CHAPTER NINE
Holly
Three months later …
My hands danced over the remote, scrolling through hundreds of satellite channels. Ah ha, here it was. A Spanish-language telenovela, where the innocent maid falls in love with the big, bad CEO who happens to be her employer.
Sound familiar? Maybe. But this is my life now, and I’m happy to report that just like Fran Drescher in The Nanny, me and my employer are an item now. Or at least I think we are. We must be, seeing that I don’t “serve” Thorn anymore. We’re equals now, talking and laughing, chitchatting when the mood strikes us.
Because right now, I’m on the plane lounging around waiting for Thorn to get back from his latest meeting. It’s a nice life, to say the least. I go where he goes, following him around the world to all sorts of exotic destinations. Maine? Check. Hawaii? Check. Alaska? Check check. In fact, we’ve been to Alaska twice now, hitting up Juno once and Anchorage the second time.
So I consider myself the billionaire’s girlfriend. We laugh, talk, and dine together, and he treats me like a significant other, always solicitous of my comfort and health. Not only that, but I now have the wardrobe of Cinderella, perfect for going out on the town or staying home, whichever suits our fancy.
The only thing that niggles my mind is terminology. Thorn has never referred to me formally as his woman, and there certainly aren’t any promises. He’s never used any words to formalize our relationship, but I put a lid on my worries. Because there’s emotion in the air. Whenever we’re in the same space, electricity surges, and invisible rope binding us together. Not only that, but I feel drawn to him, like a magnet facing its pole. He’s my man, and there are no two ways about it.
Plus, the money is unbelievable. Thorn pays me for my time, and every trip we take together is worth twenty thousand dollars. Can you believe it? So a flight to Alaska and back is the equivalent of forty thousand big ones, and after three months of doing this, I’m almost a millionaire. It’s crazy. Just earlier this year, I’d been wondering how we’d survive, desperate to make a buck by any means necessary. And now, my bank account is bulging, filled to the brim with promises of more.
But it’s also the money that makes me stop short. Because what man pays his girlfriend with a salary? Sure, women are dependent on men the world over for cash. If one person is the breadwinner, it’s okay. The money is shared between the two as an acknowledgement of their commitment.
But in my situation, it’s a little different. There are actual milestones marking my bonuses, with dollar signs attached to each leg. Is it normal to be so clear and specific? What is normal anyways? Do real husbands and wives do this, or do they share a bank account and call it even?
Doubts whirled in my mind. As the child of a single mother, I don’t know how these things work, and frankly, there’s no one I can ask. But I put my fears to rest because it feels like a relationship for the most part. Thorn and I love it up day and night, even if every week, another giant chunk of cash hits my bank account.
So I made myself swallow the doubts. On the one hand, I’d never turn up my nose at so much money. The amount is unbelievable, and I’d be silly to feel anything but grateful. But on the other hand, I desperately want my relationship with Mr. Evans to be real, and the fact that I’m getting paid outright sends a shiver of unease down my spine. Should I offer to work for free? Should I refuse his cash? But I can’t do that either, my mom needs money for her medicine, and without my income, we’d be back on the brink of poverty once again.
Sighing, I turned away from the porthole. Who knew that having money meant complexities? I always thought once my hands were on the moolah, everything would be easy-peasy, following the Yellow Brick Road straight to the Emerald City. But instead, cash comes with problems of its own and right now, being paid as Mr. Evans girlfriend caused my stomach to churn.
So I flipped open my laptop screen, ready to unburden my soul.
“Hey,” Kat chirped, cheery as always. But despite her happy tone, the girl’s voice was a little bit guarded. And were those circles beneath her eyes? My friend looked a little on the tired side, her blonde hair unusually limp.
“Hey,” was my greeting. “How are you?”
Katrina flipped a handful of hair over her shoulder.
“Good, good. Where are you now?”
I sat back, unfazed at the question. My friend knew of my life as a traveling girlfriend, and was probably a little jealous of the circumstances.
“We’re in Boca Raton, Florida,” was my indulgent reply. “You know, the home of retirees.”
“You’re not getting off the plane again?” she asked wryly. “Just chillin’ while Thorn does his thing?”
I nodded.
“It’s just another meeting,” I yawned. “It’s not worth it to get off, and besides, what would I do in Boca? Everyone here has white hair and wrinkles, I’d have no one to talk to.”
