Sugarbaby (4 page)

Still unsure, I nodded in answer. It was hard not to stare at him, so I kept looking at his friend, who had a hard time making eye contact with me.

“Would you mind getting us some of those brochures?” Boy Band asked, turning back around.

As I went to fetch them, Carley bustled into the room with their beers. Convenient timing. She couldn't have been spying behind the door with Juanita or anything, could she? Then she took their food orders, and by the time she was done, I was ready to drop off the brochures and get back to filling those shakers.

I handed the paperwork to Simmons, and he thanked me, diving into the one about the wine trail right away. When I glanced at the blond before I went on my merry way, I noticed something unexpected—a scar on his neck, the tissue white and tangled, just like those webs we weave. And his eyes . . . lashes. Long, dark lashes that had no business on a blond, much less a guy.

I found that pulse-pounding gaze on my nametag, and a slow smile came over his lips, bringing out a subtle dimple.

“Thanks, Jadyn,” he said, not seeming to mind that he had what I thought must be a burn mark on him, or that he'd just given me a look that nearly made me wilt.

Thing was, I'd never heard my name come at me like that before—as if he'd picked it off the ground where he'd found it, brushed it off with care, then given it back to me.

I only nodded and walked away, a whir of sensations pulling at me. There was attraction trying to haul me back to that table like a magnet. There was that vague sense of familiarity, too, but I couldn't hang on to it. Why did I think I'd seen him before?

While I filled the shakers, letting the boys chat among themselves, the familiarity kept at me until a name finally emerged from all the confusion.

Reeves
.

The name hung on me, hooking me back to the kitchen, where I shoved the salt and pepper where they belonged and reached for my phone in my apron. Jackie eyed me while she prepared carne guisada and chalupas and Juanita kept looking up from an iPad that she used for inventory. Carley had already left to pick up Bret from the county airport, so that left two for the inquisition.

“So?” asked Juanita.

“As if you don't know.”

“Maybe I was watching . . . a little.” Juanita exchanged an amused glance with Jackie.

“I've seen him before,” I said. “The blond.”

“That's surely a face you don't forget,” said Jackie.

I took out my phone and accessed the Internet. I typed in “Reeves” then “Simmons” and “blond,” just for good measure.

A bunch of links for people on Facebook and Twitter appeared, and I scrolled past them until I got to something that made me stop cold.

“Noah Reeves,” I murmured.

Everything but the sound of kitchen sizzle and steam had gone quiet.

I hit the link, and a picture came up of a blond man in a business suit with his head down as he walked a city street. He was surrounded by other suits, including his friend Simmons, who was at his side, seeming as if he would lay anyone out if they came too close to Noah Reeves.

Now they were sitting in my café's dining room.

My breath went shallow as I read on, realizing the exact reason Noah Reeves had seemed so familiar to me. He'd been on the news during the summer, a flash in the cycle of constantly revolving stories that assaulted us day by day, disappearing after another story took its place.

Noah Reeves, the twenty-six-year-old billionaire who'd dropped out of sight suddenly. No one had known where he'd gone, but they'd hazarded a million guesses as to why he'd disappeared from public—his father had passed away, and some had speculated that Nathaniel Reeves had been so ashamed of losing most of his fortunes to a business rival that he'd given up on life and drank himself to death. Noah's mother had been hospitalized for “exhaustion,” and his two younger brothers and two uncles were forcing him out of the board of directors for The Reeves Group, a conglomerate that dealt with everything from real estate to tech.

As I looked through more articles, I saw that there were vicious rumors about Noah Reeves being hospitalized, too, and the family was hiding that fact from the public.

I put the phone in my pocket very slowly, feeling as if the blood were draining out of my face.

“Jade?” Juanita asked, walking over to me.

I held up a hand, resting the other one on my belly, which was swirling. So was my head.

“Maybe he's just a doppelgänger,” I said. “And he borrowed Noah Reeves's best buddy to go out to a late lunch.”

“What're you talking about?”

I wasn't even sure, so I shook myself out of it. I didn't say another word, even as the reality of what was going on hit me from all sides.
Billionaire? Disappeared? Here?

No way.

Jackie slid the plates on the counter, all business now that it came to her food. “Well, whatever is dogging you, get over it, sister, because that doppelgänger needs his food.”

Of course he did. He needed to be taken care of just like anybody else, even if he was a real live news story right here in little Aidan Falls.

I made myself calm down as I went for the plates. Even so, my hands were shaking. Shoot. Maybe Noah Reeves and his friend Simmons had heard about the great craft beer here or the organic Tex-Mex or . . .

Juanita put a hand on my back. “You need me to take out the food?”

“No. No, I've got this.”

So he has money. So he's massively hot and kind of intimidating. So he's a mystery, right here in your stomping grounds.

So what.

