The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) (24 page)

Or, if she wasn’t in trouble, she would be soon enough.

I stalked down the hallway toward room 8, fear and anger warring in my chest. Sasha was in there with a man who wasn’t me, and Kevin didn’t seem to think she was there under duress. And I had fucking
paid
her. She wasn’t supposed to be touching anyone’s arm but mine.

At the door to room 8, I stopped for a moment and tried to get my racing heart under control. It was possible that the situation was completely innocent. One of her regulars had asked to speak with her, and she had been too polite to refuse—

Who was I kidding? There was no fucking way it was innocent.

I flung the door open, and she and the man both turned to look at me, eyes wide.

“Get the fuck out,” I said to the man.

He drew himself up, face reddening, and said, “I absolutely won’t! I don’t know who you are, sir—”

“I own this club,” I said, hearing my own voice cold and hard. “Get out or I’ll call security.”

“That’s no way to treat a paying client,” the man blustered, but he grabbed his jacket from a chair and shouldered past me, muttering to himself under his breath.

And then it was just Sasha and me in the room, nothing between us but air.

The door swung shut behind us.

“It isn’t what you’re thinking,” she said, her face pale. She was so small, standing there, looking up at me. “His daughter’s sick, and he said he just wanted to talk to me about it, and—”

“You know it’s never just talking,” I said, her excuses fueling my rage. “You signed a contract. You aren’t even supposed to
be
here.”

“I just came by to hang out with Scarlet, okay? And then he saw me and he asked if we could talk for a few minutes. I didn’t fuck him,” she said, scowling at me, “and I didn’t intend to, and that’s the truth. You don’t
control
me. I can still
talk
to people—”

“Let’s be realistic about this,” I said. “You had no intention of merely
talking
to him.”

“That isn’t true,” she said, so small and furious that I couldn’t bear to look at her any longer.

“Sassy,” I said, a cold certainty settling within me, “you’re nothing but a whore.”

I went home that evening and drank myself into oblivion.

The only other option was spending the night interminably replaying my confrontation with Sasha, and I had no desire to torture myself like that. I knew, even as I was storming out of the club, that I had fucked up, maybe irrevocably. I didn’t actually believe that Sasha would have so blatantly violated the terms of our contract. And it seemed like something she would do—take pity on a client in pain and offer to spend a few minutes as his listening ear. For all her rough edges and bad temper, Sasha had a kind, open heart, and I knew she cared for people more than she let on. It wasn’t unreasonable to expect that she was fond of her regulars and wouldn’t want to completely alienate them while she was away.

Rationalizing her behavior didn’t do jackshit to ease the hard knot of anger and jealousy that had set up camp in my gut.

So I drank until I couldn’t think straight, and then I passed out on my couch, and woke early in the morning with a raging headache and nausea churning in my belly alongside regret and self-hatred. I drank a bottle of Gatorade, popped a couple of painkillers, and went to bed.

I slept again, deep and dreamless, and woke close to noon with a hangover, but not as bad of one as I expected or deserved.

Worse than my headache was the shame that no hangover remedy could cure. I had made an ass out of myself, and Sasha would be well within her rights if she never wanted to see me again.

But self-pity would accomplish nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my aching head cradled in my hands, and tried to figure out what to do next. My skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I wasn’t in any shape to make decisions.

I called Sasha. Stupid, but I wasn’t thinking rationally. I was acting on impulse. The call rang over to voicemail. “Sasha,” I said, “it’s Alex. I fucked up. Give me a call.” After I hung up, I texted her for good measure.

She responded within a few seconds.
Fuck off

Well. Sasha wasn’t one to mince words.

Christ. I would fix it; women always responded well to a little groveling. The question was how long she would make me grovel before she forgave me, and how many expensive presents I would have to buy her in the meantime.

My phone buzzed again, and my heart jumped in my chest. It was only Will, though.
Lunch w the fam?

I thought about it. It was impossible to predict whether spending time with them would make me feel better or worse. I decided to go. It was better than staying home and staring at my navel, and my parents’ housekeeper was a great cook. And I wanted to see how Will was doing.

I took a cab to my parents’ penthouse on Central Park South. They had the entire top floor of the building, and an expansive rooftop garden overlooking the park. They had only moved into the apartment within the last year. My mother claimed they were “downsizing” now that Will and I were out of the nest. It was a nice apartment, but a small, juvenile part of me was still angry that they had moved out of my childhood home.

The doorman recognized me and waved me inside with a smile. I slid off my sunglasses and hooked them in the collar of my t-shirt. I entered the elevator and punched in the security code, and the doors slid shut and the car began to move.

My father was standing there when the doors slid open again, waiting for me. “Alex,” he said warmly. We shook hands, and he slung one arm around my shoulders as we moved into the apartment. “I’m so glad you could make it. Lumusi won’t tell me what she’s making for lunch, but it smells delicious.”

I smiled. Lumusi was my parents’ Ghanian housekeeper; she had been with the family since before I was born, and she was essentially a second mother to me. My parents ate West African cuisine almost every day of the week, because that was what Lumusi liked to cook, and nobody was willing to argue with her. “We’ll just have to wait and find out,” I said. “How’s Will?”

“Better than expected,” my father said. “I was afraid—well, you remember how he was before he went to rehab.”

I nodded. It wasn’t an experience I cared to relive.

