Entwine (Billionaire Series) (8 page)

As she changed out
of her work clothes, she made a face as she pulled off her panties. She decided
that a shower was in order.

The idea was still
bouncing around in her head twenty minutes later when she finally grabbed her
phone off the table. This, she supposed, would really tell her just how much
Brad had changed. If he took the time to listen to her problem and tried to
help her fix it, she would know that he was different.

Her fingers shook
ever so slightly as she punched in the number, but her voice was steady when he
answered.

“Hey, Brad.”

“What's wrong?” He
asked immediately.

The fact that he
still knew her well enough to know, with just two simple words, that she was
upset, instantly made her let down her guard. The concern in his voice sent
words tumbling from her mouth before she thought better of it.

“Remember how I
said I had a bad couple of days? Well, now I'm stuck because I don't know what
to do. My boss, he's all over the place, and I'm not sure how I'm supposed to
react. He takes me for granted—doesn't appreciate what I do.”

“Do you like your
job?” Brad asked.

“What?” His
question stopped Jennifer's flow of words.

“Do you like your
job?” He repeated.

“I…guess so,”
Jennifer answered. “I hadn't really taken that into consideration.” It wasn't
until now that she realized she hadn't thought of that at all.

“Well, if you want
my opinion...”

“I do,” Jennifer
quickly said.

“I think you need
to look at it this way,” Brad continued. “Is what you're learning and how much
you like your job worth how you're being treated?”

Jennifer was
silent. It seemed so easy, so simple, when it was put that way. And wasn't that
how she should look at it? Was the experience, the one-on-one learning and, yes
the mind-blowing sex, was any of that worth Philip distancing himself, the
secrecy, and the often rude behavior? She didn't know the answer just yet, but
now she at least had a question that made some sense.

“And, Jenny, if
this guy really is as big of an ass-hat as he sounds, you deserve better. Don't
let him treat you as less than you are.”

She ignored the
irony of that statement, instead focusing on the question he'd asked. “That
helped a lot, Brad.” She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice but
failed. “Thanks.”

Brad either didn't
notice her shocked tone – which Jennifer doubted – or chose to ignore it.
Either way, he didn't make a snide comment, instead just saying, “you're
welcome.”

“Brad, how did you
know?” She found herself asking. “How'd you know that something was wrong?”

“I'm not stupid
enough to think that you were calling me just for the joy of hearing my
voice—as much as I wish that were true.” Brad's voice took on a wistful note.
“After our talk last night, it didn't take much to guess that you were still
having problems. Unless,” he added, “you wanted to thank me for yesterday too.”
There was a teasing to his words that Jennifer hadn't heard in a long time.
She'd always liked his teasing, before it had gotten mean.

“Thank you for that
too, Brad.” She was surprised to find that she didn't have to force the light
tone. She actually did feel better.

“So, do you think,
as a way to show your gratitude, you would be willing to go on a date with me
tomorrow evening after you get off of work?”

“Sure.” The word
was out of her mouth before she could double guess herself. When she realized
she had accepted, she didn't regret it. It wasn't like Philip had ever asked
her out on a date. She didn't even know if she meant any more to him than a
fuck buddy would have. She worked hard and didn't owe him anything more than
that. Unless... tomorrow, things could be different... right? But if it wasn't,
didn't she deserve the chance to have some fun?

“How about
Angelo's?” Brad asked, bringing Jennifer back to the conversation. “Say at
six?”

“Sounds good.” She
glanced at her clock. “Listen, I have to run down to the basement and get some
laundry done or I'm going to have to wear my sweats to that date tomorrow. I'll
see you at Angelo's.”

“I'll be counting
the minutes,” Brad said before he hung up.

As she set down her
phone, Jennifer let out a sigh. Here we go.

Once I made
it back into the room – which felt stuffy and overcrowded after feeling the
cool night air on the balcony – I had located Michael, the first of my
colleagues to catch my eye, and told him that I was going home. I lied that I
had a headache caused by too much champagne, and told him to let the others
know if they asked where I was.

I
really just wanted to sit at home in my favorite pair of leggings and an old
t-shirt with my college sports slogan on the back and my dark hair tied back in
a messy bun as I read my old, battered copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. I
wanted to not miss Mathis or worry about what he was going to do. I had to
trust him, and the only way I could keep from worrying was to occupy every
second of my time with something else.

Once I
was finished convincing a slightly tipsy Michael that I didn’t need a matched
manly escort in order to make it home safely, I went out the front of the
building, sighing in relief to be away from the gaggle of fancily-clad people,
and got into one of the cabs which lined the front drive.

As soon
as I reached home I stepped out of the dress, carefully hanging it on its
hanger and stowing it in my closet. I pulled on my comfiest pajamas, made
myself a cup of chamomile tea and got into bed, pulling the covers up over my
knees and picking up my favorite book from the nightstand. I was tired of
danger, heartache, and anxiety. I didn’t want to think about the nagging fear
of someone guessing the connection between me and Mathis, and I didn’t want to
consider what he might be doing right now. I opened the first page of my book
and resolved not to leave my apartment all weekend.