I took a deep breath, slowly letting it out before I backed through the door and into the dining room. The last sight of sanity I saw was Juanita, staring at me.

And then I was at the table, setting down their plates, asking if they needed anything else. Damn, I was doing good, even if my mind was buzzing like a stray saw was loose in it and my pulse was chawing through a vein in my throat. I was pretty sure it was obvious, too. How could it not be?

“Thank you,” said Noah—was this
really
Noah Reeves?—before I could leave the table. “I have just one more question, though.”

I waited, smiling.
Be cool, be a pixel and disappear into the background just as soon as you can
. I needed to piece everything together, take a moment, relax.

“We heard,” he said, “that there's some kind of club that pops up around here every so often, and it changes locations so the cops don't catch up to it.”

“The Hellfire Club,” I automatically said. Everyone in Aidan Falls knew about it, although it was mostly an urban legend for us boring people. They said that the Club was filled with a hip crowd, mainly from out of town, who gathered for a secret countrified rave. I'd heard about orgies and weed smoking and all kinds of craziness.

“So you're familiar with it,” Noah Reeves said, raising that eyebrow again.

I nearly squirmed—and not in a bad way. It was as if he was grilling me instead of just holding a conversation.

“I wouldn't say I'm ‘familiar,'” I said. “Supposedly you have to be invited by someone in the know to get in. That's the only way you'd be able to find the location.”

From the way his gaze turned secretive, I wondered if
The
Noah Reeves had come out of hiding and to this speck on the map because some ballsy person had invited him to a session at the Club.

This couldn't be happening. None of it. I'd wake up at any second and I'd be talking to an empty table, right?

Simmons had been drinking his beer the whole time, looking down at the table again. I wasn't sure if he was plain withdrawn or if he was disengaged for another reason. It was almost as if he wanted Noah to stop talking.

I glanced back at Noah, and I couldn't help it—my heart snagged in its rhythm, suspending like it was caught in a gnarled branch, swinging before flying off, catching the wind, and starting its normal rhythm again.

It got even worse when he ran a slow gaze over me—my face, my chest, down and down until my whole body was beating. It was as if he wanted to acquire me, along with everything else he had.

But wouldn't a man of the world already have everything?

I had to get out of here before I boiled to goop at the foot of their table, but as I turned to leave, Noah added one more thing.

“I'm looking forward to fishing and riding, all right.”

I froze, adrenaline icing me. What had he just said?

One of the texts I'd gotten from Aidan whooshed into my head.
It really has been a long time since I've been fishing. Or riding.

Coincidence? It couldn't be. But it
had
to be.

I didn't dare look back. But, dammit, yes, I dared. I had to, and when I did, I saw Simmons glaring at Noah, almost as if his friend had betrayed him.

Somehow I made it through the rest of dinner service, never revealing my stunned hand to the strangers in the café.

Since I thought I might seem . . . well, “deranged” might be a good word . . . if I started asking the two visitors questions about the texts Simmons might've sent me, I kept mum. What if I was wrong about my suspicions? Wouldn't it be smarter to ask “Aidan” himself about this through more texts?

So I decided to wait to do that until my shift was over, checking on the customers like a good server should. I refilled their beer as if I were a robo-waitress with her programming stuck on “pleasant.” I brought their check. After they left, I found a three-hundred-dollar tip on the table, and I acted as if I received that kind of money all the time, calmly stowing it in my apron pocket without telling the Greek Chorus about it. Carley and I would split it later.

Three hundred dollars from a missing billionaire and . . .

And “Aidan,” aka Simmons?

It was still unbelievable. Stuff like this happened to other people in romantic comedies or high-concept TV shows. Not me. Never me.

But it was happening, and it was even very possible that “Aidan” had come to visit me in this town because he knew where I lived, thanks to some Internet research. Had one of those searches told him where I worked, too? Had he wanted to catch a glimpse of the dopey sexter because that's what rich people did in their ample spare time?

Maybe he and his pal Noah Reeves could afford to be that impulsive. And maybe I should've been extremely weirded out.
And
maybe my mind was playing tricks on me because Simmons had never texted at all—Tweedle Rich and Tweedle Richer really could've been in town because of the Hellfire Club and a need for some wicked, on-the-down-low fun, and their references to fishing and riding had been coincidental. Maybe they actually intended to be on a vacation that involved said fishing and riding. That's what people did in Hill Country, after all.

But even if I were right about my suspicions, something else was nattering at me. If I were to have guessed which one of the two guys was sending those texts, I would've picked Noah Reeves over Simmons. He seemed like the type who would toy with a girl, not his quieter, shyer friend.

When I got home, I slumped on the sofa, my laptop by my side, then put on the DVR to see
Chopped
on Food Network. I watched it because I always thought that, some day, I might be a better cook than I'd been for Uncle Joseph, who'd liked his meals bland, seeing as his appetite had dwindled because of his meds. At any rate, I was just settling down to do more background checking on the richies when my phone sounded off.

