Trillion Page 10

  TREY WESTCOTT: Come over. We can hang out. As friends.

  The offer is tempting. I secretly enjoyed last night. That and his place is amazing and I haven’t seen a fraction of it. Not to mention, I’m only human and his attention is gratifying …

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having a little bit of fun with all of this. I imagine myself old and gray, playing bridge in some Floridian retirement village and telling my friends about that time in my twenties when I was relentlessly pursued by a trillionaire.

  SOPHIE BRISTOL: What time?

  I bury my face in my hands, shaking my head because I know better.

  Last week one of my friends told me I was in a slump. She insisted I remedy that with a weekend of casual sex with her hot neighbor who keeps asking for my number. But I don’t know … this sounds more appealing in its own weird way.

  Not saying I’m going to hook up with Trey. But sometimes the fantasy of hooking up with someone is the best part of getting to know them. I have no shame in dirty little daydreams …

  TREY WESTCOTT: I’ll send someone to pick you up at seven.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, concentration evades me and getting into my work flow is impossible.

  It’s the strangest thing, but I can’t get Westcott out of my head.

  His honesty is refreshing.

  His tenacity, flattering.

  As long as we don’t detour off the friend track, nothing should go wrong.

  Twenty-Two

  Sophie

  Past

  I slip my shoes on and tie my server apron around my waist Friday night. I’m seconds from bolting out the door when my mom stops me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks.

  I turn. “Work …”

  “That’s funny. I ran into your manager at the pharmacy earlier today and she told me you quit your job months ago.” Her gaze falls to my apron. “So then I called Stacia’s parents. They said they can’t remember the last time you stayed the night, so where have you been running off to every weekend?”

  My heart ricochets and warmth crawls up my neck.

  This moment was inevitable, but I didn’t expect it tonight.

  “You better have a damn good reason for lying to me.” My mom never swears. This isn’t going to go well.

  I don’t know where to begin.

  “Sit.” She points to the worn pleather sofa in our tiny living room. “And take your shoes off. You’re not going anywhere.”

  In thirty minutes, Nolan’s going to be waiting for me outside The Crystal Menagerie restaurant on Freeborn Street.

  With her hands resting firmly on her bony hips, she peers down her nose. For a petite woman, she’s got a menacing presence.

  “I’ve been seeing someone,” I say.

  “And who might that be?” She lifts a brow, head cocked.

  “His name is Nolan.”

  Frowning, she asks, “And why haven’t you told me about him?”

  I bury my face in my hands, breathing through my fingers. “Because he’s older.”

  “How much older?”

  “In his forties.” He looks younger, though I don’t say that because I doubt it would matter. All she’s going to focus on is that number.

  Mom gasps. “Sophie.”

  I can’t look at her.

  “He gives me money.” I realize how it sounds the moment the words leave my lips. “So I don’t have to work. He’s very generous. I’ve been paying some of Emmeline’s medical bills—”

  “Oh my god.” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  I don’t answer, which is apparently an answer in and of itself because now she’s pacing the room, mumbling under her breath.

  “Do you know what an escort is?” she asks.

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “It’s nothing like that. He cares about me. He’s my boyfriend.”

  She clucks her tongue. “Don’t be so naïve. Men only care about one thing and if you think otherwise, you’ve got another think coming. He’s going to smash your heart into a million pieces. Just wait.” Mom paces some more. “Oh, god. Sophie. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Just because Dad left you doesn’t mean Nolan’s going to leave me.”

  Her cool gray eyes turn glassy. It’s an unspoken rule in our household never to bring up my father … now I know why.

  “This isn’t worth getting upset over, Mom.” I spring up and grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table. She swipes it from my hand, catching a few tears that roll down her gaunt cheeks before dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

  I hate to see her in pain, and knowing I’m the cause of this …

  “He’s a good man.” I place a hand on her shoulder.

  “He’s old enough to be your father,” she says. “It’s just wrong.”

  “I’m an adult.”

  “You’re in high school.”

  “Only for a few more months …” I force a tight smile. “I’m not a little girl anymore. You have to trust me to make decisions like this.”

  She peers out the window of our living room with its parking lot view, listless and silent.

  “You didn’t seem to have a problem when he took me out to dinner that first night,” I remind her.

  “It was different. We were about to be evicted and you swore to me it was only dinner.” She moves away, heading to the kitchen and unscrewing a bottle of wine before pouring a generous amount into a Mason jar. “Obviously you know this is wrong, otherwise you wouldn’t have been keeping it a secret all this time.”

  “I only kept this a secret because I knew you were going to overreact.”

  Her pointed stare trails to mine, slow and audacious. And she scoffs. “You think you’re grown now? Fine. Don’t come crying to me when this explodes in your face.”

  Underneath it all, she means well.

  She loves me and doesn’t want me to get hurt. There’s nothing I can say to change her mind … not now.

