Chapter 7
Bella
Just hanging out on the couch is just not as stress-free as everyone seems to think it is. I keep feeling phantom vibrations from my phone, expecting a Google alert to pop up letting me know that my name has been mentioned in gossip blogs. In between, I'm frantically checking social media, imagining the moment that I will see the first headlines:
TurnPost writer spotted with dirty billionaire brothers.
Bella… What are you thinking?
Riordan brothers turn out another willing victim
But nothing happens, despite my impressive ability to create headline after headline. Absolutely nothing happens. In fact, two days’ worth of crickets is starting to freak me out even more than I am already.
I’m trying to ignore the feelings that keep springing up. The ones popping up in my mind rebuking me, and the ones arising in my core, that loved every minute. That was hot. Really hot. I have never felt anything like it. To hold one brother in my mouth while the other services me, his insistent tongue lapping at me, his fingers sliding in and out. Pretty good for a virgin, I think with a smirk. They probably would never suspect it.
To keep myself from getting too distracted, I keep dictating my notes. I can't believe they agreed to all this, knowing how protective they must be of their image. But I guess maybe protective is one of those words that normal people interpret in a different way. Obviously they haven't minded having their sculpted, naked bodies photographed from airplanes. One time, a scuba diver actually swam up to them with an underwater lens and got a good picture of some vaguely Royal daughter letting Dillon (or maybe Emmet?) teabag her on top of a reef outside the Marshall Islands.
Craziness. Absolute craziness, I remind myself. What on earth makes me think that I can keep up with these two madmen?
So maybe protective is not a word that I'm interpreting correctly. But still, how did I get them to agree to this? The merger must be really important to them. As important as the book is to me. The conservative public image that I will give Emmet must be more valuable than I thought.
Perhaps I’m just that good of a negotiator.
I shudder involuntarily, again remembering those moments in that private room in their club. Still stunned from seeing that actress playing the role of a stripper like that, I followed them to the room, not really understanding what was going on. I knew we were running away from that blogger, but did I really know what I was running into?
Once alone with them, I felt like I was being prepared for dinner… like I was the main course. Their eyes were hungry and keen, predatory. Every move I made, they made a counter move. Every word I said, they were ready with the counter argument. Finally, I just realized that I needed to be what they were — to become a predator in my own way. I needed to tell them what I wanted. And as soon as Emmet asked me, it was as clear as day.
I want freedom.
I'm tired of following everybody's expectations. I'm tired of being on the long end of the rope, towed behind a very large crowd of other people who determine the pace and direction of my life. Everybody seems to know what's best for me: where to go to school, what career to take, what to write, how to do it, and how much of it I own.
But now seems like the perfect time for that to end, and I think that's exactly what they're offering me. Autonomy, they promised. Liberty. Creativity. And maybe I can test my own boundaries, just a little bit. What would Cinderella do? I mean, if I’m all dressed up in the gown with the pumpkin stagecoach, shouldn’t I go for a little ride? Shouldn’t I enjoy it?
Probably not. The twin to my desire, embarrassment floods me again and I wonder what I was thinking. I try to remember how I got over that feeling last night, how I swallowed my impulse to run away and just became somebody different. I invented a character, like Hannah told me to do. The kind of character who walks around strip clubs and lets herself get locked in private rooms with two gorgeous, horny billionaires, apparently.
So I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, but it looks like everybody’s getting something out of this. What's a little compromise among friends?
And oh, what a compromise. My hips buck involuntarily as I think about it again: Emmet straddling my face, nearly making me choke, as Dillon’s hot tongue plunged into the core of me. I was completely overtaken by them, practically drowning in their musk, fighting to stay conscious, fighting to stay on top of my urges. When we all climaxed, it felt like one complicated, multifaceted firework going off all at once. The explosion was terrific. Blinding. It took me forever to recover.
And it's taking me ages to figure out a way to write about it. I don't even know how much I've gotten into my notes, but some of this is impossible to describe. I spent a long time explaining getting ready for the bar, getting to the bar. How I flirted and cooed, not even understanding who I was talking to…
Not understanding who I was kissing!
