Chance (The One More Night Series) (9 page)

“He said that he was thirty-one.”

“You don’t get this rich that fast at thirty-one.  I think Daddy might be dead, and Chance got the big seat.”

“Is there anything on Wikipedia about him?” Elle asked.

“Excellent question,” Brooke said, her fingers dancing across the keyboard.  “Bingo,” she said when his profile appeared on the Wikipedia site.  “So, let’s see—who is this sex machine?”  She started to skim the page.  “Born in Idaho.  Raised middle class.  Parents were farmers.  Class valedictorian.  Went to MIT on a full scholarship, but dropped out when he was twenty to create a company called SlimDisk, which was the precursor to the thumb drive.” 

When she said that, all of us stopped cold.

“The precursor to the what?” I asked.

“The thumb drive,” she said.  “It says here that nine years ago, Microsoft bought his company and the technology for over three-hundred million dollars.  He was just twenty-two when he accepted the deal, and then he parlayed much of his earnings into creating Caldwell International.  Initially, that was comprised of mostly tech acquisitions.  
Forbes
wrote an article that lauded him for his business sense.  Five years ago, he was listed in the top spot in their yearly
30 Under 30
feature.”

“You’re shitting me?” Elle said.

“No.  Here’s a quote from him about how he became so successful:  ‘What’s been reinforced from the beginning is that it’s all about the team.  For someone starting out, I’d tell you to to surround yourself with the best and the brightest.  Don’t settle.  Since selling SlimDisk, I’ve had the tremendous pleasure of working with some of the most hard-working and most-dedicated people in the world.  My initial success might have begun with a piece of technology purchased by Microsoft, but my overall success comes straight down to my team.’”

“Classy,” Elle said.

But Brooke wasn’t finished—she was enthralled.  She kept skimming for more information.  “As Caldwell International grew, Chance and his board started to take over entire corporations, both domestic and international.  His personal net worth is listed here as being just under a billion.  But who knows when this information was last updated?  At this point, it could be more.”

“So, Google his net worth,” Elle said. 

Brooke did.  And when she did, she found an article dated only a few months ago that put Chance Caldwell firmly in the billion-dollar club. 

“So, you slept with a billionaire,” Elle said.  “You’re such an over-achiever.”

I knew nothing about the extent of his wealth when I went to his room with him, so I corrected her.  “I slept with someone whom I found attractive,” I said.  “And somebody who was kind to me.  I didn’t sleep with him because of his money.”

“I was just joking.”

“I know you were.  But it’s true.  I want it on the damned record.  OK, ladies, that’s all I’ve got.  And this girl needs to get some sleep, or she’s never going to be ready for work later tonight.”

Or to put all of this behind me. 

I walked over to my twin bed, pulled my dress over my head, and slipped beneath the sheets.  “I’ll be up in a few hours.  But I want to apologize for forgetting to send a text.  I honestly forgot.  I love you both.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Brooke said.

When she stepped out of the room, a moment passed before Elle whispered something to me from the doorway.  She spoke so quietly, I had to turn and look at her.  “What did you say?” I asked.

“Try not to think about Chance.” 

Her tone had turned serious.  This wasn’t the Elle whose scathing wit could set a room on fire.  This was the other Elle that most people didn’t know—the friend who always had your back.

“What makes you think that I will?”

“Because I know you.  And because I saw the look on your face when I said that you’re free to move on with your heart intact.  You looked crestfallen.  And conflicted.  Remember what he was, Abby—just a one-night stand.  So, try to let it be that, OK?  Don’t over-think what happened.  And for your own sake, try to get him out of your head, because I already know that he’s taking up room in there.”

“Of course he is.  We just had sex.”

“What I mean is that I think he’s going to be in there for awhile.  Don’t let that happen.  Trust me on this—I’ve been there too many times to count.  It’s best to just forget him and move on to the next guy if you want.  You’ll see.”

Before I could respond, she waved her fingers at me, blew me a kiss, and then clicked the door shut behind her—but not before I glimpsed her expression, which was one of flat-out concern.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Later, when I got out of bed, it wasn’t because I felt refreshed.  It was because it was so hot in the bedroom that I couldn’t bear it anymore.  I looked at the clock on my bedside table and saw that I’d been out for five hours.