“But now, it’s like the old Will has come back to us,” my father said. “He’s excited about life again. He’s even talking about going back to work.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’m really happy to hear it.” We came into the large central room of the apartment, living room and dining room all in one, where Will and my mother were sitting at the table, picking at a platter of sliced melon. I crossed the room and bent to kiss my mother’s cheek, and then turned to slap Will on the back. “When’s lunch?”

“Hello to you, too,” my mother said, while Will slumped over the table and moaned about how I had broken his shoulder.

“Lunch is very soon,” Lumusi said, coming out of the kitchen carrying a plate of fried plantains. I gave her a kiss on the cheek as well, and she smiled up at me as she set the plate on the table. “I hope you’re hungry, Alex. I made all sorts of food for you. You are too skinny!”

“He looks pretty fat to me,” Will said.

“Coming to lunch was a mistake,” I said, but it wasn’t, really. Being henpecked by my family was oddly reassuring.

Lunch was, as my father had predicted, delicious. Lumusi had made jollof rice and chicken stew, and I ate until my stomach hurt. House rules dictated that nobody was allowed to talk business during meals, and so we chatted about the weather, Lumusi’s new grandson, and the Yankees.

After the meal, my parents wandered off—my mother to work in her office, my father to putter around in the garden—and Lumusi went into the kitchen to do dishes, leaving Will and me alone at the table. As soon as the room was clear, he leaned toward me and said, “I had an interesting conversation with Yolanda last night.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re still talking to Yolanda?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then, to my total surprise, turned bright red. “She’s sort of—well. I just think she’s an interesting person.”

“You were there for
two days
,” I said. “Will.”

“We talked a lot,” he said defensively.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” I said. “I’m just surprised.”

“I am, too,” he said, groaning and covering his face with one hand. “I don’t know what happened. I feel like I got hit by a bus.”

“A bus of love,” I said. “Very sweet. She has some kind of fancy job, doesn’t she?”

“Investment bank,” he said. “She’ll be running a hedge fund within a decade. Anyway, this isn’t the point. She called me last night and said that Sasha came home crying and said that you were the world’s biggest asshole, and then shut herself in her room for the rest of the evening. Now, I happen to like Sasha, so I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s just a big misunderstanding and you’re already working on fixing it.”

I sighed and propped my elbows on the table, leaning my forehead against my closed fists. “You’re a meddling cretin, Will.”

“Thank you,” he said. “So what happened?”

I didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s not important. I overreacted. She’s right to be mad at me.”

“Wow,” Will said. “Alex Turner, admitting culpability? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Shut the fuck up, Will,” I said.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” he said. “So what did you do?”

“It’s really not important,” I said. “I flipped my lid and said—something unkind. What else did Yolanda tell you?”

He shrugged. “Sasha wouldn’t talk to her about it. And I’m not going to pump her for information, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Some brother you are,” I said. “Come on, Will. Throw me a bone. I don’t want to just show up at her apartment with a boombox, like some sort of stalker.”

“So call her,” he said.

“I did,” I said. “She texted me and told me to fuck off.”

“Huh,” he said. “Well, that’s promising.”

I frowned at him. “It is?”

“Yeah,” he said. “If she really didn’t want anything to do with you, she would have just ignored you. But if she’s responding, that means she wants you to make it up to her.”

“I spend entirely too much time apologizing to women,” I said.

“So quit being such an asshole,” Will said. “It’s really not that hard.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all be mild-mannered and boring,” I said. “What should I buy her? Jewelry? Expensive perfume?”

“You’re the one who’s fucking her,” Will said. “You figure it out. I’m not going to help you out of the doghouse. You probably deserve it.”

“For Christ’s sake, Will,” I said. “You’re useless. Do you think I should go over there this afternoon? Maybe she needs some more time to cool down.”

Will just shook his head at me. “It’s sad how you’re terrible with women.”

“You’re useless,” I said again, and stood up. “Fine. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he said, and then called after me, as I left the room, “Say hi to Yolanda for me!”

* * *

I took a cab directly to Sasha’s apartment. No time like the present.

On the ride downtown, I stared out the window and thought about my checkered romantic past. Since the age of sixteen, I had never lacked for female companionship. I’d dated casually, screwed around, flirted with anything in a skirt, and even managed a couple of serious relationships. I tended to go for women who were elegant, accomplished, well-educated, worldly, and sophisticated. In short, everything that Sasha wasn’t.

But I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. She was more to me than a warm body. Maybe she couldn’t quote Thucydides at the dinner table, but being around her made me feel
alive
. Every time she opened her smart mouth and sassed me, my heart beat faster, and I felt wholly present in my body in that moment. Not thinking about anything else, not worrying about work, just there, with her, together. She was clever, ferocious, and devastatingly sexy, and somehow, without my awareness or permission, I had started to care for her.

It didn’t make any goddamn sense.

The cab let me off in front of Sasha’s apartment. I bounded up the steps to her front door, but then hesitated before I rang the bell. No perfume or jewelry—I could just imagine her accusing me of trying to buy her off—but I couldn’t show up empty-handed.

Ten minutes later, I was back with a bouquet of white peonies. “These are special flowers,” the man at the flower stand had promised me. “Can’t get them year-round. Whatever you did, she’ll forgive you.” Forgiveness was a lot to ask of twenty dollars’ worth of flowers, but I could use all the help I could get.

I rang the doorbell, and waited.

After a minute, I heard footsteps coming down the staircase. I straightened up, pulling my shoulders back, and trying to look contrite.

Sasha’s face appeared in the window. She looked at me, frowned, and turned to go back upstairs.