Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 2) (4 page)

“That’s not what I’m saying,” I argued. “It’s not the relationship that’s miserable. It’s the situation. I wish that Shawn would come to his senses. I miss him.”

“I miss him, too.”

“That’s the thing that’s less than ideal.” I covered Patrick’s hand with my own. “You’re not less than ideal. I love you. How could you think that?”

“You brood sometimes.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Brood?”

“That’s right, brood.” He laughed. “It’s the mark of a deep thinker, Loren. It’s nothing bad.”

“Well, I have a lot to brood about right now,” I said, arching my eyebrows at him. “But not our relationship.”

Patrick heaved a sigh, downing the rest of the beer in his bottle. “I have to explore the fact, however, that if we weren’t together, Shawn might be here, enjoying a bottle of beer with us. That things would be normal.”

“If normal was you and me pining away secretly for each other, maybe,” I scoffed, laughing. “And Shawn was secretly pining away for me at the same time. Is that the normal you’re looking for? That doesn’t sound very fun to me.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Let’s let Shawn brood on it for a while,” I suggested. “He’ll come around, won’t he?”

“He’s a stubborn man.”

“I wonder who he gets that from,” I teased.

“He didn’t get help from
either
of his parents,” Patrick said. “His mother’s as stubborn as a mule, just like me.”

“Poor Shawn.”

“Poor Shawn,” he agreed, toasting to me before remembering he’d downed his beer. “Damn.”

“I’ll get you another,” I told him, patting his hand in consolation.

I slipped my own beer back into the fridge to get cold again for the next round and pulled out a fresh pair of bottles. I’d never been picky about beer, but I was getting spoiled by having this kind of access to nice craft labels. I was developing a discerning taste for all things hops and pine, and I delighted in seasonal ales. I always drank whatever I pulled from the fridge. It helped me hone my likes and dislikes.

“Thanks.” Patrick took the beer I held out to him and cracked it open against the edge of the table.

“Careful!” I exclaimed.

“I am careful.”

“This is a nice table.” I stroked the wood. “And you need to be nice to it.”

He eyed me in a way that made me blush. “I could think of several nice things I’d like to do
on
it.”

“No, I didn’t say be nice
on
it,” I sassed, shaking my head. “I said be nice
to
it.”

I don’t know what triggered him, but Patrick grabbed me and pushed me down on the table, covering my body with his, arranging my limbs to his liking until I was sprawled, spread eagle, across the cold wood, staring at the ceiling. The only reason I wasn’t drenched in beer was because I hadn’t opened my bottle yet, which was still clenched in my fist.

“I think this is nice, don’t you?” Patrick asked innocently, smiling down at me.

“I could think of some things that would be even nicer.” Two could play this sudden game.

“Hm.” He traced one finger down my clothed torso, drawing a line that divided me exactly in half vertically, separating the twin swells of my breast, and ending at the juncture where my body split itself naturally. I willed him to push harder there, but he only trailed away, distracted, tapping his fingernails against the surface of the table.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about some of the things you said to me,” he said, his eyes far away.

I sat up, concerned. “Which things?”

“That you thought I was looking to hide our relationship.” He looked troubled, his brow furrowed.

“I thought we were past that. The love is there, Patrick, and that’s what matters right now.”

“I know that, and I love you for that.”  He paused and weighed his words. “I want to prove to you that I want to show our love to the world.”

“A skywriter will do just fine,” I joked, giggling at Patrick’s stern look.

“I’m serious, Loren. I’m not ashamed of what we share. We both know it’s real, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

“That’s right,” I said, tracing his jaw line with the palm of my hand, still clutching my beer in the other. He realized it belatedly and opened it for me. I took a small sip, waiting for him to complete whatever thought he was still forming.

“I want you at my side at the benefit this year.”

I blinked at him. “The benefit? You mean your company’s benefit?”

“That’s the one. It’ll be perfect. We’re holding it at the modern art museum. You’ll fit right in.”

I had to fight to imagine it. The company that Patrick owned threw a lavish benefit every year, earning so much money that it was eager to throw handfuls of it back to those less fortunate. It helped that the very fortunate were getting wined and dined and encouraged to loosen their purse strings for the greater good. Patrick had gushed about the event every year since I’d met him, talking about how it was a Who’s Who of the Bay area. It always sounded to me like Cinderella’s ball.