Kat’s voice grew thoughtful.
“True, true,” she replied. “Well, you have me to talk to! So when’s Thorn gonna be back?”
I yawned again lazily.
“Have no idea,” was my wheezy reply. “But soon, probably. Why?” was my curious question.
Katrina shrugged disarmingly.
“No reason, really. Just wondering. Show me around the plane again!” she squealed. “You’re so lucky to fly private!”
I leaned back, feeling boneless.
“Kat, I’ve already showed you this place ten times over the last couple months. It’s still the same thing. The same white leather chairs, the same flat screen TV, all the good stuff.”
But Kat shook her head.
“Show me again!” she demanded insistently. “I’m so jealous! Nick doesn’t have plane,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He just does NetJets, you know that shared service where you have fractional ownership. But I figure if I show him your set-up, maybe he’ll want to buy one of his own.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You know, I think these jets go for fifty million a pop,” was my slow reply. “They’re not cheap. Maybe your boyfriend just wants to save money? Could that be the reason why he doesn’t want to buy one?” I hinted.
But Katrina pooh-poohed me.
“Nick can afford it,” she said airily. “He doesn’t think it’s necessary but I know he can afford it. Especially if he sees you traveling around like this, he’ll want me to have the same thing. Keeping up with the Joneses, you know.”
I made a wry face.
“But Katrina, it’s not good to keep up with the Joneses,” was my insistent reply. :The whole point of that saying is to stress how you shouldn’t want what your neighbors have.”
The blonde sniffed again.
“It doesn’t matter,” she sang. “It’s just an expression, nothing else. Now show me the plane again!” was her demand, even as those blue eyes peered behind my shoulder from the screen. “We left off in the bedroom last time. Can you show me that again?”
I sighed. Why was Katrina so demanding during our video chats? I swear, the girl had her own agenda, and these calls were getting to be a drag. After all, I’d dialed her to talk about my fears about Nick, ready to reveal my insecurities when it came to money and the imbalance in our relationship. But instead, here I was, giving her the umpteenth tour around the plane.
“Okay,” came my sigh, standing and lifting the laptop. “Here goes.”
And with that, I strolled to the back of the aircraft, opening the door to the bedroom. Sometimes it’s easier just to give in to my friend rather than putting up a fight. If I protested, it’d be twenty minutes of explaining myself, twenty minutes of her berating me, and twenty minutes of making up. That’d be an hour of wasted talk, when I could just give her the tour and be done with it.
“Oooh cool!” Katrina squealed from the screen. “Oh, what’s on the bedside table there?”
I frowned. Why would it matter what was on my bedside table? There was an open can of coke, plus the book I was reading from last night.
“Nothing, why?” I asked, swiveling the screen towards the nightstand. “What’s wrong?”
“Not your bedside table,” Katrina huffed, rolling her eyes. “What’s on the other nightstand?”
I shot a glance towards Thorn’s side of the bed. Nothing there, really. Just some papers, an electronic gadget of some sort, and … oh wait. There was some lube, the tube obviously half-used with a smear of gel on the clear glass tabletop. Embarrassed, I rushed over to clean things off.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” My hands fumbled, twisting the cap back on while hastily grabbing a Kleenex to wipe up the mess. “Just a little leftovers from last night.”
But Kat wasn’t worried about that at all.
“Oh that,” she sniffed crossly. “Don’t worry about some K-Y, that doesn’t faze me.”
I pulled back. What in the world? What did Kat want to get a look at, if not the K-Y? Why was she so interested in my sex life anyways? Yes, we’ve always shared info about our personal lives, but I’d already been caught with the lube red-handed. So what was she trying to get at now?
There was the unmistakable click-click-click as Kat took photos. I peered into the screen.
“Katrina, what are you doing?” I asked, perplexed. “Why are you taking pics of our messy bedroom? Seriously, why? Don’t embarrass me and show these to your boyfriend.”
“It’s nothing!” she exclaimed, eyes still fixed on something. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” the woman added. “It’s just something to have so that I can show the decorator when my boyfriend finally gets a plane of his own.”
I nodded. The cabin was done up with wood paneling and clever built-ins, but seriously, there was no need to take so many pictures.
