The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5) (25 page)

Whose lie was worse? Who had betrayed me more?

I didn’t know. I couldn’t think. My chest ached. I finished my coffee and I still didn’t understand anything. There was nothing to do but go to work and hope it all became clear in time.

I was so distracted at work that Mike asked me, halfway through my shift, if I was doing okay. “I’m fine,” I said. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”

“You should go home,” he said. “Tell Germaine.”

“I can’t,” I said. It was Saturday, and the club was slammed. We didn’t have enough waitresses for me to decide I was too emotionally delicate to work through the end of my shift. “I’ll be fine.”

“Just don’t sneeze on a client,” he said. He poured a shot and slid it across the bar. “Drink up. Kills germs.”

“It doesn’t kill germs,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Drink it anyway,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

He wasn’t wrong. I hesitated for another moment, but then I picked up the glass and downed the shot.

Straight whiskey. It burned, going down, but then it settled in my belly, a warm glow. “You were right,” I said. “I
did
need that. Pour me another.”

Mike grinned. “Good girl.”

The rest of my shift went by in a pleasant blur. I didn’t think about anything, or worry about my inevitable conversation with Max. I flirted gently with my favorite clients, older men I had known for years and who would take my flirting in the spirit it was intended and not as an invitation for something more. It provided a nice distraction, and the folded bills they slipped into my hands didn’t hurt.

But I was operating on borrowed time. I checked my phone, at one point, when I went to the bathroom. Max had texted me:
Working hard? Can’t wait to see you
.

I closed my eyes. I was too hot. The room was too small. I wanted to go outside and run around in the night until I couldn’t think of anything but the beating of my heart.

I didn’t text him back. I didn’t know what to say.

Everything I thought I knew about him was a lie.

It isn’t his fault. I’m sorry
.

All those years when I thought he had abandoned me, he was probably thinking the same thing, but about
me
.

What a comedy of errors! Shakespeare would have had a field day.

I wasn’t laughing, though.

I shook my head sharply, forcing the thoughts to settle away from the forefront of my mind. It was time to get back to work.

The waitresses were going out for drinks, after the club closed, and I considered going with them. I never drank to the point of intoxication, but it was tempting now, the prospect of drinking until I no longer knew my name and couldn’t be held responsible for my actions. I could show up at Max’s apartment, scream and cry and throw things, and in the morning be absolved of any wrongdoing.
Got too drunk, sorry. Tee-hee, silly me!

I didn’t do it. I knew better. I went home to my bed.

In the morning, I took the train to Brooklyn. I texted Max on my way there. I had the letter in my purse, tucked in an inner pocket along with my lip balm. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I had rehearsed a whole speech the night before, lying in bed staring up at my ceiling, but now, in daylight, it seemed absurd. Maybe I would just give him the letter, and see what he said.

My phone vibrated as I approached his building.
Sorry, just saw this. Always happy to see you! Just ring the bell when you get here and I’ll buzz you in.

Guilt choked me. He wouldn’t be so happy to see me once he knew what I had to say.

I went inside and upstairs to his door. It was very nondescript: a flat black slab of wood with the unit number in silver metal. The peephole stared at me, fish-eyed. I stared back. I could turn around right now and go home and pretend the last month had never happened. I could go inside and smile and kiss him and pretend I had just stopped by for lunch and a roll in the hay.

I didn’t do either of those things. I knocked on the door.

He answered, smiling, wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans hanging low on his hips. His feet were bare. He looked so happy to see me. “Come on in,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “I’m just making lunch.”

I followed him into the kitchen, mute, numb. I felt like I was encased in a great metal diving bell. The sea opened around me, and I was sheltered from it, immune. Nothing could touch me. I would drown, or live.

In the kitchen, a skillet sizzled on the gas range. Max picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the contents. “Are you hungry? I always cook too much. There’s plenty for you if you’d like to eat.”

“Maybe,” I said, and then my mouth moved without my permission, and I heard myself say, “I got a letter from Renzo.”

He knew exactly what I was talking about. I could see it in the sudden tension in his shoulders. “He sent it to you?”

“Yes,” I said. Now I was more confused than ever. Max knew that Renzo knew that I didn’t know—

He turned off the burner and laid the spoon down on the counter. “Let’s go sit.”

He led me into the living room, and we sat facing each other, me on the sofa and Max on a nearby armchair. He looked concerned, sincere. It meant nothing. He was a good liar.

I drew in a breath. Let it out again.

“What questions do you have for me?” he asked. A good opening: not defensive, not trying to explain.

I felt manipulated. He was too slick. I thought he had probably planned this. He knew I would find out eventually. He had prepared himself for this conversation.

I was a dupe. They had both fooled me. Renzo and Max, brothers in arms.

There was a knot in my throat. I swallowed it down. “You said you were in foster care.”

“I lied about that,” he said. “I never was.”

I swallowed again. “And you said—in your letter—”

“Do you have it?” he asked. “It’s been so long. I can’t remember what I wrote.”

I fumbled for it in my purse. My hands shook, a fine tremor. My fingers grasped the perforated edge. Max had torn the paper from a notebook and left the rough edges in place. Now they were frayed and soft with age and use. Renzo had carried this letter with him all those years. I wondered how many times he had unfolded it and read it.

Max took the paper from me. I watched as he scanned the page, eyes moving back and forth. Then, finished, he sat back in his chair and gazed at me. His face was blank as a mask. The paper sat on his lap, bent, open.

“I feel like I’ve become really stupid,” I said. “None of this makes any sense to me.”

