I Choose You (The Billionaire Brothers Series) (38 page)

But did I complain? Nope. I just sat back and let Lori transform one of the spare bedrooms into a closet, stocked from top to bottom with fashion statement apparel.

Now, as I was about to leave the apartment, I had no choice but to wear them. Spinning from side to side, I checked myself out in the mirror. Pleased with how I looked, I sallied out to the living room, sat down on the sofa, crossed my legs, and waited.

It was thirty-five minutes earlier than the time I was told a car would be here to pick me up, but, being overly excited, I’d started getting ready the minute I rolled out of bed.

Two nights ago when I texted Trevillo my nightly ‘you are a coward’ message, he didn’t text back, no. He did something better: he called me.

Though he’d been curt, his words were just what I wanted to hear: he needed to see me. He told me he’d send a car to pick me up at 9am on Friday — today.

He didn’t say why he wanted to see me or where we were going. He didn’t address what happened, he didn’t apologize for abandoning me for three weeks, he didn’t ask me how I was doing. Nevertheless, I didn’t complain. He called me, something he hadn’t done in three weeks, and that alone had me giddier than a pimply teenager. The waning hope that what we had could possibly still be alive, started to wax after his call.

I hadn’t heard another word from him since that phone call, though. But nope, I still wasn’t sulking.

Now it was Friday. 8:24am. I was ready. I was happy. And I was impatient.

Marsha left after I gave her a time limit to spill her secret, but not before I begged her not to divulge what happened to me to Jahleel. Think I was being fair there? Threatening to tell her secret, yet wanting her to keep mine?

Me, either.

But, where I was selfish, Marsha wasn’t. So even though she promised not to tell Jahleel what happened to me, I still gave her a time limit for her sperm-stealing revelation.

I ignored Jahleel’s inundation of phone calls for the last couple of weeks. Whenever we had a fallout, it never took us more than twenty-four hours to get over our snit, so Jahleel’s profusion of calls, I knew, was on account of him being worried things between had gone so badly, it was irreparable.

That wasn’t the case, though. I loved Jahleel. But at the moment, I loved Trevillo more, and I needed to channel all my focus, energy, and attention into getting him to love me again.

I consciously cheated on him that night, forced it even. But what followed — the abduction and near death experience — was all on him. Yet
I
felt the need to apologize for all of it. To find some way to make him think of me how he once thought of me: pure, delicate, his angel’s feather, or whatever other poetic phrases he always used. Not how I knew he now thought of me: dirty, stained, blemished …

Why had I all of a sudden abandoned who I was — a cynic of life, love and people — for a new me — a girl desperate for the acceptance of another human being?

Well, because I was choosing a path for my life. I was choosing what I wanted my life to be, and who I wanted to be in it. I was choosing who I wanted to give to, and who I wanted to receive from. I was fighting for the life I wanted. I was determined to get the man I needed. And I was adamant on having my love requited.

On the first ring of the telephone, I rushed to answer it. The concierge informed me my driver had arrived. In a heartbeat, I was out of the building and heading straight into the waiting white Mercedes, where a lanky man suited in black held the door open. He nodded with a “Good afternoon, Miss Kingston” as I slid in the back.

As the car drove off, I thought about how nonessential all of this was — from the caretaker, Mary, to Marsha being kept from her business, to the name brand clothes, to having a driver pick me up.

One of the numerous reasons I enjoyed being with Trevillo was because he acted ridiculously casual for a man of his stance. He drove himself, cooked for himself, and walked without being flanked by guards. Such made it easy to forget about his wealth and who he was, status-wise.

But now with all this superfluity, I was forced to recognize who he was. Trevillo Marco-Dean Nelson, a mega-billionaire, real estate king — with a foul mouth and a powerful tongue. At the latter musing, I squirmed.
God, I miss that tongue.

Half-an-hour later, I looked out the window and saw we were heading straight toward a jet. The realization that we were going to be traveling had me sitting up from my slouch. Trevillo hadn’t told me to pack anything, and all I had with me was a handbag which held just a few necessities — like make-up and hairbrush. Plus, I was underdressed in just a white Maxi skirt and a simple teal tank.