  “That specialist Emmeline’s been seeing? He’s a friend of Nolan’s,” I say. “He’s paying for everything.”

  Her mouth presses into a hard, thin line.

  Ever since Nolan referred us to his friend’s research center, Em’s been making noticeable strides, and it’s only been a couple of months. At this rate, the experimental treatment could change her entire life. Ours too.

  “You told me you found him online,” she says. “You said you applied for his program.”

  “I said what I had to say.”

  “Apparently.”

  The loudest kind of silence settles between us.

  “I’m leaving,” I say. My cheeks heat when I think of the true meaning of my words. I might as well be saying, “I’m going to have sex with my boyfriend … see you later.”

  Mom finishes her wine, wordless, and I slip back into my shoes. She doesn’t try to stop me—not that she could.

  Nolan and I are in love.

  Nothing can keep us apart.

  Twenty-Three

  Trey

  Present

  “These were my father’s.” I open a box of Cuban cigars and slide them across my grandfather’s mahogany desk in the center of the study the next night.

  Two hours ago, I sent a Town Car for Sophie. She arrived in a cloud of floral perfume. Tight jeans. Cashmere top. Silk headband with a leopard print. Tiny gold studs in her ears.

  I imagined her standing before her bathroom mirror, primping and preening down to the last detail—all for me.

  She can claim she’s not interested all she wants, but she made an effort to look good tonight …

  “Always thought I’d save these for a special occasion,” I continue. “Wedding day. Birth of a child.”

  “I thought you never wanted those things?”

  “Just because you never wanted something doesn’t mean you’ve never thought about it before.” There was a brief phase in my late twenties, when I thought maybe I could b
e the kind of man my father was. But every woman I dated tried to morph herself into what she thought I wanted to be or had transparent motives. It was easier to keep things physical, to cycle through them once boredom settled in.

  And that’s what marriage is to me … perpetual boredom.

  Eventually the sex fizzles into a monotonous hell. The conversations grow stale. The attraction wanes.

  Who in their right mind would want that if it weren’t forced upon them?

  Apparently Nolan Ames …

  “Have you ever smoked one?” she asks, reaching for a cigar. She drags it beneath her nose, inhaling the way I do when I want to remember the way my father used to smell. Like tobacco, leather, and a trace of my mother’s perfume after she hugged him.

  “Once. On the tenth anniversary of their death. Thought it would make me feel closer to him.”

  “And did it?”

  Distorted memories of that day dance through my head. A coldhearted reporter from a major newspaper had just called asking for a quote. I was drunk. Angry. Then numb. I wanted to feel something … else.

  Instead it felt as if someone carved a hole in my chest, like a piece of me was missing, never to be replaced.

  I decided then and there that I never wanted to feel that way again.

  “No,” I say.

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes turn a darker shade of blue, if that’s possible. She places the cigar back. “That must’ve been hard for you.”

  I release a terse breath and close the lid on the box. “Certain things are beyond our control. I prefer to focus on what I can control.”

  Our gazes hold.

  She sinks into the guest chair on the other side of the desk, a stemmed wine glass held lightly between her fingers. An hour ago we shared dinner in the courtyard before I brought her into the study. I wanted to show her photos of my family—the private ones not published in a dozen different biographies, magazines, and newspaper articles.

  “My father left before my sister was born. I don’t remember him. I’ve only seen pictures,” she says. “Not that it compares to what you went through, but I know what it’s like to miss a parent. I can’t imagine missing two.”

  “Your reluctance toward my offer,” I say, “does it have to do with him?”

  Sophie shakes her head. “I made peace with that a long time ago.”

  “Can a person ever truly make peace with abandonment?”

  “If you try hard enough, anything’s possible,” she responds without pause.

  “You speak my language.” I take a sip of my drink before pointing to her near empty chalice. “Another glass?”

  When she’s sober, she’s nothing but witty comebacks and deflective questions.

  When she’s been drinking, she’s clever with a heaping spoonful of details she’d never share otherwise.

  Sophie glances at the time on her cell, her lips bunching at the side. “One more. But only one.”

  Too easy.

  I use the desk phone to call the kitchen and order a second round. At this rate, it’s safe to say there’ll likely be a third in the near future.

  “Do you ever wonder how your life might have turned out differently?” she asks. “If things with your parents …”

  “Never,” I say before she finishes her question. “I don’t dwell on the past. You?”

  “It’s natural to wonder about things.” Her brows meet. “You’ve never thought about it?”

  “What’s the point? I don’t have enough hours in the day to waste time daydreaming.”

  A quick rap at the door is followed by a kitchen staffer bearing a serving tray of fresh drinks. She disappears in the midst of Sophie thanking her.

  “Ah, right,” she says. “You’re too busy hanging out in the space between two and three …”

  I tilt my head, examining her. “I shared that with you in confidence.”

  She swats at me, her delicate fingertips brushing my arm. Her cheeks are tinged with pink. If I had to guess, she’s half-past buzzed.

