Queen: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 3) (2 page)

It turned out the property manager's name was Julie, and she was just naturally as hyperactive and fretful as she seemed when we first met her. When I went back to the space to sign the agreement, she'd been dressed in a similarly adolescent outfit and carried herself like an over-caffeinated meerkat. She was just
so excited
that I was signing the lease. And
so excited
to show me every crate and box that had arrived so far.

She wasn't Melita, whom I missed desperately. And she wasn't supposed to be my assistant or anything, but she was my connection to the Jacks and their corporate purse strings.

I got used to her pretty fast. I like a good, quirky personality to brighten up my day. I mean, who doesn't? Julie would've been just as much at home behind the counter of a biker bar as she was writing checks and ordering materials here in this posh Michigan Avenue retail space. I liked that. Versatility.

I got dressed quickly in my nicest pair of jeans and a pair of forest green Frye boots. Even though I was going to be working in the “warehouse,” a warehouse on Michigan Avenue wasn't exactly the same as a warehouse in Plano. I still had to keep up appearances of dressing for the life I was pretending I was already living.

So many phrases that I had read on motivational posters over the years popped into my head from time to time.

Fake it til you make it.

Dress for the job you want.

It’s not who you are that holds you back; it’s who you think you’re not.

That last one was on a cross-stitch sampler over Dave’s desk next to some posters of eagles and breaching whales and other things that I cringed to read. That one always stuck out somehow like it was meant for me.

But the way that Julie and the workers seemed to treat me with deference and assumed that I knew what I was doing was starting to sink in. I was getting used to it. It didn't really strike me as strange anymore that workers would ask me where I wanted something positioned. Or how I wanted the lights pointed. Or if I felt that the color of the LEDs was appropriate. I got consulted on everything, because everyone thought it was my vision they were following. And I guessed that in fact, they were right.

Which was sort of cool.

I briefly considered touching my resurrected cellphone just to use the camera, but then remembered I didn’t have to. When I got to Melita's garage and yanked up the heavy old door, I used the WebCam from my notebook to take pictures of the Jeep instead.

Behold the powers of my passive aggression. I will not cave into using that phone!

I walked around it slowly like I was stalking it.
Click. Click. Click.
I opened the creaking driver-side door and inhaled that woolen, musty smell for one of the last times, as far as I knew.
Click. Click click. Click.

On the cab ride up to “the gallery” as I was cleverly calling it, I assembled a simple Craigslist ad: “1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited Edition. Has all its parts, well cared for and garage kept for the last 10 years. Top of the line when it was new: will only sell to vagabond songwriters and wayward girls from large families. OK. Will consider other offers. But they better be good offers from sincere people who will take care of this behemoth and promise to drive it up and down a riverbank once in a while.”

My finger hovered over the Submit button for a few very long seconds. That Jeep represented the last shred of the childhood that I had known with my father. Though I had accepted the loss of my parents a long time ago, I had lost so much of my life in the last couple of weeks that it was difficult to let this artifact go.

Rationally, I knew I didn't need it: it wasn't economical for me, and it would be far more useful converted into a resource for my project. I was recycling it into my future, I figured. Still, clicking the submit button felt like throwing my last penny down the wishing well.

The cab pulled to the curb in front of the gallery and I felt that sweet swell of affection and a little buzz of excitement when I saw it out of the corner of my eye.
My gallery. Mine.
There it was: my future.

I pointed a little kiss toward the picture of the Jeep on the screen... and clicked Submit.

Julie stumbled on the sidewalk as soon as she saw me climbing from the cab, her hands over her head to shield herself from the blaring midmorning sun. She was wearing a Pucci-inspired print sundress and stacks of clacking, melon-colored bangles on her wrists.

“What's all this?” she bleated.

“This is just about everything,” I said wryly as I hefted my two sad suitcases onto the sidewalk.

“Okay, okay…” she said as though trying to talk herself into something drastic.

“Julie, this is nothing,” I sighed with a dismissive wave of my hand. She appeared relieved. “Just tell me where we’re at.”

She nodded avidly and fell into place at my side as we walked toward the double front doors. Two workmen paused in their tasks and flung the doors open for us.

I kept my eyes down for just a little longer than I had to as we entered the cool, dark space. I liked to hold back as long as possible every time I came here, so that I could see it afresh and be dazzled and lovestruck all over again. When we were inside and it felt like my eyes had just about adjusted to the change in light from outside, I looked up all of a sudden. Julie was chattering next to me but I could barely hear her.

Here it is.

My eyes scanned the room. Miraculously, the workmen had completed just about everything according to the plan with just a few adjustments that I had made. They worked so quickly, I was stunned. It was truly amazing what a bottomless bank account could accomplish.

The space was set up with a labyrinth of portable walls that could be repositioned to create and recombine new spaces out of this one large space. They acted as interconnecting galleries, ultimately suitable for almost anything I could put in here.

The movable walls came up to ten feet in height, leaving the other eight feet or so wide open above them and hung with flexible banks of daylight-adjusted, power-efficient LED bulbs. Eventually, I could use the whole space for perhaps a larger or more magnificent installation, but for now everything would end up with the galleries in the configuration that workmen had positioned them.

The sound of hammering and sawing and the occasional motorized screech of a drill filled the air like orchestral music, with Julie next to me as the perky piccolo.

"The inspectors will be here by the end of day today and since everything passed on the pre-inspection last week I really don't expect any problems,” she was chattering. I nodded and pulled my suitcases behind me as we worked our way to the warehouse.