I would’ve never in my wildest dreams expected to attend one, and certainly not on the arm of Patrick Paulson. It was an imagining so farfetched that it actually made me anxious. What in God’s sweet name would I even wear?

“When…um…when is the benefit again?”

“You’ve got several weeks to think about it,” he said. “I completely understand if you don’t want to go. If you think it might be boring, we can go somewhere else. Skip the whole damn thing. I don’t care.”

“Stop.” I put my beer down and hugged him. “Of course I want to go with you. It sounds like a dream. It’s just…I’m worried about what people will think.”

He took me by the chin and looked me in the eyes, his green gaze sharp. “I thought we weren’t in the business of caring what other people think.”

“Well, you know what they’re going to say.”

“That I’m too old for you.”

I shook my head. “That I’m not good enough for you. That I’m after your money.”

He took my hand and turned it upward before kissing my palm so tenderly that it made me ache. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said sweetly.

I snorted with laughter, and he joined me.

“You know what I would say to someone who was wretched enough to voice that thought aloud?” he asked.

“What?”

Patrick extended his middle finger and shoved it upward, into the air.

“That’s not a very polite finger,” I said, capturing it and biting it.

“Ow!”

“You’ll have to play nice at the benefit,” I said. “What would people do if they saw the man who was in charge of the company and putting on that glorious benefit flipping the bird at some posh old couple?”

“I’d love to see what people would do,” he said, grinning.

“And I’d love to see what you were about to do before your train of thought got derailed by this silly benefit,” I said, grinning.

I was suddenly staring at the ceiling again before Patrick obstructed my view, kissing me deeply, and this time I did get soaking wet, the beer forgotten as we lost ourselves in each other.

I was somewhere between dreaming and awake when my phone began vibrating. My first thoughts were that it was already time to wake up and the buzzing was from the alarm I had set. But when mashing the area of the display where the snooze button was usually located didn’t solve the buzzing, I belated realized it was a call.

Unable to so much as slit my eyes open, I slid my thumb across the screen to answer.

“Hello.” My voice sounded foreign, even to my own ears.

“Loren. I’m in jail.”

That short statement was more effective than coffee, jolting me awake immediately, sending me into a ramrod, straight-sitting position. I squinted at the too-bright display to see just who was calling me from jail, but it was a jumble of numbers that I didn’t recognize.

“Who is this?” I asked, wondering if this was an extension of a super-realistic dream.

“Christ, Loren, just your best friend, Shawn.”

I actually patted my face sharply to see if I would wake up from whatever dream this might be. I hadn’t seen or heard from Shawn in weeks and weeks, not since he’d told me any semblance of friendship that we might’ve had was over and done with. His was the absolute last voice I’d expected to hear on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry, Shawn. I was dead asleep,” I said, swinging my legs to dangle over the side of the bed before grabbing a jacket to throw over my pajamas. “I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“I don’t have much time,” he slurred, and for the first time, I realized that he was wasted. I was never really the partying type, lacking the money required to go out all the time, and I never felt the urge to plow my way through the beer I could afford—or the beer offered to me at Shawn’s house whenever I went over. Shawn and I had gotten tipsy together several times, but this was the first time that he was extremely blitzed.

“What were you arrested for?” I asked, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be just fine as soon as I get out of this piss hole,” he announced. “I know you can’t come up with the bail, so I’ve authorized you to come to the jail and get my wallet and use a credit card to get some money out of an ATM. You’ll need a money order, though, so you’ll need to swing by a gas station and ask the clerk for one.”

I blinked several times. This was a lot of information to process. And there was the stinging insult that I wouldn’t have enough cash on hand to cover the bail—true, but still hurtful. Shawn had never insulted me because of my finances. Really, he’d never insulted me before that confrontation with Patrick. Beyond some light teasing, our friendship had always been just that—friendly. We were low drama and got along just fine.

Just fine, that is, until the moment he decided he was in love with me.

“Are you coming or not?” he demanded, impatient. For someone who was depending on another human being to get him out of a bad situation, he sure was imperious.

“Why don’t I just go get the money from Patrick?” I asked, slipping my bare feet into a pair of sneakers. “I’m sure he’ll have it on hand and we can come get you sooner.”

“This isn’t something that you tell my father,” Shawn said. “Don’t you dare. Just come.”