“Katrina, what’s going on?” I asked firmly this time, swiveling the laptop around so that we were finally face to face once more. “Why are you taking so many pictures? I know you want your guy to buy an aircraft too, but this has got to be the tenth tour I’ve given of the plane. And what’s up with the pictures?”
“Oh, you know,” she said dismissively, waving a hand in the air. “It’s no big deal. So you got lucky, don’t you want to share some of that luck with me? Pretty please?”
I sighed, my defenses already starting to crumble. Because again, it’s easier to give in to Katrina, otherwise you’re fighting to swim upstream. But at that moment, Thorn appeared in the doorway, his massive frame looming. Oops. I swiveled around, but not before he heard my buddy’s singsong voice.
“Heeeey!” she greeted.
“Bye Kat, I gotta go,” was my quick refrain before snapping the laptop screen shut. “Hey Mr. Evans,” was my purr. “I didn’t hear you board.”
One black brow arched.
“So it seems.”
What was with the cool hello? Why was he in a bad mood But I was dressed in a silky robe, with nothing but some skimpy lingerie underneath. Maybe an intimate session would be just the thing to lift his spirits?
Mr. Evans’s expression remained unreadable.
“Who was that you were chatting with?”
I smiled.
“Oh it’s just Katrina. You know, my friend from Queens? I’m always chatting with her.”
“So it seems,” the alpha said smoothly in response. “You talk with her often?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Pretty often. It’s either her or my mom.”
But he remained unmoving, that big form silent by the door. Suddenly, a thought lanced across my mind.
“I swear it was Katrina,” my voice rushed. “I’m not cheating on you or anything. I don’t talk with other men. It’s my best friend from ages ago, you know, the one who’s really silly with the long blonde hair.”
Thorn nodded subtly, those blue eyes so dark that they were black. But his head jerked swiftly then.
“And do you always answer her calls like this?” he asked, nodding at my undressed state.
I pulled the robe closer around my curves. What was going on? The call had been weird, with Katrina itching to see the plane. But what was even weirder were Thorn’s questions, like we were beginning an interrogation.
“Well no,” I said slowly. “But Kat called just as I was getting out of the shower, so I pulled a robe on. Why?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
But Thorn didn’t answer, merely surveying the bedroom again. I admit, this is not what you want other people to see. The sheets were rumbled, a stain of something or other on the coverlet. Even a couple drawers were half-open, the result of my hasty search for clean lingerie.
“Okay, so the place a mess,” I apologized. “I didn’t have time to tidy up. But seriously, Kat doesn’t care. She’s seen my room at home and it’s way worse than here. But it if bothers you, I can keep things neater so that no one thinks we’re slobs. Is that it? Would that make you feel better?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, those blue eyes steely.
“Did you see my papers over there?” he asked, voice neutral.
I spun around, looking at his nightstand. Sure enough, there were a couple papers lying around, but they more or less neat.
“Sure, but I don’t think Kat cares about that,” was my perplexed reply. “My friend’s interested in the custom closets and clever pull-outs. She wants to see how we fit so much storage into such a small space. Trust me, some files here or there don’t make a difference.”
But the billionaire’s eyes gleamed dangerously then.
“Maybe not to her, but it matters to me.”
My mouth snapped shut.
“Of course,” I said hurriedly. “I get it, you don’t want anyone to think you’re a slob. I’ll make sure to have these out of sight next time.”
Mr. Evans strode to the nightstand then, picking up a manila file.
“Did you see this?” he asked, pointing to a stamp at the top.
My mouth dropped open. Because right there in big red capital letters were the words “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.”
I swallowed, the gulp audible in the small space.
“I did. Or I didn’t, sort of,” was my lame reply. “I mean, I saw it, but not really?”
The billionaire was silent for a moment, his eyes on the file.
“Do you not know what personal and confidential means?”
Another uncomfortable pause.
“I mean, I do,” came my stammer. “But it never crossed my mind, I mean there are papers everywhere, and you know ….”
My voice trailed off because what was there to say? Of course I know what personal and confidential means, but the words hadn’t penetrated my haze of happiness. So yes, Katrina had seen some of those files but my friend wouldn’t care. Kat knows even less about the business world than I do, so Mr. Evans’s financial affairs were way over her head.