It was my cousin's jazzy ringtone, and I leaned back on the sofa, deciding to get this over with, even though Delroy was calling much too late and I'd probably been an afterthought to his day.

“Hi, Delroy.” Since Uncle Joseph had gotten sick, I'd seen my second cousin face-to-face only the few times he'd visited; he was that busy with his lawyerly clients. Sad, really, because my uncle had told me so many stories about growing up here, playing in a country blues band and having Johnny Cash sit in one night. Joseph had been a cool man who'd been worthwhile to know.

“Jadyn,” Delroy said in a crisp tone. I thought I could hear the tinkle of piano ivories in the background. He was probably having drinks with coworkers after a big case or something. “I've been told that you'll be receiving your life insurance payment this week.”

This was the big news from him? Uncle Joseph had told me about the payout and that the money was meant to go toward a university, then my medical degree. The amount wouldn't come close to covering all my expenses, but it sure went a long way, and I was hoping grants or scholarships would help with the rest.

“Thank you for letting me know, Delroy.”

“Did you decide about the house?”

Ah, here was the real reason for the call.

He probably wanted to know if he should begin looking into selling the house since I'd gone back and forth on staying here. Delroy owned this place now, and he'd told me I could use it, rent-free, for the time being. It was his way of saying thank you for taking care of his father.

I tried not to think of how he'd gone off to pursue his dreams away from home while I'd put mine on hold. It was only too bad Uncle Joseph had been more my father than his. I'd seen the sadness in Joseph's eyes every time Delroy would make a weekend call at 1:00 p.m. on the nose every Sunday after church. He'd missed his son.

I glanced around the small, cozy home where I'd grown up—hand-worked oak chairs Joseph had made in his better days, the original Victorian-looking wallpaper that Aunt Vivian had insisted on before she'd passed from leukemia before I was old enough to remember her.

“I'd like to stay,” I said simply, holding back the emotion.

“Good. That's good.”

Why did it sound as if he was checking me off a to-do list?

The line went awkwardly silent because we had nothing else to say to each other. I highly doubted I'd be seeing Delroy for Thanksgiving.

My phone buzzed, and I startled. Was it . . . ?

Yeah—there I went again, thinking about “Aidan” and his texts.

“Thanks for calling,” I repeated to my cousin. “I've got someone on the other line.” Which was true.

He cleared his throat as if he wanted to say something more, but he never quite got there. “Have a good week, Jadyn.”

And . . . that was that. When I hung up, my gaze went to Uncle Joseph's chair, the cream doily that draped over the maroon fabric, the grooves in the carpet at the foot of the furniture where his TV tray had always stood.

My phone buzzed again, just as my throat got clogged. I gave into temptation—anything to brush aside the sudden isolation.

555-8465:

How're tricks in Aidan Falls?

Either Simmons had decided that I hadn't caught on to any of Noah Reeves's boulder-sized hints about fishing and riding, or this was someone else entirely.

I still wasn't sure how to answer as I watched a chef get eliminated on the TV.

555-8465:

Please don't tell me *I* have the wrong number now.

Oh, it was wrong all right, but I decided it was time to clear the weeds. First, though, I fired up my laptop. While I waited for the screen to come alive, I texted back.

Jadyn:

How would you define the right number?

As I waited, I clicked onto the Internet.

555-8465:

LOL. Glad you're still out there, Jadyn.

Why?
I thought.
So you can mess with me some more if you're actually a rich boy?
But I was too busy clicking on a link and reading to respond to him right away.

What I found on that computer wasn't terribly enlightening, but according to some society articles I hadn't seen before, Noah used to be a man about town. Mid-twenties, the oldest son of three, primary heir to the fortunes of The Reeves Group.

I finally decided on a good way to approach this detective business: I'd sniff around and see if I could ease Simmons out in the open—if it
was
him.

Jadyn:

So what have you been up to? Are you tucked away in your house? Or maybe you went to a good restaurant since we talked last?

If this was Simmons, hiding behind a screen, I wanted him to know that I knew . . . or at least suspected. While I waited, I scanned a picture caption on a gossip page
: Noah Reeves dresses to kill in Armani as he escorts a date to the gala premiere of Spielberg's latest.

The accompanying picture revealed the tall, ridiculously handsome billionaire in a tuxedo that fit in all the right places, showing off a physique that was surely honed in a state-of-the-art gym. The socialite on his arm was statuesque, probably a model.

She was nothing like me. But why did I care when it had probably been Simmons acting like “Aidan”?

His text came through.

555-8465:

I did find someplace spectacular to eat, as a matter of fact.

Jadyn:

Where?