***

The
next morning, keeping up my resolution not to think about Mathis, I had just
reached the part of the book where Lizzie was beginning to fall for Darcy when
the doorbell rang.

I
jumped in fright; it was unusual for any of my friends to come over without
calling first, and I wasn’t particularly friendly with any of my neighbors. The
first thought that flashed through my mind was that it might be the people who
had tried to shoot Mathis. Maybe they had seen us talking on the balcony last
night! Maybe they had tracked down my car from the night of the shootout and
followed me to my home!

I
swallowed the horrible thought a moment later, scolding myself for being so
foolish. They had seen us together once – it was highly unlikely that they were
after me. After all, in the eyes of the rest of the world, I was nothing to
Mathis. He had even made it clear that his interests lay with another more
attractive woman. There was no reason to believe that his plan wasn’t working
out perfectly.

Mustering
up my courage, I got up and answered the door. Outside was a man I didn’t
recognize, middle-aged and with a handsome but instantly forgettable face of
the kind you usually find on ads.

“Amanda
Taylor?”

I
nodded.

“I have
a package to deliver to you from Mathis,” he said. I noticed that he didn’t use
a last name – just Mathis. The analytical part of my mind also noted that it
was a Sunday, so the mailman shouldn’t be delivering. All in all, it was highly
likely that this man was working for Mathis.

“Um…
thanks,” I said, unsure how I was supposed to respond. He held out the large
package to me, and I took it. It was surprisingly heavy, and I set it down next
to me immediately.

“What
is it?” I asked.

“I
don’t know. I was just told to get it to you.” With a quick nod, he left. I
thought about calling after him, but decided against it. I didn’t want to draw
attention from my neighbors.

Closing
the front door, I brought the package into the living room. Tearing off the
wrapping paper, I found myself looking at a plain black suitcase. Momentarily,
I wondered if it could be some sort of trap, but the idea seemed so ludicrous
that I dismissed it immediately. Throwing caution to the wind, I undid the
clasps and cracked it open.

I
instinctively stepped backwards, falling onto the couch when I saw what was
inside. Row upon row of $100 bills were stacked neatly inside, filling it to
the brim. What the hell? I stared at the money. What the hell is this?

Wondering
if there was a note or something from Mathis to explain this unexpected
package, I threw back the lid of the suitcase to get a better look. On the
inside of the lid, fastened in place with a buckle, was a glossy, black gun.

With trembling
fingers, I picked up the gun from the suitcase. Stupidly, some part of me
thought it might be a fake, perhaps made of plastic with small bb pellets, but
it was cold and heavy in my hands, designed to kill. Of course, it wasn’t the
first time I had held a gun, although I’d never thought to own one. I’d handled
a rifle more than once at Uncle Andy’s ranch, even taken pot shots at old cans
– I was pretty good at hitting the target. Once or twice, I had even gone to a
shooting range with a group of friends, so I was no stranger to the feeling of
cold metal.

Once, when I’d been
dating a guy who fancied himself as an outdoors type, we had gone to a
paintball place. I’d absolutely blitzed him, and that had been the end of our
brief, insignificant relationship. I got a strange kick out of pulling the
trigger and hitting the target when I was shooting brightly-colored paint at
heavily padded strangers. Holding a gun had felt natural. Somehow, though, it
had never felt so sinister or deadly as it did now. This gun hadn’t been sent
to take practice shots at cans or shoot paint pellets. Why had Mathis sent it
to me? Did he think I would need to kill someone? Did he think that someone
would try to kill me? I put it down hastily, shuddering slightly, its weight
unwelcome in my hands. Why would Mathis send this to me? The question repeated
itself over and over in my brain. Try as I might, my mind was blank, my
emotions numb. Nothing came to me.

I thought about
touching the money, seeing how much was there, but the idea made me slightly
nauseous. My stomach twisted unpleasantly, and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t
eaten recently. I thought about the usual implications of money stacked neatly
in a suitcase: blackmail money, ransom money, or an assassin’s fee. It never
boded well, I knew. Although they were crisp and clean, the rows of $100 bills
seemed dirty somehow. Looking at all this money lying in the suitcase in front
of me made me feel as if I was being paid off.

I tried to shake
myself out of my stupor as my eyes blurred and became unfocused, staring hard
at the contents of the suitcase as if I could make it disappear by some mental
power I didn’t know I had. I tried to think logically. I realized that I
couldn’t just sit there letting the doubts overrun my mind. There was no sense
in driving myself crazy. I needed answers – I needed Mathis! Without thinking,
I took out my cell and began to scroll down my list of contacts until I found
his name. Even the little black letters spelling out
Mathis
made my
heart jump a little, and I scolded myself for being so silly. I had always
prided myself on not being a hopeless, sappy romantic.