  “I’m messing with you,” she says. “I actually love that you shared that with me. I’m going to try that one of these days …”

  “What do you do to escape? Surely you don’t sit around daydreaming about how life could’ve turned out better? Maybe your father wasn’t in the picture, but it didn’t stop you from accomplishing a damn thing. Look at you now. You’re clearly the winner in this situation.”

  Her gaze drifts to the side as she sips her wine.

  “One could argue that.” Her words are hazy and distant, almost as if she’s speaking solely to herself.

  I lean back in my grandfather’s oversized chair, examining the fair-haired beauty across from me, briefly picturing what our child would look like, how her blonde hair and blue eyes would mix with my darker features.

  “What is it you want out of life? Surely you haven’t come this far only to be a corporate slave the rest of your life. You’ve got to want something more for yourself.”

  She appears to snap back into reality.

  “I’ve only ever wanted to be happy,” she shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like she’s said it a million times to a million different people.

  “And what does happiness look like for you?” I ask.

  “Honestly …” She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

  “Everyone knows,” I say. “Are you worried I’ll use it as leverage as we negotiate my offer?”

  “The things I want can’t be bought.” She isn’t speaking my language, but she’s garnered my full attention.

  “Everything can be bought.” At least in my world …

  I’m always up for a friendly debate. Most people don’t tend to challenge me in conversations. They’re afraid to disagree. Afraid to be honest.

  But Sophie Bristol isn’t like most people.

  Sitting straighter, she adds, “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  I sip my bourbon, hiding a half-smile. “You and your compliments. See, I could tell you’re starting to like me …”

  She rolls her eyes. And she hides her half-grin behind her wine glass, as if she could disguise the fact that she’s letting her guard down.

  Rising, she makes her way to the other side of the room, perusing a shelf of antique encyclopedias.

  “Back to your happiness …” I ask.

  “Do you mind?” She points to the fifth one on the middle shelf, deflecting my question once more.

  “Not at all.”

  She flips the antique pages, one by one, tracing her fingers over the older-than-dirt paragraphs, taking her time, as if she’s lost in wonderment. Her eyes trace the words as she chews the inside of her lip.

  I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking.

  But I remind myself I’m getting there …

  “Tell me about your last boyfriend.” I take a sip. “What was he like?”

  Sophie closes the book and slides it back into place, keeping her back to me. “He was horrible.”

  Interesting …

  Turning around, she adds, “And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  The last woman I dated would happily unleash a dumpster truck of verbal garbage about her exes if prompted. The one before used to “accidentally” send sexy pictures to her ex, claiming she’d confused “Trey” for “Trent” in her drunken haze. In the past, I only asked about previous involvements because I wanted to see if I could spot a pattern … if they tended to seek out a certain kind of man or if they tended to view their exes as inherently evil, if they refused to accept partial blame for the demise of the relationship. That sort of thing. It usually told me everything I needed to know—and often times told me it was time to walk away.

  But Sophie’s dating history is a glaring question mark.

  “Horrible. Wow. I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, infusing my tone with sympathy in hopes that she’ll keep the dialogue going.

  “Tell me about your last girlfriend,” she flips the script.

  �
��Ah. That would be Raquel. We lasted not quite two years. Fought like cats and dogs. Had no business being together,” I say, leaving out the part about it being mostly about sex. “After a while, she realized I loved work more than her, and I realized she loved coke more than me. We went our separate ways, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “Do you ever wonder what she’s up to now?”

  “Never.” And it’s the truth. Someone told me once she was making her rounds in Hollywood, bouncing from C-list actor to C-list actor. I told them she could be fucking a limp-dicked gnome for all I care. “Do you ever think about your ex?”

  “Never on purpose.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s in the news sometimes …”

  “Would I know him?”

  “You know a lot of people,” she says, lips angling up at the side as if she finds that fact amusing. “So probably.”

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “What’s it matter?” She answers my question with a question. Typical. “It’s in the past.”

  “Is it though? Seems like he did a number on you.” I toss back the rest of my bourbon. “I’d say that hurt is alive and well—some could argue it’s in this very room.”

  “You mentioned you had some Renoirs? And a couple Monets? I’d love to see them.” Her voice sparkles with admiration. Once more, she’s flipped a switch.

  She really has a knack for this—turning her emotions on and off, swapping one for another.

  I’ve never seen anything like it.

  I make a mental note to see if Broderick’s uncovered any of her dating history yet. With enough digging, we should be able to find something … especially if her boyfriend was in the public eye.

  There have got to be photos.

  A paper trail.

  A gossip monger in the know.

  If it’s out there, Broderick will find it.

  “This way.” Apparently we’re shelving this conversation—for now.

  I lead her from the study to the locked art galleria on the main floor. Many of the pieces are priceless, and, given that they’re family heirlooms, I haven’t wanted to part with them or take a chance on loaning them out to a museum.