Ethan Everest

I’m no expert on New York but I can tell by the graffiti on the buildings and the hookers at the corner this is not where someone like Singer should live.

What is she thinking? I don’t even like driving here, much less leaving her behind. Despite where she lives, she’s not the kind of woman to play the damsel in distress, even if it’s for her own good. I may not know her well, but I’ve learned over the last year of watching her to know she doesn’t need saving.

Still. Her embarrassment over where she lives sucks. She’s doing the best she can, and works hard by the sound of it. Fuck whoever thinks less of her for that. I just wish she didn’t feel that way around me. I hope I don’t make her feel that way.

For my own peace of mind though, I’ll make an effort, and package it as a friendly gesture. I don’t want to come on too strong. Not with her. Ever since I saw her lost in her thoughts out on that fire escape, the pretty brunette with golden highlights has become a fascination of mine.

Her quirky style and sweet smile.

Beautiful green eyes that hold more innocence than naïveté.

People underestimate her. I see the way they overlook her for someone more obvious, someone more pretentious and needy.

She’s none of those things and revels in blending in, being able to sit back and watch, to observe life around her, to observe me. She thinks I don’t notice, that I never did. But I see. I see how she looks at me. I see how she cares.

I care about her, too, more than I should for a woman I barely know. I also never saw her coming. At that party last year, she was unexpected and entirely irresistible. I can’t believe I almost kissed her after hardly talking to her. She’s unassuming and shy, even more so when sitting between two women who were vying for anyone’s attention that night and zeroed in on me at different points.

I pretended Singer wasn’t there. It was easier to carry on casual conversation, but there was nothing casual about that night. A night of bad decisions led me to months of regrets. Now, almost a year after meeting Singer, my life has changed for the worst. What once was living the high life had flipped to being buried in legal drama, my life flipping on me like my friend did.

Why’d I ever go back inside? Why’d I leave her on that fire escape? Why’d I let her walk out without getting her number? I’d already made the effort to get her name. I hate that someone so easily distracted me. I didn’t want easy, but I was easily swayed away.

I want Singer’s complicated emotions mixed up with mine. I want to see that blue dress on the floor at the foot of my bed. I want to mess her hair from kisses that become entangled in my white sheets. I want to wake up with her red lipstick marring my pillow and marking me.

Singer flew away that night, and I let her. Foolishly.

I won’t make that mistake twice, but on the advisement of my legal team, I’ll keep it light, keep it friendly. I’ll keep her at a distance until this situation with Dariya is settled.

And then I won’t.

Then, I’ll go after her until she says yes to trying something real.

The car pulls into the underground garage and stops in front of the door. My driver, Aaron, turns around and asks, “Would you like me to go up with you?”

The seriousness of his tone reminds me of the reasons I need security. “No, I’ll be fine. Lars will be there.” As if a ghost, Lars appears and opens the door.

When I get out, he greets me, not with a smile.

“Good evening,” I say, moving inside the elevator, standing at the back.

He steps inside, standing in front of the door, and pushes the button to my floor. “Good evening, sir.”

His back is to me and I sink against the stainless steel paneled wall. “Anything I should know about?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” I run my hand over my face as exhaustion sets in. “What are we going to talk about when all this business is settled?”

He turns and looks over his shoulder with a small smile on his face. “Baseball?”

“Maybe we can catch a game together.”

“Only if you let me enjoy the perks of those box seats.”

“Maybe I’ll let you call me Ethan, too,” I joke. He refuses to call me by my name. He’s all business all the time, even when he laughs, like now.

Stepping aside, he says, “Good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

Walking down the black painted hall, I glance at the framed art that lines the walls. They’re not my photos, but other peoples’ work I admire and collect. Most of the art has no value but to the buyer who’s willing to pay for it. I paid more than the asking price because these pieces spoke to me—haunting, happy, sad, joy, ambition, depression. So many emotions are expressed in the photos.