The call ended, and I stared at my phone a few more long moments, trying to decide if it’d been a dream—or a nightmare—after all. Shawn was acting bizarrely. I’d never known him to be someone who got himself in trouble or put himself in risky situations that would lead to being jailed at three in the morning. 

What had he even been arrested for?

The fact was that Shawn had called me. Maybe that meant that he’d rethought his stance on our friendship; that he’d gotten over whatever hang-ups he had about me not being in love with him but with his father instead.

He had called me, and he was in need. That was the most important thing. I had to go to him because I couldn’t fathom simply ignoring him. I didn’t care that he’d been condescending or unkind. He was probably just drunk and tired and shocked—and irritated that he’d gotten in trouble. What I needed to do now was be a good friend.

I walked just off campus and was able to quickly flag down a cab.

“To the county jail, please,” I said.

“One of those mornings, is it?” the driver asked, chuckling and shaking his head before hitting the gas.

The jail was a cold, uncomfortable place. I didn’t like the fact that Shawn was languishing beyond the locked doors somewhere. I wondered if he was in a cell with someone, or if he was all alone.

“Personal effects for Shawn Paulson,” the officer said, drawing me back to the window. I couldn’t see anyone beyond it; it was mirrored. The effect was one of discomfort, like I was the only person in the highly sterile lobby.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the proffered plastic bag containing a set of keys, a cell phone, and Shawn’s wallet. “I’ll be coming right back with the bail.”

“It’ll be three hundred dollars,” the faceless voice informed me. “In the form of a money order.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to pretend that the value wasn’t a huge amount to me. “Um…I don’t know if you can…what was Shawn arrested for?”

“It’s a DUI.”

“Thank you,” I said faintly, shuffling away from the window to the taxi that still waited outside. My fare was probably going to be astronomical—funds that I didn’t have—and I wondered if Shawn would mind, or even notice, if I withdrew an extra hundred dollars to cover my transportation costs.

“The nearest ATM,” I said upon getting into the cab. “And then a gas station.”

“I can do you one better,” the driver said. “A gas station with an ATM inside.”

“Perfect.”

We took off, and my thoughts consumed me. Shawn had been arrested for a DUI? He’d been driving under the influence? Had he wrecked his car? Had he gotten hurt? Had he hurt anybody else? How bad was it? He’d seemed pretty glazed over when he’d called me to come bail him out. Should I bail him out? Maybe he would be better off if he slept it off in the safety of the jail. He wasn’t staying at home anymore with Patrick. I had no idea where he might end up if I brought the money that would unlock his cell and set him free.

But he’d asked for my help. Whatever had happened, I had to fix it. I couldn’t help but think that all of this turmoil was because of me, because of the fact that I was seeing Shawn’s father. I couldn’t help my attraction to Patrick, my chemistry with him, or the way I loved him, but I still felt guilty that Shawn had suffered as a direct result of it.

“Here we are,” the driver announced, coming to a stop in front of a brightly lit convenience store.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

I couldn’t withdraw more than three hundred dollars; I couldn’t stand the guilt I’d feel from taking Shawn’s money, even if I did need it to complete the errand he’d sent me on. I got the money order easily enough from the clerk and was back in the cab in a snap.

“So, what’s the deal at the jail?” the driver asked, pulling back onto the road from the parking lot of the convenience store. “Your boyfriend get pinched, or what?”

“No, just my friend,” I said quickly. “He made a bad choice. I guess. I’m not sure. I haven’t really talked to him beyond that first phone call.”

“You’re a good friend, then,” the driver surmised. “I don’t know many who’d get out of bed for my dumb ass.”

“Someone would, I’m sure,” I said, laughing a little. Was I doing the right thing by helping Shawn right now? I wasn’t sure. I would need more details about what had happened, and that wasn’t possible until I bailed him out of jail.

We pulled up to the jail, and I again asked the driver to wait. If Shawn had been pulled over while driving, it was entirely possible his car had been impounded. I could probably find public transit home, or even walk to clear my head, but I didn’t know if Shawn would have a ride home—or to wherever he was staying now.

I submitted the money order to the faceless being beyond the reflective glass window and was told to wait. I sat on the bench provided for such waiting, examining the scratched graffiti that covered almost every inch of it.

How long had these people been made to sit, waiting on the release of their loved ones?

The intimidating door before me unlocked with a strange sci-fi type of hiss, and after a few moments, Shawn emerged. I jumped up off of the bench, going in for a hug, but he quickly sidestepped me and simply walked out of the lobby.

