Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (44 page)

Thrusting the phone back to Kiera, I continue on up to Noah’s room, slamming the door behind me.

Noah’s room smells exactly like his skin, his throat, his pulsing wrist. Deep and long, I inhale, getting high on his scent, embracing the slow, begrudging exit of the tenseness from me body.

Climbing into his enormous bed, I fluff a pillow behind me and flip open my laptop. I have about ten minutes to spare before it’s check-in time for class, so I pick up my phone and idly scroll through old text messages between Noah and me.

Why do I love him all of a sudden? I don’t even know. Is it really love or just infatuation? Gratitude, maybe? Misleading lust?

What I do know is, the way my body cries for Noah, the way my heart aches, I’ve
never
needed a man like that before. Sure, I needed Andrew at one point, but only materially, to help me with bills and food and ultimate survival. But emotionally I never needed him. Or cared for him. Or missed him when he was gone. Or smiled/blushed/got wet when his name came up. Or felt my heart skip a beat whenever I saw him.

With Noah, though, it’s all that and more. So, it must be love. Right? Maybe. Possibly.

I type out a new message:

Me
:
Hey. How long is ur meeting gonna last? I know this is gonna sound creepy but…I kinda miss u? Weird, right? It’s kinda freaking me out
.

Twenty minutes later, long after I’ve checked into class, my phone on my thigh, one eye on the cell, the other on the computer screen, attention divided,
there is still no reply
.
 

N
OAH

“
W
HAT’S SHE DOING NOW?”

“Kiera says she’s sleeping. She also said we should stop ringing every ten minutes. Meaning,
you
should stop asking me to call every ten minutes. She’s fine. Lots might be frightened but she’s tough. Honestly, I think it’s what he
used
to do to her that still haunts her. I think, now, if push comes to shove, she’ll fight back.”

A grunt. That’s all I give. Both infuriated and annoyed. Infuriated at the audacity of Lotty’s ex and annoyed with my head of security. I’m annoyed that he has his own personal nickname for her:
Lots
. I’m annoyed at his deep and genuine care for her. I’m annoyed that they ‘share something.’ And I’m annoyed that he’s able to see right through her, even when I can’t.

I suppose I should be grateful he cares enough about her to go out of his way to protect her, but dammit, I just can’t get over her being attracted to him to begin with.

Fortunately for him, her ex pisses me off far more than he does.

Muscles swerves the Jaguar up on the sidewalk outside a dive bar, stopping just short of a light-post. Normally, I would make some surly remark along the lines of “
You crash it, you fix it,
” but this is not a normal moment. This is a moment when a statement needs to be made; a message needs to be sent.

Two identical Jaguars swing up haphazardly, blocking off the streets. At 10 PM, there aren’t many people around. The bar’s broken neon sign flashes into the night, and music pours through the door as an older man staggers out. 

As our backup slams out of their cars, glaring at the bar, I glance at Muscles. “You’re sure he’s here?”

A single nod. “According to my contact, he’s been here for over hour now. You sure you don’t want me to deal with him?”

“She’s
my
woman, Muscles, whether or not she’s willing to accept that,” I growl at him. “Not yours. I’m not going to hide behind you like a pussy while this asshole terrorizes her.” I rip the door open before he can attempt again to convince me otherwise.

He’s just doing his job, yeah, I know. He’s head of security, and it’s his sole duty to protect me. But Lotty’s going to be my wife, so it’s
my
sole duty to protect
her
.

I don’t wait, I move ahead and shove through the door, the scent of sweat, smoke, and beer instantly attacking me.

It’s a small bar. A pool table in one corner. A gambling machine in the other. An L-shaped bar counter with a scatter of patrons.

I scan the small space, searching for the face I’ve been glaring at in pixelated form all evening. Pretty boy. Curly hair. Hispanic. Cat-gray eyes. A face that’s nowhere in this bar.

Just as I’m about to turn to Muscles and question the loyalty of his contact, the music volume dims, and a diluted Hispanic accent with a faint hint of British comes at me. A strange and unusual combination.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

The patrons of the bar, of which I belatedly realize are all men, stand as the owner of the voice saunters in from a side door off the bar, hands moving to bulges on their hips, glares in effect, ready for war.

We’re outnumbered. Fourteen to six. But the men in my corner are well-trained, certified, and well-experienced, so I don’t flinch.

Instead, I tighten my fist around the jewelry in my palm, walk right up to him, and deliver an upper cut to the chin. His head snaps back, blood instantaneously sprays from his nose, and he stumbles around a few seconds, the blow no doubt dizzying him.

His thirteen draw.

My five draw.

No one shoots.

While he’s still dizzy, grappling to gain his equilibrium—chin upper cuts are no joke—I grab him by the collar of his shirt and haul him up to me. His thirteen close in, but that’s what my five are here for, to defend while I deal with this scum.

Raising my fist, I don’t hit him again, but stuff the engagement ring in his mouth, his eyes still unfocused. “Lotty’s not your toy anymore, asshole. She’s got a
real
man now. And I’ll gladly do a life-sentence before I let you lay another finger on her.”