The view of the city greets me through the wall of windows ahead. Lights from a skyline of buildings dot the nighttime scenery like little stars here on earth. I head to the bedroom and am welcomed by more windows. With the push of a button, the curtains begin to close, the lights dimming along my path.

The apartment is too big for me. I used to think I could grow into it. Now I realize it’s best to be alone. Everyone wants something from me. No one is genuine when they know you have money. It’s as if people feel entitled to a share of something whether they helped make it or not.

Like most nights, I lean my hands against the bathroom counter after my shower and stare into the eyes that have lost a lot of the life I used to love. Things were good before. I was happy, having the time of my life. That’s what my twenties should be about. Living large and being in charge.

I took my eyes off my goals, trusted people I shouldn’t have. I should have paid closer attention to the people I let in and the people influencing my ex-best friend, ex-business partner. So many exes tied up in him. It’s a quandary really. I miss Keith sometimes, yet at other times, I wish I’d never met him. Money has changed us all. Happiness now comes with a price, and I’m not sure if I’m willing to pay it anymore. Does that mean I’ll be eternally lonely and unhappy? Although this is not how I saw my life going, I’m not sure I have a say in the matter anymore.

When I reach my bedroom, I crawl under the covers and bring my phone to life. It doesn’t take long to find the photo I’m looking for. Blue dress, red dots. Ponytail high on her head. Tempting red lips. Singer. It’s taken all of my willpower not to kiss them, not to kiss her.

I scroll through the other photos I’ve taken of her. She only knows about the one I took at the park and the selfie we took together at the pub. The others I took when she was being magnificent and unaware. Call me a creeper, but I love a candid, especially of her. Her eyes hold a soul that sees the good in others. She sees the good in me.

While looking at a photo of her in jeans and a jersey from last week at the bar, I can see the difference in her figure. She’s thinner than last year. I enjoyed that she drank beer without counting calories. I appreciated that she had tits. Real ones. Full. A good handful. The shape of her waist and the way it flowed wider to her hips in that dress had every guy staring. She looked sexy. Yet she had no clue how many men watched her. She certainly didn’t need to lose weight.

She’s still just as stunning, but seeing where she lives makes me wonder if she’s lost weight by choice or because she couldn’t afford to feed herself. Fuck. I have enough to worry about. Now I’m worrying about Singer Davis and her eating habits. I sound like a fucking psycho. I hate that life is so fucking convoluted.

When did my life get so complicated?

Oh, that’s right. The day my share in the hottest social media site in the last ten years made me a billionaire at the age of twenty-six. What started as a fun way for my friends to connect in high school without our parents knowing, developed into an online community by college. I took this company to the next level. Nobody had interest in it until it was turning a profit. When it became monumentally life-changing, that’s when things went awry. Even today, I can admit the setup wasn’t obvious. I didn’t know friends were capable of screwing me over so cleverly. He’d been so . . . calculating. Our friendship had meant nothing. Thanks to Keith, I learned that loyalty and friendship came with a multi-million dollar price tag.

Greed being his sole motive, I was officially fucked over by my best friend. Our friendship sold to the press. Photos leaked. My name was splattered across headlines—TV, newspapers, trash rags, online—calling me incompetent. The ultimatum was either I step down as CEO and become a very silent partner or I let them buy me out. My own company. My idea. I created the site from the ground up. Ten years later, I was forced to walk away. I still own my shares, my role and buyout price still in negotiations with a team of lawyers representing each of us.

I left my company behind when I walked out that door. The life I knew in Houston was over. People picked sides and unfortunately, a lot chose to believe his lies. I have my family—my mom and dad—but that’s it. My mom stood strong for a while, but the pressure of the reporters became too much. When she asked if the rumors were true, I knew it was time to leave. I don’t blame her for being curious, but it was a shot to my heart that she even had to ask.

Houston society is like any other major city—full of social climbers and fakeness. To spare her any more embarrassment, I took off.

