Billy Jeffers: Rockers of Steel (14 page)

“Keep them coming,” I say, pushing the empty glass forward.

After five Manhattans made by a bartender who is hell-bent on getting me drunk and has been eye fucking me since I walked in, I realize my plan on waiting until Madison is asleep to get my keys is a moot point since there is no way in hell I am driving anywhere tonight.

The clock says one a.m., so after collecting a new room key from the front desk—why? Because I forgot mine—I decide to head back up.

When I sneak in, I find her sound asleep. I hear soft, little sighs telling me so. They also remind me of the noises she makes when I eat her sweet thing, but I made sure that wasn’t an option anymore by saying what I did when I left the room.

I notice her laptop sitting open on the desk and hope to hell she doesn’t have it password protected. I need to figure this all out, and I don’t have time to wait until I am sober or she has had enough time to hate me.

As luck would have it, she has the password written down on the notepad sitting next to the computer. Jesus, she is green.

I do a search of recent real estate transactions in our town and about fucking die when I come across William Jeffers Sr.’s most recent purchase.
A fucking bungalow!

I don’t know what I am more pissed off about: the lies that keep coming, the fact that she said there wasn’t enough room for us to stay, that the house belonged to Penelope Ashley’s paternal grandparents, or the fact that the asking price was four point eight million dollars, and he paid four point two million for it.

How do you wrap your head around this? How the fuck am I going to be able to do the right thing when the right thing is now distorted by emotions?

I login to Facebook and search for Penelope Ashley. She pops up immediately. Why? I have searched her a million times?

The first time I met her, I was twelve years old. Her parents had died in a car accident, and we attended the memorial service. I sat in the back row of chairs set up on the back patio, watching this little, blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel dressed in black walk past us, holding her grandmother’s hand. She paused and looked up at her, and her grandmother fixed the headband with a large bow attached to it. Then they continued walking beside her grandfather. She paused again when she looked up at the large platinum-framed photo of her parents, and then she fell to her knees, sobbing into her hands.

I remember the pain in my chest for the little girl. I remember feeling emotional when her grandfather swooped her up in his arms and carried her to the front row of seats where she held her arms around his neck, crying so softly you could just barely hear it in the room that was excruciatingly silent.

After the service, I saw her trying to fix her bow where she sat off in the corner alone. I felt compelled to help her, so I did.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Of course.” I reply awkwardly.

She looks at me like she doesn’t want me to leave, and I don’t want to leave her.

The bow slips again when she sighs, and I fix it again.

I hear my mother whisper my name and look over at her. She looks so sad, almost as sad as the little girl.

“You should hug her,” the little girl whispers.

Knowing she would more than likely give anything to hug hers again, I nod and repeat the sentiment I heard whispered for the past hour. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

My mother’s sniffs, the fragrant smell of the garden, and the little girl crying are forever etched in my memory. Years went by, yet they never faded. They only grew.

I saw Penelope on several occasions around holidays or social events. She always smiled; she always looked like an angel; and she always noticed me.

She is now just a month from eighteen years old. I made a promise to myself that, when she turned eighteen, I was going to introduce myself, and I don’t break promises.

I click out of Facebook and login to my investment account. My portfolio balance is three hundred thousand, which is only because of smart investing. I look at my penny accounts. The growth is much more substantial yet risky. I consider pulling money out of my more diversified conservative funds, but I will make that decision tomorrow when my head is clear, and I have Angel get me the logins for the business account my name is on.

Fucker.

It’s three-thirty in the morning. I need to be up bright and early to talk to my father about putting the fucking bungalow on the market, get a realtor, and go to look at said bungalow, and not necessarily in that fucking order.

I close out Google and look at her desktop screensaver. The screen is black, and overlaid on it in silver are two back-to-back Bs with the words Basic Black written underneath them. I click on a folder and see a bunch of pictures with the same logo, all travel products: suitcases, carry-ons, garment bags, overnight bags, cosmetic cases, and so much more. The pictures below are all small bottles like the one Madison brought to the bath. All are under three ounces of highly concentrated soaps, shampoos, conditioners, and lotions.

The descriptions state the products are made in the US, natural, organic, and vegan. Very impressive.

This is what she sells on her app. And reading more, it is only available through the app itself. She should not be limiting her sales. I will make sure to tell her that … if she talks to me after what happened earlier.

I shouldn’t be looking at her personal stuff. I shouldn’t, yet right before I shut it down, I see another folder that catches my eye: Steel Total Destruction.

Inside it are more folders, each with a name: Memphis, Finn, River, and Billy. I open Memphis’s first.

Inside is a document that has his preferences for travel, all his contact information, health history, and another file that says photos. I am instantly curious if she has my health information. It irritates me because it’s private.

I click on mine, and there is only the travel preference document. The rest are all photos, and not just concert shots. There are pictures of her and me, pictures of me on stage, me backstage—hundreds and hundreds of pictures.

You have got to be kidding me
.

I scroll down, no longer looking at each photo, until I come across the ones she has manipulated.

What the hell?
She has way too much time on her hands.

There are pictures of me with mustaches, horns, beards, goatees, Xs across my eyes, dresses on, pitchforks, in a diaper, and one with a tiny dick.