But my spidey sense had gone off, alarm bells jangling like sirens in my head.
“What’s wrong Thorn?” I asked slowly. “Why are you giving me the fifth degree? Again, I’m sorry about those papers lying around, and I’m sorry that Katrina may have gotten a glance at them. But it doesn’t matter. She wouldn’t even be able to understand what they’re saying, much less do anything about it.”
Thorn’s eyes narrowed then, becoming slits of blue.
“I’m not afraid of your friend,” he said silkily. “I’m afraid of something else.”
This conversation was a web, and I was the fly trapped in the middle.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated again firmly. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. Again, my friend just wants to see the inside of the plane. I know it’s a private space, but it can’t be that bad right? Kat thinks Elite Air is cool, and just wants to live a little through me.”
Thorn nodded, his jaw tense.
“You’re getting closer,” he rumbled, those massive shoulders bulging with muscle. “Keep going.”
But keep going with what? By now, it was clear I was in over my head, so in the interest of simplifying the conversation, I turned both my palms up, as if pleading with the alpha.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” came my voice. “Tell me, and I’ll fix it as best I can.”
Thorn was silent for a moment, looking away. But when his gaze swung back to me it was so full of vitriol that I gasped, shrinking from the billionaire.
“You’re a spy,” the words came, harsh and flat. “All this was a set-up to destroy my business.”
The accusation was so crazy that my eyes goggled, unable to comprehend at first.
“I’m sorry?” came my gasp. “Come again?”
Thorn’s face became cruel, his mouth a gash of anger.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” he snarled. “You’ve been a mole this entire time. This flight attendant job? All bullshit. Your lovey-dovey ways and “sweetheart this, sweetheart that?” A complete crock of sizzling crap.”
I gasped, my heart contracting suddenly with a stab of pain. Because none of that was fake at all. I’d imbued every action and word with sincerity, adoring the billionaire with every cell of my being. So why was he accusing me of being a spy of all things? Was this some sick World War II movie?
“There’s been a mistake,” came my rushed words. “It has to be. I’m not a spy. I’m no one, just a no-name from the middle of Queens. How could I be a spy?” my hands were up in the air. “It’s impossible.”
But Thorn got savage then.
“Liar,” he snarled. “I had experts check it out. There’ve been a series of leaks at my company. And you know what? The leaks corresponded with whichever city I was in. Atlanta. Dallas. Fucking Alaska for crying out loud. You think you were going to get away with this?”
My hands flew to my mouth.
“But that doesn’t mean anything!” was my protest. “And this makes no sense! I don’t know anything about your business, even if I was traveling with you all the time. What knowledge do I have? And who am I spying for? This is crazy!”
But Mr. Evans turned away, shaking his head.
“The best honeypots are just like you,” he said savagely. “Protesting your innocence until the very end.”
“But I am innocent!” came my cry. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and none of this makes any sense.”
He swung eyes like lasers to me then, searing my skin. I literally fell backwards against the cabin wall, my heart pounding furiously with fear.
“You dumb bitch,” he snarled. “It’s you and your friend. And that fucker Nick Ryver.”
What? Who was Nick Ryver? What friend? Did he mean Katrina? Other than my mom, Kat was the only person I’d kept in touch with during these past few months.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What are you talking about? Katrina? You have things wrong. My buddy has air for brains, she’s not a spy.”
The claim was so ludicrous that I let out a choked giggle, unable to believe the direction of this conversation.
But Thorn shook his head with a sharp jerk, slicing one palm through the air.
“You dumb bitch,” he repeated. “All this time I’ve trusted you, leaving all sorts of materials around. Confidential shit. Stuff stamped with red, practically screaming ‘Top Secret.’ And you took pictures of everything, streaming it to your buddy.”
I protested again, cheeks flaming.
“I’ve taken pictures of nothing!” was my outraged cry. “I don’t even have a camera.”
Mr. Evans picked up my laptop again, flicking open the lid with a swift twist.
“That doesn’t look like a camera to you?” he asked, pointing to the small black lens at the top. “You haven’t been chatting with your buddy all this time?”
I gasped.
“Yes, it’s a camera, but I’ve never taken any pictures, I swear,” came my gasp. “This makes no sense. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and frankly, this is all baloney. If you want me gone, just say so! Just tell me! You don’t have to make up some bullshit about spying and spy games and craziness that doesn’t exist. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”
And with that, Mr. Evans’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes dangerous.