My finger trembled
over the call button – my nerves fluttered and a sense of guilt stirred in my
stomach as I remembered Mathis’ stern face as he warned me not to contact him –
what would he say if I broke that rule? Would he be angry with me? I paused for
a moment, not wanting to cause trouble for Mathis, but then I looked back at
the gun, nestled in a pile of crisp bills, and my finger hit the call button
before I could have any more doubts. I knew that there was no way I could rest
easy with these things in my apartment unless I knew why Mathis had sent them
to me. I just hoped that he would talk to me and not be angry at the phone
call.

My heart was in my
throat as I listened to the ringing, each slow beep seeming to last forever. I
steeled myself to greet him, but refuse to apologize for calling him, but the
call went through to voicemail, a brisk, business-like message in Mathis’ most
formal tones asking callers to leave name and number. I ended the call, part of
me disappointed, part of me hot and cold with relief.

Mostly, though, I
just felt frustrated – I needed to know what this was all about. What did he
mean by giving me a gun? Was I still in danger? Was it some sort of strange
joke that I was too stupid to understand? Was he really so concerned for my
protection that he thought I needed a handgun to protect myself? The same
thoughts repeated themselves in my mind until I was sick of the sound of them,
feeling like a broken record or an announcer in a train station. I racked my
brains, but it just hurt my head to think about it.

And what about the
money? I looked at it again, my accountant’s brain unconsciously adding up the
lines of bills before I could stop and remind myself that I would rather not
know. I frowned as I reached a ridiculously large total – there must be
hundreds of thousands of dollars in the suitcase! This was far too much money
to be given simply to back off – did he imagine for a moment that I wanted
money from him? For a moment I wondered if he always paid off his women when he
was done with them, and my stomach turned to acid.

Then it dawned on
me, and it was as if someone had thrown a bucket of melted ice cream over my
head – I was instantly cold and sticky with dread. The money was my
inheritance. It was the same amount more or less as, and probably more than,
the investments Uncle Andy had left me were worth. These crisp $100 notes in
the suitcase were meant for me to have instead of Uncle Andy’s investments.
Mathis had sent the money to me so that he never had to have contact with me
again. He was putting me out of his life forever. I knew that this must be it,
but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. It was like being seven years old
again, being forced to take a bitter, rank medicine by my exasperated mother.

Tears threatened to
well up in my eyes as I digested this unpleasant fact. Mathis was paying me off,
sending me away from him and cutting all contact between us. Without the
‘lessons’, I had absolutely no pretext to see him. He was out of my life
forever.

I didn’t
understand, though, and the confusion outweighed my horror – surely those
lessons were the perfect opportunity for us to see each other without arousing
any suspicion from the crime boss, or anyone else for that matter. Was Mathis
really so anxious about them discovering a connection between the two of us
that he refused to see me even that much? Or was he simply trying to get me out
of his life? The old insecurity raised its ugly head, and I couldn’t help the
little seed of doubt taking root in my chest, making my heart ache as if it
were being constricted by evil roots twisting and twining around it.

I had always known
deep down that I wasn’t good enough for Mathis. Even after everything we had
shared together and the way he had looked at me at his apartment after he had
been shot
–
as if I were a
precious treasure he didn’t want out of his sight
–
I had barely let myself hope
that he really cared about me. Now it was even more difficult to believe that
he wanted me. All he did was push me away. I felt small and powerless.

Mathis could just snap
his fingers and send me a fortune which could make me disappear from his radar
completely, just like that. I did not have that luxury. I knew I could never
accept the money, never touch it without thinking about Mathis. It was ironic:
before I met Mathis again, I would probably have been elated to suddenly have
enough money to be free from all my financial burdens. Now, it felt like a trap.
I’d give it all to have Mathis, without all the obstacles and interruptions
between us. I didn’t want the money – not a single dime of it!

In a sudden fit of
anger, I slammed the lid of the suitcase, hiding both the money and the gun
from view. I didn’t want any of it. It was a poor replacement for Mathis,
almost as if he was mocking me, like one of his bimbos he could just send away
with a credit card when he had lost interest in her.

I picked up the
suitcase as if it were diseased, touching it only with my thumb and index
finger. It fumbled out of my hand with a loud thud, sending a shock down my
spine as I worried about my neighbors being curious about what I had in my apartment.
It was incredibly heavy for a bundle of paper, but I ignored the weight, and
quickly dragged it into my bedroom and looked around for the darkest corner to
throw it in.

I set the suitcase
against a wall and dug through my closet, almost swimming my way through my
clothes (I seriously needed to make a trip to Goodwill) until I could reach the
very back, the place where dust and darkness went to curl up and die. With
loathing and anger struggling for dominance in my chest, I heaved the suitcase
into the corner of my closet, shoving my abundant clothes back into place so I
didn’t have to look at it anymore.