Well, she knows better now. Brat.

I look at her sleeping, and since whiskey dick has totally forgotten it’s supposed to make a raging hard-on impossible, I get up, grab a pillow, and lie on the floor, hoping to get a few hours’ sleep.

I finally fell asleep after Billy took to the floor. I look at my phone. It is six a.m. Three hours of sleep is not my norm; I can barely function on six. Today, though, I have no choice.

Last night, when he left the room, I almost booked a flight, but the thought of him driving home alone stopped me. So, instead, I set a little trap, and thankfully, he took the bait.

I slide quietly out of bed and grab my laptop. Then I tip-toe past him and see the blanket I covered him with is still in place.

I head into the bathroom and close the door, locking it behind me before I sit on the floor. I open up the browser, and by some stroke of genius, he never closed out the pages. I look at my settings and am pleasantly surprised that it saved the passwords with the new app I installed.

I love apps.

I shift through portfolios and see he has a substantial amount of money, but not as much as I would have guessed. I know how much money the band makes. However, he did just pay off a mortgage.

He needs one million dollars to pay investors back, and he already has half a million in investments.

I shake my head.
Just half a million
? Who says that? That’s a shit load of money. A year and a half ago, I wouldn’t even be able to think
just
half a million dollars.

It may be easier than he thinks. If the house is worth more than is owed, like hopefully half a million dollars more, he is going to be just fine.

Being a grown up sucks, but I am pleasantly surprised that I actually have the ability to be one, because I want to kick his father in the nuts so hard. I am actually very proud of myself for keeping it together when I walked into that hospital room.

I am content with the fact that I have significantly snooped enough that, when he is flipping out later, I can calm him down.

I look at the browser history because, well, I want to make sure I have not missed something, and I see Facebook was opened, so I click on it. He didn’t even log out.

Billy Jeffers has over twelve hundred unaccepted friend requests, one of which I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is mine. I scroll through until I find it and hit accept. He will probably never notice, and it makes me feel good to do something blatantly irresponsible. Old habits die hard. Then I click on his page.

He hasn’t posted anything on his personal account in over a year, yet he still logs-in. I open the messages since I am nosey and want to see. One from me pops up, unread. I don’t even remember sending it.

I see you every day, asshole. Accept my request already
, signed with a little heart emoticon and my name. The date is my birthday, and I’m pretty sure I sent it when I was drunk. I archive it.

Next, I look at the search history. The first name that pops up is Penelope Ashley. I click on her page, which isn’t private. Instead of scrolling through her newsfeed, I hit her photos.
Bad idea.

She is stunning.

I look to see what friends they have in common, and there are none. She is still in high school, graduating in May. She also appears to be a musician, plays tennis, and attends a private school. The massive house looks familiar, but I know it’s not possible that I know it. Hell, I have been here less than twenty-four hours.

I see pictures of family and what appears to be debutante parties with her in formal wear, and not just one or two.

She is blue blood.

I feel a tug on my heart. She is like him.

I don’t understand this, not at all. I never pegged Billy as a man who likes little girls, but then again, I’m only a few years older than her.

I close my eyes and picture them knowing each other for years, and he is waiting for her. They will have musically gifted, cherub-like children with blonde hair and blue eyes.

Well, fuck him. Fuck him and his blue-blooded cherubs.

I close my laptop, stand up, and decide to take a shower.

While I wash my body and hair, I think about how different I am from the girl of his dreams. I also think of all the ways this little devil is going to tempt him and make sure, when he is lying next to the tall, thin, perfect blonde beauty, he often thinks of me, the dark-haired, sweet thing he once had and will never forget.

When I open the door and walk out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and carrying my laptop, I see him sitting in the chair with his hands in his hair and all the devious shower planning of a sex pot disappear.

He looks up and our eyes meet.

“I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

Inside my head, I am in awe, but out of my mouth falls, “No big deal. We’re fuck buddies.”

“Madison, that—”

“No, seriously, Billy, it’s not a big deal.”

“I should have never let that happen. It can’t happen again.”

With my back to him, I drop the towel and bend over, grabbing clothes. I hear him groan behind me, and that’s exactly what I am going for.

I grab a bra and panties then turn around.

“I’m sorry; what did you say?”

“Are you trying to make this harder?”

I look over and notice the bulge between his legs. “It doesn’t take much.”

“Madison,” he says as he stands.

My nipples hear him before my ears. “Look, I’m pretty sure sex with us is possibly the hottest I’ve ever had,” I lie. It is most definitely the hottest. “I’m not seeing anyone; you’re not seeing anyone—”

“Fuck buddies.” He shakes his head.

“Two consenting adults,” I say with double meaning.

His eyes are getting more heated as I slowly put on my bra.

“You’re teasing.” His voice is thick and full of desire.

“No, I’m starving.” I pull my underwear on and turn my back to him. “All I ate yesterday was a gas station hot dog, some whipped cream”—I turn around as I pull the shirt over my head—“and your cum.”

His jaw flexes as I pull up my skirt.

I slap his chest. “I’ll grab you something while I’m downstairs.”

“I can buy you a meal.”

I want to tell him no, he can’t, but I’m pretty sure he just woke up, and reality’s backhand will slap him soon enough.

“I’ve got it.”