“Fine,” he snapped, the word like a crack in the air. “Get out.”
My head jerked upwards, eyes meeting his. Was the billionaire serious? After all the conversation and laughs we’d shared, he wanted me gone after some silly misunderstanding? Something that had nothing to do with me? This was just a giant mistake, so crazy that it was ludicrous. I was a girl from Queens who knew nobody and nothing. How could I possibly be some international spy, embroiled in corporate espionage? Sure, there were assorted files lying around but never in my life did I take pictures of his documents, much less transmit it to a rival.
But Mr. Evans was done. His eyes were flat, that voice brutal.
“Like I said, get out,” he snapped.
My chin jerked up.
“Right now? Like this?” I gasped, gesturing to the silky robe molding my curves. “At least let me get dressed and grab my things.”
But Mr. Evans was prepared.
“No. Get out,” he said again, this time his voice devoid of all emotion. “You’re a fucking liar. Here’s your passport. There’s a golf cart waiting on the tarmac. We’re leaving in about five,” he said, glancing at his watch before looking back at me. “Correction. I’m leaving in five. You’re getting the fuck out of my life.”
I gasped. I was being kicked off the plane just like that? But as if in answer, the engines hummed to life then, the seatbelt sign flashing on.
“Get out,” Mr. Evans said cruelly then, harsh streaks of color decorating his cheekbones. “You’re a lowlife, and it was my mistake getting involved. Get the fuck off my plane.”
I couldn’t take anymore. The humiliation was complete, all these baseless accusations hurled at me like daggers to the heart. And yet the billionaire wouldn’t explain. He wouldn’t elucidate on what exactly I’d done wrong, much less which secrets I’d allegedly passed onto a competitor.
But sometimes, you reach the end of the rope, and there’s nowhere to go. So holding my head up high, I pulled the silky robe around my curvy figure.
“Just give me a minute to put on some shoes,” came my stilted voice. “And I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Good,” the billionaire grunted, refusing to look at me. “The sooner the better.”
My heart shattered then, a physical pain radiating in my chest. But I couldn’t let him see. Because this was so unfair. Thorn was accusing me of all these unjust things, and refusing to listen to my pleas. It spoke ill of the billionaire because he should have given me an opportunity to explain, or at least try and figure things out.
But we were past that point. The plane had already rumbled to life, the seatbelt sign now an intense glare above my head. The dark man wanted me gone, and there were no two ways about it. What the boss wants is what he gets, and the only thing to do was to obey.
So grabbing my purse and slipping on a pair of sneakers, I pulled the silk robe tight around my curves, stepping onto the staircase that led to the tarmac. The sun in Florida was so bright that my eyes squinted, heat practically rising from the black asphalt.
But in fact, I saw nothing. Tears blinded my vision, my hand shaking as it gripped the rail, descending step by step onto the heated blacktop. And as soon as I set foot on solid land, an airport maintenance man pushed the gleaming metal staircase out of the way, gesturing for me to move back.
“Plane’s taking off,” he said, waving his arms. “Best get out of the way.”
With trembling knees, I walked towards the terminal although it seemed a mile away. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t keep walking without turning back, so after taking about twenty paces, my form swiveled, eyes searching the Bombadier. Was Thorn at a window? Was he gesturing for me to come back to make amends? Was this all a giant mistake?
But no. The jet backed up and then turned gracefully, looping in a U towards the runway. There was no dark head at the porthole, no sudden screech of the brakes. Like a giant machine, the sleek plane hummed mightily to life, its engines blasting with a roar. And then the bird rolled down the runway, faster, faster, faster until they were up in the sky, the white form growing smaller into the sky until it was nothing but a glint among the clouds.
And with that, I bent over and threw up right there on the tarmac, dressed in nothing but a silky robe and sneakers. Violently, my stomach heaved, all air leaving my lungs as breakfast erupted from my throat, acidic and harsh. Because my dream had collapsed. Within five minutes, I’d gone from a woman at the top of the world, to an ant crushed beneath the heel of the king. I’d been reminded of my lowly status all too easily, and now, what did I have? Nothing but my passport in hand … and the memories of a life that was now gone.