Oh my God, the humiliation! The look on Dillon's face. Was it hurt? Not exactly. Amusement, I think. He was amused.
At first I was insulted by his smug reaction, but then Emmet was there almost immediately. And the blogger, to boot. I felt Hannah's offer slipping away from me. The sense of urgency was dire, but if I couldn’t tell the difference, could the blogger?
So, what on earth possessed me to kiss Emmet right after I kissed Dillon? Not even knowing if the blogger had seen both of us?
It was an insane chance. Absolute craziness. And if there are pictures, the whole deal is going to be blown to pieces before we even really get started. This character I’ve invented could get the authentic me into real trouble.
So that's what I am waiting for. That's what I expect to happen at any moment, but after two days nothing has happened. Which means no one knows but us, so far.
Apparently, we got away with it.
Not even Hannah knows. And as soon as I think that, my phone starts to buzz. Her cute little freckled face shows up on my screen, a picture from a kayaking trip we took when we were only sixteen. Her hair clings to her cheeks in wobbly, ruddy strands. She had just got her braces off and couldn't stop smiling. She was gorgeous.
“Hello?” I answer, trying to seem completely alert and not as though I've been lounging on my sofa for two days, stuck between terror, reflexive oversleeping, and the stubborn, breathless waves of lust that burn inside and refuse to leave me.
“Hello yourself,” she says curtly, her voice distant and terse. I know she's not looking at the phone. I know she probably even forgot the call was being connected as soon as she got it up to her cheek. She's quite easy to distract these days. I guess she has a lot on her mind but it is annoying.
“Yep,” I answer, slightly obnoxiously. I’m going to make her figure out why she called instead of just handing her the information. If she needs to talk to me that badly, she could at least marshall her attention long enough to form a sentence.
“Oh, yeah… hi, Bella,” she says in a softer tone as I sense her trying to pull herself together. “I was just checking in, I suppose. How are you? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything is fine,” I chirp avidly. I don't want her to worry. I don't want her hovering all over me anyway. She can be a real micromanager and I like to be left alone.
I hear her breath puffing out through her nose. She's irritated that I’m making her work for this conversation. Tough cookies.
“So… I thought you'd send me an email or something. Some kind of update. How was your date?”
“With Emmet?”
“Yes, with Emmet,” she huffs. “How was your date? Where did you go again? The margarita bar?”
“No, no, Japanese whiskeys.”
“Oh, yes… it’s so hard to remember what everyone is drinking these days.”
“Did you know that you can spend seventy-five dollars on a shot of whiskey?”
“Seventy-five dollars,” she repeats vaguely. “That's the cheap stuff, Bella. You could spend a lot more than that.”
I bristle, instantly put off by this. I don't know why. It shouldn't matter to me that I didn't get the absolute most expensive shot of Japanese whiskey in the entire fucking world during my fake date, right? But still. The last thing I was expecting to hear was the phrase “the cheap stuff.”
I am not cheap. Common, perhaps. Basic, maybe. But not cheap.
“Well, we were just there for a minute. I'm sure we were just getting started, but we were interrupted.”
“Interrupted? By what?”
Now she's interested.
“Oh, you don't know? Didn't your blogger do his… blogging or whatever?”
She snorts, the noise like an abbreviated, disappointed cluck. “No, Bella. He declined to file a report. You want to know why?”
“Um, he didn't do it? Get any pictures?”
“Yeah, he said you guys ran away from them. He said some bouncer wanted to beat him up. Is that what happened?”
“No, not exactly…” I reply uncomfortably, quickly reassembling the timeline in my mind. Actually, I suppose he had a point. But beating him up? Surely that’s an exaggeration. “He just looked kind of shady, like he was just snooping or something. And I guess Emmet didn't want him following us so…”
“And Dillon was there.”
That is a statement, not a question. So the blogger must've told her something, at least.
“Yeah, he was there. They spend a lot of time together, so what? I planted a big wet juicy one on Emmet, in full view of that guy’s camera. He should've been able to give you the goods.”
“You're missing the point,” she sighs, clearly aggravated with me. “I don't necessarily care about the pictures. There will be a million pictures. I want the story. You have a mission, and terrifying some dude who lives in his mother's basement is the opposite of that mission, you understand?”