The welts on my skin had long ago healed, leaving faint red streaks that would take another couple of weeks to disappear. But one would have to look closely to see them, so I wasn’t worried about Trevillo being reminded of that night.

The driver stopped right at the steps of the jet, and two pitch-black, tinted Range Rovers braked up behind us. Were we being followed? I waited to see who would exit them, but no one did. The jeeps just idled there.

Before the driver could reach around to the passenger door to open it for me, I exited the car on my own. He frowned, displeased, and waved his hand, palm-up, to the steps of the jet and said, “Mr. Nelson awaits your arrival.”

Batting down the urge to roll my eyes, I watched the Range Rovers in suspicion as I climbed up the steps and entered the jet. The rich scent of new leather slapped me first, then, I smelled him. Without even seeing him.

I didn’t see him at first because the entire interior of the jet was white — white seats, white surfaces, floor, and ceiling. And it was as I started looking around, admiring the luxury of the fortunate, that I saw him lying on a crescent-shaped seat to the right, staring at me poker-faced.

How had I not seen him before? Because he, too, was in all-white. He wasn’t Playboy Trev, or Rocker Trev or Suit Trev. No, he was different today. I’d go with Angelic Trev — even though I knew he was far from it.

Angelic Trev was overly casual in just a white wife beater, white cargo pants, and barefooted, though his white Gucci sandals were sitting at the foot of the seat.

Sprawled on his back with one foot bent and propped on the seat, the other dangling off the side, one hand tossed and crooked above his head while the other hand draped across his abdomen, he was breathtaking. And that’s being said with a sigh.

A heavy sigh.

It took every bit of strength in me not to lurch myself at him. Instead, I stood at the front of his grand, luxurious jet and pretended I wasn’t affected. Pretended there wasn’t a flaming heat between my thighs. Pretended that my breathing was under control.

I loved this man.

A helluva lot.

We said nothing to each other for a while. I stood looking at him with eyes I hoped weren’t revealing my inappropriate thoughts, and he stared back at me with eyes that revealed … nothing. He looked placidly reposed as if he’d been dozing off, or was just waking up from a nap.

After an eon of heavy silence, he quietly greeted, “Hi, Krissan.”

Keeping up the pretense, I spoke with attitude, like a woman who
should
be miffed that her man had abandoned her for three weeks in a time when she needed him the most. “What’s up with those tinted jeeps outside?”

“I’m not okay with it either,” he replied in a serene voice. “In fact, they’re not working on my dime, they’re working for my brother. So even if I tell them to fuck-off, they won’t. Natalio insisted we be protected.”

“What?” I asked, befuddled by his disjointed answer.

“We have securities now,” he grumbled, his relaxed mood starting to wane. “Damn Natalio.”

The only word I focused on from that miserable grumble was the plural ‘we’, which implied there was still an ‘us’. A tinge of excitement sprinted through me.

I was still standing at the front of the jet, mind racing, teeth chomping down on my lower lip, when he said, “You can take a seat, Krissy. Wherever you want. We leave in less than an hour. Pilot’s prepping.”

Moving from where I was rooted, I took a seat at a small table situated across from the crescent-shaped seat Trevillo was lying on. A tray of fresh fruits — white and red grapes, sliced pineapples, cantaloupes and melons — sat in the center of the table. I plucked one of the white grapes and popped it in my mouth before asking, “Where are we going? I have nothing packed, you know.”

Eyes trained on the ceiling, he dully replied, “I have a suitcase packed for you already.”

Wow. Way to take a woman’s life from her hands and control it. I didn’t argue, though. Not yet. That would be for another time when I was certain of our status as a couple. Better to let him believe I was A-okay with being controlled for now. Whatever to get him back. “And we’re going … ?”

“To the Caribbean.”

His relaxation mode was slowly dissipating as something akin to agitation supplanted while he kept his eyes trained above to avoid looking at me. His shoulders tensed, and the skin around his eyes tightened. I sighed. Moments ago, I had him. Now I was losing him again.

“If you need anything to drink or eat … or any assistance, just press that red button over there to your left. Simone, the hostess, will get you whatever you need. Staff keeps out of sight unless I call for them.”