“Just about everything is here,” she continued, “and the hanging system will be installed in the rest of the galleries by the end of the day…”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Well then just start hanging, I guess,” I said, shrugging, wondering why she was saying it like that.

She blanched.

“But no I can't? Remember?”

I stared at her blankly.

“My vacation? I'm leaving this afternoon and I could… Oh, you know what, just never mind, I'm sure we can reschedule it…”

“Oh no!” I responded. “Oh no, of course not. You go! I'm sorry that I didn't remember. I've been so busy trying to keep everything straight in my head…”

She fluttered her eyelids as though she was on the verge of passing out.

“Really, Julie, everything is just about done! I'm sure that I can requisition some overtime and have the entire thing hung before Monday. Tuesday at the latest.”

I beamed at her proudly. I had gotten really good at doing things like requisitioning overtime and booking massive billboard campaigns. Every other cab that passed by us on Michigan Avenue had a placard on top promoting our show for next week. I got a thrill every time I saw one.

It was sort of risky, I had to admit, since we hadn't gotten the official go-ahead to open the doors yet, but it sure was fun to put the Jacks’ massive spending power to work.

“Only if you're sure,” she insisted.

“I am totally sure. Beyond sure. Have a great time! So, if you're out this afternoon, who is my contact after the inspector leaves? In case there are any issues?”

Her coral colored lips parted and I heard the words but somehow they didn't make any sense to me.

“Ms. Avery has agreed to be on site. I'm sure she can handle any issues the inspector comes up with, but I really don't expect —”

“Ms. Avery.”

“That's right,” she stammered, her nose twitching like a bunny. “She’ll be here all weekend.”

“Great,” I croaked convincingly. “That's just great.”

As if on cue, Whitney came galloping around the corner with a sheaf of papers in her hand. She held them out toward Julie and then stumbled as soon as she saw me, her eyes rounding into frightened discs in the middle of her face.

Just stand here. Do not run away from this woman.

I let my gaze go unfocused which seemed like a reasonable compromise between looking away in disgust and having to look right at her. Instead I pitched my eyesight somewhere about 20 feet behind her head and then kept it there.

I could sort of see her moving her face as though not really sure I was looking at her or not. And I have to admit I kind of enjoyed that. It's amazing, the subtle ways that you can fuck with people.

“Ah, Julie,” Whitney said, her voice falling to a hoarse whisper, “I have the permit application here… It was, uh, with my other paperwork.”

Julie held out her hand for the papers as they were offered, her eyes flickering furtively between Whitney and me. She clutched them to her chest like a life preserver.

“I have to leave these with the foreman!” she squeaked. I cursed her name as she scurried out of the warehouse and back to the front of the gallery.

Whitney's mouth opened several times before she actually made a sound.

“Bree,” she started. Then she waited, presumably to see if I cut her off and walked away like I had every other time. Instead I said nothing.

“You’re not answering my calls,” she muttered, then waited.

I breathed in and out like a Buddhist frikkin monk.

“Bree, I just want to tell you how sorry I am. I just want to say… Well, I never meant for you get hurt. But looking back I realize that was the only thing that was going to happen for sure. And that was extremely selfish of us. I know that."

I ground my molars together to keep myself quiet.

“I just… I just wanted to tell you how much we appreciate how mature you've been through all this. I mean, you could've gone totally batshit crazy girlfriend on me and that would've been fine… But you just have too much class for that, which is what I told him the whole time. I mean, I told him that we should tell you. But there was never a right time. You were always so busy…”

I was always so busy keeping his mangy business afloat so he could fuck you. That's where I was busy.

“You know, honestly, I don't think Carl ever really give you enough credit. I mean, you basically built Carl's business —”

That's what I'm saying!

“— and yeah, sometimes people fall out of love. But he had so much respect for you, he was really always in awe of you. You must know that… I think he was just too scared to admit how weak we had been.”

I blinked, finally drawing her into focus. The way she was talking to me, it was like she didn't even know me. But really, that wasn't such a bad thing because the person she was describing was a hell of a lot cooler than I ever felt.

I tried to see what she was seeing; to see myself as a stranger. I was an elitely educated woman who had rolled up her sleeves to save her boyfriend’s business without complaint or giving the attitude that I was better than that job. Did that make me tough? Is that how she saw me? I didn't really know.

Frankly, as the days went by I was finding it harder and harder to continue giving a fuck, either.

She twisted her fingers together nervously. I stared at her like she was specimen in a zoo. Her rusty upper lip twitched as she shifted from foot to foot, apparently waiting for me to say something.

We hadn't really been
good
friends, I had to admit, though somehow I felt like I had ownership over all the female friendships in the relationship that Carl and I had cultivated together. She sort of came with the condo, along with Mike and Chad (our preppy gay neighbors) and Mrs. Lucek (the Polish busybody downstairs). We’d only hung out a few times over cocktails in the tiny walled patio.

I wracked my brain: was there ever a sign? Did he favor her margarita over mine when we sat on the concrete patio in metal mesh chairs? Why didn’t I pay attention? After the other times I had uncovered his cheating, why wasn’t I more vigilant?

Melita would know. I wished I could ask her.

Hey Melita, why didn’t I keep a closer eye on Carl? Why didn’t I notice he had a new girlfriend right under my nose? Was I really that checked out of the relationship? Is Whitney… right? If he fell out of love, did I fall out of love too?