With a remote office in New York, I was used to the city. The apartment was here, and I wouldn’t have to see Keith. He stayed there. I came here to focus on my other investments. I’m not stupid. I built an empire once. I can build another, and I’m off to a damn impressive start. As a venture capitalist I have a hand in all kinds of great moneymakers instead of only one.

It’s good to stretch my muscles in new ways, to reinvent myself, to show I’m more than an overstated dating site, and find success again. This time I don’t have partners, but I do have advisors. Damn good ones, too.

Yeah, I don’t need others. I’m doing fine all on my own.

Friendships are now kept at bay. Until Singer. She makes me confess my secrets and inner thoughts. I overshare with her, yet I don’t know why. Is it because she actually listens?

The only foreseeable problem is that one day she’ll know the truth about me. I have a past the media loves to drudge up. She’ll see the leaked photos and articles that painted their own story, a fake one to fit their agenda, and to sell their content space. No matter how much I hate it, I can’t change it. Money can’t buy everything. I’ve learned that the hard way.

What I can do is show her who I am on the inside and hope she can trust what she sees. It’s the only defense I have to fight the lies she’ll read about me.

Two a.m. I can’t sleep, so I give in to my racing mind and give up trying to rest. I go into my office, grab my laptop, take it to the dining table, and sit. I like the vast darkness outside the wall of windows. I like seeing the city at this hour with only a few lights to draw the eye. It’s the only time this city gives the impression of peace, and I like it. The quiet.

I download the photos from my phone I took in the park, the photos of Singer, and enlarge one where she’s looking up at me, the sun in her eyes, eyes speckled in a variance of greens, gold, and brown with just a tinge of blue. When I see her, my mind always wanders back to the what ifs . . .

What if I had stayed on that fire escape?

What if I had kissed her that day?

What if?

What if?

What if?

I’m tempted to break the promise I made her commit to me. I’ve had her name in the search box more times than I can count, but I never clicked the button.

Shit. 4:16 a.m. The hours have slipped away. I drop my head into my hands and use the pad of my palms to rub my eyes. I hate the way my mind tortures me in the early hours before the sun rises. As if the daylight hours weren’t bad enough.

I step into my comfort zone—work. The priority emails are sent responses before I sit back and spin toward the windows. The sun’s still asleep and the moon’s shining high. It’s a life of luxury . . . but a lonely one. When I walked away from everyone, I thought I would find myself, but I haven’t. I’m lost. I concentrate on the things designed to distract me, things I can control.

A certain green-eyed, honey-haired beauty keeps clouding my usually focused mind. I’m bothered by her neighborhood. Singer deserves a better place to live than one covered in grime and surrounded in danger. I get that she wants some independence and that’s all she can afford, but is her safety worth it?

Before I head to bed, I send a text to Aaron. I wonder how she’ll react tomorrow when she sees him. I wonder if she’ll call me. I’ve been warned to stay clear of entanglements for the time being, which includes Singer, but I can’t seem to stop myself when it comes to her.

In the time we’ve spent together, I know she deserves someone worthy, someone not buried in indecency and threats. I’ll only cause her pain, damage her vibrancy, and take her good until nothing but the bad remains.

Can I keep my distance? When I’m alone it’s easy to say yes because my thoughts are clearer. I know my enemies and the lowball tactics they use. They’ll drag her through the press with fake “facts” and exploit her goodness, making her appear bad. They’ll sully her sweetness. I should listen to Reegan. His two-word warning—stay away—is meant to protect the innocent. But it’s her purity that draws me to her.

The “Bad-Boy Billionaire” mired in lawsuits shouldn’t tarnish her good girl-next-door image. I’m not sure how she hasn’t heard of me, but I’m thankful she hasn’t. I like that she sees me for the person I am and not the image sold to the highest bidder.

 Singer still sees the carefree guy she met on a fire escape, the one with the world at my feet. Keith and Dariya destroyed him like they’re trying to destroy my company.

The only way to protect her is to walk away from her. How do I do that now that I’ve glimpsed how good it feels to be with her?