I, Krissan Kingston, seldom got irate. As a ripe twenty-six year old woman, I knew, without lessons, how to handle situations, all situations, in the most mature manner, one that could never be contested. In other words, I knew how to be an adult. Not everyone got adulthood right. Some people never grow up.

I
wasn’t one of those people. Crying, for me, was a rarity. Yelling, for me, was a rarity. Getting lured into arguments,
never
happens. Holding grudges and malice,
never
happens.

It might be because of how I was brought up, what with my adoptive parents being humbled children of God and all. They smiled at everything and knew how to keep up appearances. I observed how Jahleel could transform from a rogue to white knight at the drop of a hat. I saw how our parents accepted our decision to opt out of being a part of their ministry without threatening to disown us. I realized how they unconditionally loved us still, and cared for us even though we were rotten, rebellious sinners. I noticed how maturely they handled each and every situation that ever arose. So, throughout my formative years, I guess I watched, and I copied.

Krissan Kingston was far from a saint, but believe me, she could pass as one.

However, since Trevillo, things have shifted around a bit — in my well-ordered and controlled brain, that is. I’ve come to realize this man had the power to piss me off beyond reason. He was difficult, really difficult, to deal with. While I do understand the whole relationship, girlfriend, and feelings thing was new to him, which might render him a bit baffled on how to handle certain situations, what angered me the most was his lack of effort to fucking try.

He
wanted
this, and he was smooth enough to make it happen. But he also wanted to control things and make them the way he wanted them to be: Easy. Uncomplicated. Without ‘situations’.

Ha!
He needed to wake the fuck up and realize relationships didn’t come without ‘situations’. I’ve never been in a relationship before, and even I knew that. If he wanted this, he needed to start dealing with unrequested shit inevitably popping up from time to time.

Desperation to keep him should’ve had me reigning in my anger. But I figured maybe if I showed him his attitude was pushing me to the limit, he’d realize the depth of the situation. Maybe if I created the illusion he was going to lose me for good, it would wake him up.

The fact that he used the term ‘we’ earlier proved he didn’t plan on leaving me physically. I’d gained him back there. However, mentally, he was leaving me. Emotionally, he was leaving me. And I needed to work on gaining him back in those ways, too. To make him look at me with those blue eyes like he used to: with unbridled need, concupiscence and adoration. To see
me
when he looked at me, not the events of that horrid night. The single teardrop that had fell from his eye that night gave me hope. So, I took the risk.

Taking a deep breath, I got up and walked over to where he was, looming over him. In slow motion, he dragged his eyes away from the ceiling and turned them to me, but said nothing. Eyes void, dull, hopeless.

With an exaggerated shrug, I asked, “Aren’t you going to ask me how I am? How I’m feeling? What effects the events of that night might have on me? How I’m holding up? If I’m traumatized? Don’t you care to know?”

For several heartbeats, he said nothing, just stared right into my eyes. Then, “Remember when you asked me a few months ago why I named my yacht Hopeless, and I told you because I was?”

Never faltering on my act, I shrugged again with attitude. “Yeah. Point?”

“Well, now you see, Krissan. Firsthand.” His eyes left mine and went back to the ceiling. “You shouldn’t love me.”

I wanted to hit him. Hurt him. I wanted to hit him so hard until he broke. I wanted to break him. Just as he kept breaking me. Over and over. I wanted to hate him. But I couldn’t. I loved him and I couldn’t help it.

“Oh, okay. So I guess that little speech you gave about me being ‘chosen’ was just a load of bull, huh? I guess I should just grab my handbag and get the fuck off this jet because Mr. Hopeless doesn’t seem capable of being normal for one fucking minute in his life. Mr. Hopeless just opens his mouth and meaningless bullshit comes out.”

I whirled around and went to snatch up my handbag, then came back and held his helpless gaze. “You know what, Trev, fuck you and your fucking fuckedupness! I’m tired of you sending me around in goddamn circles! Over and over you do the same fucking thing. Every time!
Every time!
” — I was no longer acting, by the way, this was the real deal — ”You say one thing, and then you do the complete opposite.
How
are you some renowned billionaire again? I’m thinking it’s your family name that has gotten you where you are, not your brain! Because you don’t fucking have one! No brain, no balls!” I flicked up both middle fingers at him. “Have a nice life,
Mr. Hopeless
.”