Had that really happened? I patted my face again, nearly slapping it to make sure I was awake. There was no way in hell that I’d been called out of slumber to help Shawn out of a tight spot only to get the cold shoulder from him.

“Shawn!” I shouted, as he strolled down the sidewalk without a care in the world. “Shawn!”

He stopped and turned, raising his eyebrows at me as if he were actually surprised that I was calling after him.

“What the hell?” I demanded, getting in his face. “What happened? Talk to me!”

“I got arrested,” he shrugged. “That’s all there is to it.”

“All there is to it? You’re charged with driving under the influence, Shawn. That’s serious.”

“I’ll deal with it,” he said. “We keep a pretty good lawyer on retainer, us Paulsons. You just wait and see. I bet they’ll drop the charges even. He’s a really good lawyer.”

“What is wrong with you?” I peered into his face. His eyes were dilated, and he looked tired, but beyond the pervasive smell of vodka, he was no worse for wear. But whoever occupied this Shawn costume wasn’t actually Shawn. The friend I knew would never act like this—entitled and beyond reprehension.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said almost pleasantly. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me is that you’re not acting like yourself,” I said. “Who are you, Shawn? You’re not my best friend right now. I don’t know who you are.”

“Well, you’ve got one thing right. I’m not your best friend.” Shawn began to walk away again, but I seized his arm.

“You can’t walk away from me without explaining what’s going on,” I said. “I can’t just leave you unless I know you’re going to be fine.”

“Of course I’m going to be fine,” he said. “I’m always fine. You’re the one who’s causing all the drama right now.”

“No, I’m not,” I said, feeling a little bit like I might be going crazy. “You’re the one who’s causing all the drama right now. I was dead asleep in my apartment when you called. I could’ve slept through it. I could’ve decided that my good sleep was more important. But I didn’t. You’re my best friend, like it or not. I came here to help you. The least you can do is tell me what happened. Talk to me, Shawn.”

He heaved a sigh so heavy that it seemed like I’d asked him to run a marathon just before doing my taxes for me.

“I’d had a few drinks, and I got pulled over,” he said, shrugging. “It was completely unfair, which is what I’m sure the lawyer will bring up at trial. The cop said he smelled alcohol in the car, but he didn’t give me a sobriety test. This is going to get laughed out of court, really. I’m only inconvenienced, really.”

It made me shake my head. Was he really calling yanking me out of bed at three in the morning and blowing three hundred dollars on his mistake an inconvenience?

“You’re drunk right now,” I said. “I can smell it on you, and I’m sure the cop was right when he smelled it on you, too. What are you doing to yourself? Can you see your downward spiral? Or are you too dizzy on all the turns to realize what’s going on?”

“No one asked you to be here, Loren,” Shawn said, scowling.

“Wrong!” I shouted. “You asked me! You asked me to be here, and here I am! Don’t you think I deserve some answers? What’s happening to you? What the hell happened to us?”

“You’re dating my fucking dad!” Shawn yelled back, advancing on me so aggressively that I backed into the nearest wall. “That’s what happened. That’s what fucking happened to us. You’re fucking my dad, and I don’t know how the fuck to deal with that, Loren! That’s what the fuck is going on.”

I held my hands upward, helpless, against my body. “What can we do? What can I do to repair this relationship? We’re best friends, Shawn. Nothing can change that. I love you like a brother; I don’t care if it makes you cringe because it’s the truth. I love you! I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. What can I do? Tell me! What can I do?”

“Break up with my dad!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “That’s a starter. Stop fucking him! I think I’d feel better then! I think that’s the antidote to the poison in my veins. Stop fucking my dad, and maybe we can be friends again.”

I stood in shock, as he tried to stalk away from me. I couldn’t break up with Patrick any more than I could sprout wings and fly. I loved him too much. What the hell was Shawn playing at? Was my relationship with Patrick really doing him so much harm? Had it actually caused this infraction?

“Stop,” I said quietly, but it did the trick. Shawn halted in his tracks. “I can’t break up with Patrick. I’m in love. That isn’t going to change any time soon. But you can’t just walk away from me. I’m scared for you. I don’t know where you’re going.”

Shawn laughed, but it was utterly humorless. “You think I know where I’m going? I have about as much of a clue as you do. I’ll go until I can’t anymore, and then I’ll just end up somewhere. Is that good enough for you?”