And that was enough.

Early afternoon sunlight pressed against the bedroom’s only window, which was covered by a room-darkening shade that blocked out most of the light.  I slipped out of bed in my bra and panties, found a pair of shorts and a T-shirt in a laundry basket beneath the window, and carried them with me out of the room.  I felt sticky and gross.  Worse, I could still smell him on me, not unlike Elle could earlier. 

Time for a shower.

Cooler air greeted me when I left the bedroom, but despite the air conditioner’s rattling efforts, it wasn’t cool enough.  It felt so much like a sweatshop, I half-expected to find Elle and Brooke hunched over a couple of sewing machines zipping through yards of fabric. 

But they weren’t there.  The apartment appeared to be empty. 

What day was today again?  Saturday?  It was Saturday.  Unlike me, neither of them had to work weekends.  I went to Elle’s room, knocked quietly on the door, and opened it a crack when she didn’t answer.  Her bed was made.  She wasn’t there.

Where are they?

I went into the kitchen, found a note on the kitchen table, and read it.

Sweetie, our little Hell in a Low-Rise
has officially become
an Easy-Bake Oven, so we’re going out for a walk, which really means that we’re going to sit for the next few hours in the air-conditioned heaven otherwise known as Starbucks.  We’ll be back by one or so.  Have something to eat—there’s leftover pasta in the fridge.  Nuke it.  We wish you were coming with us, but we decided to let you sleep in after your marathon night of sex.  Love you!  XXOO—Brooke and Elle.

I smiled down at the note and wished that I was there with them, because I knew that I was missing a good time.  Whenever we people-watched together, it was pretty much epic.  I thought about eating, but nixed the idea.  What I really needed was a cold shower.

The apartment’s only bathroom was situated between the two bedrooms, and much like the rest of this joint, it was a joke.  Early on, the three of us had come to the conclusion that, given the building’s age, the bathroom must have been a closet at some point.  It was so small, it housed only a toilet, a sink, and a shower.  No tub.

Not that I cared much about a tub right now.  I needed a shower, and then I’d feel like myself again.  I had just turned on the water when my cell phone started to ring.

Seriously?

I turned off the water and hurried into the entryway, where I’d left my purse earlier.  I dug inside it for my cell, pulled it out, and stopped when I saw who was calling.

It was my mother.

For a moment, I just stared at the receiver.  Of course she’d call me in my wanton moment of shame.  Naturally, she’d reach out to me while I was standing in nothing more than my underwear, and with his scent still lingering on me. 

I considered not answering, but I couldn’t do that to my mother.  She was the one person from home who still cared enough to call me every Saturday since I’d first arrived in Manhattan.  While I no longer believed in the religion in which I was raised, and knew that she had her own agenda to keep me on the straight and narrow, she still never missed a day.  And that meant plenty to me.  On a deep level that had nothing to do with her ideals, my mother loved and cared for me.  And I loved her, especially when I could keep her questions at bay.

She’s not going to miss today
, I thought. 
So deal with it.  Put your happy voice on, girl.

I answered.  “Hi, Mom.”

“How’s my girl?”

Still smarting a bit from last night’s Olympic Sex Trials, thanks.
 
Do you have any tips on how to ease the pain between my legs?  Maybe some bag balm?  Maybe not?  Didn’t think so.  Love you, though!
 

“Fine.  Good.  I’m great!”

“Are you eating?”

“Of course I’m eating.  Why wouldn’t I be eating?”

“Because I’ve been watching the CNN this morning, and all they’re talking about is this heat wave that’s swallowing the Northeast.  You know I don’t mind the heat—I’m just fine with it.  I can live through it.  I run cold anyway.  But you?  You’ve always been like this delicate flower when it comes to the heat—you just collapse as if you’ve suddenly developed root rot.  I think you’re probably not eating because of it.”

“I had a bagel this morning,” I said.  It was a lie, but I didn’t want her to worry about me more than she already did.  She had enough to deal with just managing my father and the farm.