“You’re surprised,” he said. “Cognitive dissonance. You thought the world was a certain way, and it turns out you were wrong. Your brain is trying to protect you.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe. Oh, Max. I don’t understand. I know you’re rich now, but I guess you were rich all along.”

“Family money,” he said. “I didn’t do anything to earn it.”

“Your parents must have been worried sick,” I said. It had been on my mind ever since I first read the letter.
My parents love me
. I thought of how my grandmother would have reacted, if I ran away. I thought of Max’s mother crying every night until he came home.

“Sweet Beth,” he said. “That’s what’s bothering you? Yes, they were very worried, but it was years ago. I’m fairly certain they’ve recovered.”

“Okay,” I said. “But your pickpocketing. You couldn’t have learned that—you were only on the streets for, what, a month at most before I met you.”

He shrugged. “I learned when I was a kid. Our doorman taught me. He was a magician in his spare time. He taught me some sleight-of-hand, and he always kept candies in the pockets of his coats. If I could steal them, they were mine to eat.”

“Of course.” I shook my head. Max the thief. Max the liar. “Is your sister—did she recover?”

“She did,” he said. “Full recovery. She was in a coma for a month. But she’s in college now. She’s doing fine.”

“You had to go home to her,” I said. “I understand that. And I understand now why you didn’t look for me. You thought that I hated you. I guess I even understand why you lied about your identity.” Street kids had no sympathy for rich runaways. “But what I don’t understand—” I had to stop and take a breath so that I didn’t start crying. “What I don’t understand is why I didn’t learn any of this until now.”

“I gave the letter to Renzo,” he said. “The night that I left. I was too ashamed to tell you in person. He was asleep, and I woke him up and told him to give you the letter when he saw you in the morning. He was confused. He didn’t understand where I was going or why I couldn’t give the letter to you myself. I gave him some bullshit explanation and I thought he accepted it. But apparently he read it, and he decided not to tell you because he thought you would be too hurt. He thought it would be better if you thought I was dead.”

“How long have you known about this?” I asked. My voice was very quiet. This was the heart of it, the one thing I maybe couldn’t forgive. If Max had renewed our relationship under false premises, I wasn’t sure I could ever look him in the eye again.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I can defend myself against past mistakes by citing youth and ignorance,” he said. “But I can’t defend myself here. Renzo told me when we were in California.”

I closed my eyes. Weeks ago. Max had known for weeks, and hadn’t told me. “So when we—the first time we…” My voice was strangled and torn. I could barely bring myself to say the words. “After we went to Golden Gate Park, and we—when we—”

“It was after that,” he said, very gentle. “We didn’t see Renzo until the next day, remember?”

It was a small comfort. “So you didn’t know, then,” I said. “You still thought I had read the letter. You thought I knew everything.”

“I thought you knew,” he said. “I thought—at the very least, I assumed you would have looked me up on the Internet.”

“I never did,” I said. How stupid. I remembered deciding that I would, during our fancy dinner the night he told me about Renzo—but I had forgotten to do it. Stupid. “But if Renzo told you—Renzo told you, and you didn’t—you still didn’t say anything to me.”

“He asked me not to.” Max ran one hand through his hair and sighed heavily. I was glad to see some signs of distress. I hoped he was upset. It served him right. I was so upset I could barely speak. “He wanted to tell you himself. He thought you would be mad at him. He made me promise not to tell you. And I, very stupidly, agreed.” He looked up at me, anguish clear in his face. “That was a mistake. I regret it more than I can say. But I thought if I went along with it, maybe Renzo would stop hating me.”

I couldn’t bear it. He had kissed me, made love to me, slept beside me all night, the whole time knowing that I thought he was someone different from who he really was. And, worse, I understood his reasoning. The whole purpose of our trip to California was to reconnect with Renzo, and I could imagine all too well what had happened during their little sidewalk conference: Renzo’s emotional blackmail, and Max’s desperation.

I understood, but that didn’t mean I could forgive.

“You should have told me,” I said.

He groaned. “I know I should have, Beth. I wish I did, but I didn’t. I can’t change that now. I actually—you know, I decided I was going to tell you, that day I took you to visit at the shelter. But then the next time we talked, you told me about your mom, and I didn’t want to contribute any additional stress to your life. I thought you were stressed out enough already. And after that there was never a good time. Good intentions and the road to hell, I suppose.”

It was clear what he wanted: for me to forgive him, and put this behind us. For me to accept that he had made a mistake and was sorry.

But he wasn’t sorry. Or at least he hadn’t said it. Not in so many words.

I was being petty.

I didn’t care. I had decided to trust him, despite having every reason not to, and my trust had been betrayed. Again. I had nobody to blame but myself. I should have trusted my instincts and told him that I never wanted to see him again.

Live and learn.

“I’m sorry,” I said, standing, clutching my purse like a shield. “I can’t do this.”

“What?” he asked. “Beth.” He rose to his feet. The letter fell to the floor and slid beneath the sofa. “Come on. Let’s talk about this.”

I knew how that would end. He would reason with me, be very calm and patient, and in the end I would admit that I was overreacting and none of this was a big deal. But it
was
a big deal. I didn’t think I was overreacting at all. I didn’t feel calm. I didn’t want him to be patient with me.

I wanted to be somewhere very far away.

“I have to go,” I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Beth

Renzo called me a few days later.

I was at home, doing some painstaking writing before work. I didn’t recognize the phone number, but I was half-expecting Renzo to call me, and I answered. “Hello?”