I roll my eyes silently.
“Bella, I'm serious,” she continues. Her testy tone of voice is starting to grate on my nerves. “We don't have that many days to make this right, so I need you on point at every opportunity, you get me? Or, as I mentioned, there won't be a Riordan Publishing for you to even work for.”
Jeez. “Yeah, I heard your threat the first time,” I remind her tersely. “Are you going to call me up every day just to repeat that?”
“Hey, I'm doing you a favor!” she shoots back, her voice getting louder and louder. “Did you forget that? You need this too, or you wouldn't be doing it.”
“No shit, Hannah! I wouldn’t be doing this at all if I didn't need to. You don't need to try to remind me every day that you have life or death control over me, okay? To tell you the truth, your drill sergeant act is getting a little old. I'll do what I said. Get off my back!”
My heart is racing, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I don't want to fight with her. I don’t want to fight with anyone. Come to think of it, I don’t want to ever even raise my voice to anyone. That’s one of the nice things about being single.
But suddenly the stakes seem very high. I need to be heard, or everyone is going to just roll right over me.
We take a few moments, saying nothing. Both of us are probably struggling to calm down and regain control of the situation.
“I'll do what I said,” I repeat in a much calmer voice. I don't want to say I'm sorry, because I don't think I have anything to be sorry for. But I still hope that she can hear the half-assed apology in my voice and doesn't try to make me say it out loud.
“Yeah… I know you will,” she says in a softer voice too. There is a half-assed apology somewhere in her voice as well. “When are you guys going out again?”
“I was just about to find out. Today or tomorrow. Do you have other bloggers on the way?”
“Of course I do,” she sighs, her voice already distant and distracted again. I guess she thinks this conversation is over. “Just text me the details as soon as you have them. We will try again. It'll be fine. I know how determined you are.”
That last little bit sort of irritates me all over again, with its condescending praise, but we say our goodbyes without another pissing match. She knows how determined I am? Yeah, obviously she does, since she’s using it all to her advantage. I guess her power in the situation is not exactly under question.
But when we were kids, we were equals. I even had the upper hand sometimes. I've never gotten used to this idea that she runs my life. She holds the cards in this game, and she can make or break the deal at any time. Usually, I don’t have to think too much about it. But right now, I can’t shake it.
In fact, I probably take a lot of liberties, never coming into the office, never pitching my stories ahead of time to an editor. Everybody else has to ask for permission for their story ideas, but I just write what I want within reason, submit it, and it always gets published. Nobody else has that kind of leeway with the rules. And I know it's because of her that I'm granted that latitude.
But I guess I thought my special treatment made me way more equal to her than I actually am. And yeah, she's the CEO. So I guess it makes sense.
But I've seen her in her underwear. And not the good kind. Granny panties and period panties and laundry day panties. I’ve seen her without makeup and during some very bad acne breakouts.
I've seen her through bouts of the stomach flu. I remember when she had braces. I remember when she had a completely ridiculous haircut, when her mom thought she could use dog clippers to just clean up the bottom, all those frizzy ends at her neckline. I've seen her through all of that, and I would never breathe a word about it. But it does sort of even the playing field, doesn't it?
Or, I suppose it doesn't. Not really.
Maybe it never did.
I stare at the front of my phone for just a minute. I need to make a plan with Emmet. What am I supposed to say? That I'm asking him out? Again? Why doesn’t he contact me instead? Men.
I have to be sure to point out that detail in my book, how these guys do not seem to think that they need to make romantic gestures. In fact, I'm not sure they understand what romance really is. Everything's just another form of business deal. Like arm wrestling, or a game of checkers.
Finally, I come up with just making a move, any move.
Me: when are you free for next meeting?
I squint at my phone as the sending message changes to a timestamp.
He answers me almost immediately, and I can't help but notice that my heart rate picks up a little bit.
Emmet: tomorrow night. 6:30 PM. Navy Pier helipad. Wear something easy to slip out of.
Helipad? Does that word mean what I think it means?
Well, he may not know romance, but he sure knows how to whip up a spectacle.
Something like excitement rises in me. What will I wear?