“A bagel?  That’s hardly going to get you through the day.  I used to cook you eggs, bacon, and toast.  I gave you a proper breakfast.”

“That was a long time ago, Mom.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.  So, how hot is it there?”

“Let’s just say that if I stepped outside for a moment, I could totally fry an egg on my face.”

“Good.  You should do that—and eat it.  That would make your mother happy.”

“You’re hilarious.  As for the heat, all of us are getting through it.  What choice do we have?”

“Always remember the power of a cold shower.”

“You should trademark that shit, Mom.”

“Don’t swear, Abigail.”

“Sorry.  My mistake.  What’s weird is that I was just about to take a cold shower when you called.”

“It can wait.  How was your week?”

Life altering.  I had a one-night stand, Mom—my first.  It was kind of amazing.  I’d love to talk to you about it, but why end your life so soon?  Anyway, just so you know, last night I poured one big glop of shit over the family name.  It’s true.  Your daughter is now officially a slut.  And what’s worse is that she doesn’t even mind it.  How’s that for good grooming?  Hell, how’s that for being one massive wrecking ball of disappointment?
 
In fact, I met one woman last night who’d happily agree with me.  Would you like to commiserate with her?  Because I have a feeling that she’d tell you everything that she felt about me.

“Same old, same old,” I said.  “Just work.”

“You work too much.  I’m worried about you.  You should go out with the girls more.  Have some fun, but stay away from the boys.  You don’t need boys right now—especially those city boys.  They’re the devil.  They’re the worst.  They have no values or morals.  All they want is sex.  And besides, you’ve got enough on your plate.”

That’s funny, because last night this particular plate was the main course.  How about that, Mom?  At one point, I was like a chicken on its back with its legs spread open.  And, Mom, you should have seen it.  The hungriest man on Earth totally devoured me.

“You’re right,” I said.  “I do.”

“Look,” she said.  “I know it’s hot as Hades there and that you want to take a shower, but your Aunt Marion is here with me, and she wants to say hello.  She’s practically trying to rip the phone out of my hands while I speak.  You know how she is.  Stop it, Marion.  I’m not finished.  Oh, jeepers cripes and crackers, just stop.”

Oh, hell no.  Not Aunt Marion.  I loved her to death, but she was far sharper and nosier than my mother ever was, likely because she herself had gotten out of Vermont when she was young and had lived in Paris during her twenties. 

More than anyone in my family, she knew the score when it came to living in a big city at my age.  When I was a kid, I’d always considered her kind of glamorous and otherworldly—the free spirit my mother never had been.  I used to look up to her because of it.  She’d never married, but I knew from overhearing some of the scandalous conversations she’d had with my appalled mother that she’d been through her share of men.  As a girl, I believed that my aunt lived this insanely romantic life that was only obtainable if you got out of Vermont. 

Which, naturally, was one of the reasons I got out of Vermont.

“How are you doing,
mon petit gâteau
?” she said when she took the phone.  “Keeping your pants on?”

In the background, I heard my mother admonish her before I said, “Just barely, Aunt Marion.  How about you?”

“You know what they say about your Aunt Marion.  That I’m still pretty much on all fours these days.  That I have frequent flyer miles with a host of handsome strangers.  That I drink too much for my own good.  And that I love my slender cigarillos because of the attention they bring me.  And guess what—most of it’s true.  So, how’s the world treating you, hot stuff?  We haven’t talked in… what?  Forever or something.  Your mother tells me that you’ve become a goddamned nun.  Why?  What’s wrong with you?  You’re in Manhattan.  You should be living it up and getting laid as often as you can.”

Again, I heard my mother’s voice, and this time it was high and shrill.

“Please, Martha—calm it the hell down.  You know I’m only bullshitting with her.  Well, sort of.  Let us have our fun.  Go and make one of your crispy apple pies or something.  Or do some cleaning—you seem to like that.  A little too much, frankly.  But whatever calms your nerves.”

“You’re in a mood,” I said to her.

“You have no idea.  Whenever I come here, I think she wants to dip me in a Baptismal bath or something.  Maybe even pray over me.  No wonder you’ve always been the good girl.  What choice did you have?”