I hoped Simmons was sweating bullets by now, because if I could tell anything by his body language when Noah had been talking about fishing and riding, I knew that he'd resisted coming into the Angel's Seat, resisted checking me out, just to see who was on the receiving end of his texts.

He didn't answer me fast enough, so I barged on.

Jadyn:

If you ever make it to Aidan Falls, I know a great joint that serves amazing organic Tex-Mex. It also has a heck of a craft beer list.

No answer, so off I went again.

Jadyn:

Question for you—your area code is the same as mine. *Are* you already in Aidan Falls?

I wanted to add:
Has Noah been hiding in this area from the public this entire time and you just came out of the woodwork after I mistakenly got a hold of you? Did you get him to go outside because you wanted to do some “fishing and riding” but, actually, you had something else in mind, like checking me out?

But then I remembered how Noah had gazed around the café this afternoon, taking it in as if he'd never seen a slice of Texas before.

When a response arrived, I sank back in the sofa, the single word swimming in front of my eyes.

555-8465:

Yes.

What was I supposed to make of only a “yes”? He
was
in Aidan Falls? But he also wasn't denying that something screwy was going on.

“Aidan”
had
to be who I thought he was.

Jadyn:

Why did you come here?

If phones could sigh, that's what mine might've done during the next text.

555-8465:

It's a long story, Jadyn.

Jadyn:

Believe me when I say I'd love to hear it.

On my right, my laptop screen dimmed with the picture of Noah on it. Even in black and white he stood out from everything else during a time before his life had fallen apart.

I opened a new tab and did a dedicated search on Simmons, not knowing his first name. Surely “Simmons” wasn't it.

The only links that appeared were related to Noah.

By now, it seemed “Aidan” wasn't going to tell me this “long story” of his, so I took a different approach.

Jadyn:

Are you using a burner phone, Simmons?

Went for it. Called him out. Invited him to deny who he was.

555-8465:

Yes. Had business in the area, picked up quite a few phones while here on a previous trip.

Boom
. There it was. He wasn't telling me I was wrong about him being Simmons. But, clearly, his “long story” wasn't forthcoming. Was he going to outright admit anything?

I also realized he might've purchased those phones while he was watching over Noah during those dark family and business times, using the burner numbers from all over so no one could get on a bead on where they were as they laid low from society.

Had
Noah been hospitalized around this area? Was that rumor true?

I remembered that scar on his neck, wondered if that tied in to any of this.

Another text finally came through, as if he'd been waiting for an answer that'd never come from my end.

555-8465:

I'd like to make this up to you. I didn't intend to cause all this confusion.

I laughed.

Jadyn:

You already made things up to me with that tip you and Noah Reeves left. Thank you, BTW. But that “long story” you mentioned would be even better compensation.

I waited. Waited and waited. Then . . .

555-8465:

If you're not busy tomorrow night, we should talk.

Holy crap.

Was I busy? Heck no. I had an early Biology II class and I was on lunch shift at the café, so my night would be free. Carley would be, too, because she'd asked for a few days off to be with Bret. I was so infernally curious that I couldn't imagine turning down a chance to get to the end of this maze, and you can bet that I'd bring my friend with me. If girls needed wingmen to go to the restroom, I could sure justify needing one for
this
.

The text he sent next only had a link, and Lord help me, I clicked on it. My eyes adjusted to the GIF, flames burning, an invitation imposed over the image.

Shhh . . . Hellfire Club gathering, old mansion off Gravel Switch Road, 10pm tomorrow

Then the picture crumbled to virtual ashes, leaving nothing.

***

“Absolutely freakin'
not
,” Carley said.

I'd met her the next day after class at the Dairy Queen for a quick bite before I went to work. We were sitting on plastic benches on the front patio while Bret was inside ordering. I'd known the two of them would be inseparable after he came back into town, and this was the only chance I might get to talk to her alone, on or off the phone.

“Why shouldn't we go to the Hellfire Club?” I asked. “What do you know about it?”

“I've been there before.”

Oh. My. I hadn't known that tidbit.

She went on. “Bret invited me when we were on TellTale and I didn't even know who he was. Believe me when I say it's not your scene.”

“But it's yours?”

“I'll confess that I was taking a risk, thanks to all the rumors about how wild the Club is, but . . .” She exhaled and leaned forward until her long, straight dark hair spilled over her shoulder. “Maybe I'm being a mother hen here—I was never this maternal in California—but, hell, Jade, these rich guys are playing with you. I can't let go of the feeling that this is a trap or something.”

“And that's why I texted back this morning to tell Simmons I wouldn't show unless I could bring my friends. He sent two more invitations. That doesn't sound like someone who's trying to pull a fast one.”

“Not unless we're in a sequel to a horror movie like
Hostel
. It's totally possible, you know. Young dumb kids stumble into a too-good-to-be-true party and
whack
!”