.

After
a while, I could hear and feel that someone had sat down next to me, and was
watching me, but it took me a few minutes to open my eyes.

At
first I thought I was hallucinating.  He looked so much like … but no, he wore
wire-rimmed glasses, and his hair was longer, and wavier.  My eyes focused and
I recognized who it was.

“Lila,
what are you doing here?” he asked.

It
was Jake.

$

eBooks
now available:

BILLIONAIRE (Part
1) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part
2) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part 3
& Part 4) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part
5) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part 6)
by Juliette Jones