With sharp force, my hand jerks and releases, relishing the mess of him toppling back and crashing into the pool table. “If you, or any or your brainless lackeys, come near my girl again, I’ll kill you myself.”

Andrew laughs, teeth colored red with his blood, eyes mocking. “Good luck
trying
.” Gaining balance, he straightens. “I
own
her. She runs and I’ll travel to the ends of the world to find her. She knows there’s no escaping me. You’ll know, too, soon enough. What, that video you got today wasn’t evidence enough? Have your fun while it lasts, Richie Rich.”

Rage shatters through me and I make to go at him again, but Muscles intercepts me, shoving me backward, muttering, “Let’s get outta here. Told you this wouldn’t solve anything. Besides, you’re
you
. Noah Van Der Wells. An esteemed name, not a thug. A bar brawl in Brooklyn over your new teenage girlfriend will do nothing for your rep.”

But I’m only vaguely aware of his words, too busy glaring at the asshole behind him. Face smug, even though
he’s
the one who’s bleeding.

Escaping Muscles’ hold, I round him and rush Andrew again, but this time the punk is prepared and whips out his gun, arm raising and pressing the thing against my forehead.

Quick as a flash, Muscles has his gun pressed to Andrew’s temple. “Think twice, Jameson.”

The psychopath grins wider, as if having a gun pressed to his temple is an all-time high. I don’t even wince. This fool might be brave, but he’s not stupid.

“Unless you’re prepared for this to end in a bloodbath, where
no one
comes out alive, I suggest you and your buff-for-nothing men leave, Richie Rich,” Andrew spits through his grin. “Lotty’s the love of my life. I think she’s worth dying for. Do
you
?”

Glaring into his vacant eyes, I realize right then that I’m dealing with a psychopath, and no amount of threat or pummeling is going to deter him. He’s not going to stop. We have to up our game and outsmart him. Find his Achilles heels. That’s the only way. 

“When you go to bed alone and
pathetically
miserable tonight, think about this,” I grit out. “The ‘love of your life’ will be in
my
bed, in
my
arms, with
my cock
inside her; and when she comes, making that hot little sound—oh, I’m sure you know the sound I’m talking about—it will be
my
name she calls out.” I move in closer, never minding the gun on my forehead. “You’re out to abuse her, imprison her, and drain her happiness, but I’m out to show her what real love is, show her the world, and protect her with
my life
. That’s why she’ll choose me. I’m gonna lay the world at her feet, and you’re gonna stand by and watch it.”

Andrew’s smug grin slowly vanishes as I speak, his eyes hardening, rage coloring his face, peeling back his mask and revealing the demonic ogre beneath, steam damn near blowing from his ears.

At this, I grin.

My shit-eating grin is his breaking point, as he redirects his weapon to the ceiling and fires off a round. “GET OUUUT!” he bellows, his whole body vibrating with rage. “I’ve tolerated your presence long enough, Richie Rich. The only reason you’re still breathing right now is because we have a mutual companion and I owe him one. But if you don’t get out of my bar
right now
, I’m afraid I’ll have to disregard that honor.”

No, the only reason he hasn’t shot me yet is because he can’t. He might be a woman beater but a killer he is not. This whole act he has going on, it’s all a facade. I’m no psychologist, but this guy is hiding something, running from something, a part of himself that he hates. As a man who was once a victim of profound self-loathing, it’s not hard to recognize it on someone else.

When Lotty first told me about him, I pictured good-for-nothing filth slumming it across the bridge. But one look at this guy and I know, something doesn’t fit.
He
doesn’t fit the jacket he’s wearing.

Unafraid, unflinching, I don’t move. Neither does Muscles.

“Boss?” This comes from behind me. Mike. I don’t turn or respond, but Andrew’s glare shifts to him. “Let’s just get outta here. The guy’s clearly a whack job. We can find a more, uh,
tactful
way to get him in line.”

Andrew chuckles as his glare shifts back to me. “Listen to your boy. He’s smart. You should probably give him a promotion.”

For a beat longer, I glower, threateningly, and then turn and stride out of there. 

Outside, vehicles are lined up, horns honking at the empty, haphazard Jaguars blocking the street. Groups of twos and threes draw closer to bar, craning to see what’s going on.

In seconds, we’re off. It’s not until we’re across the bridge that Muscles slows down and breaks the tense silence. “You got any idea what he means by mutual companion?”

“None.”

“Well, it’s obvious he knew we were coming. Someone tipped him off.” A pause and a sigh. “Man, there are so many ways that could’ve gone wrong”

“He’s getting help from this side. From someone close. Someone both of us trust.”

Muscles says nothing else after that, and neither do I. He has to know that even
he
’s a suspect right now. I’ll have to narrow down the ears I discuss this Andrew situation with.

But right now, all I can think of is Lotty. I’m afraid she’s going to close down on me again. At the heel of this thought, I snort, because it’s not as if I’ve made much headway with her to begin with. Each time I think I have her, she retreats right back into the safety of her protective shell like a scared little turtle, and then I have to think up a new and more tactical scheme to play into her heart.
I wish she would just let go and trust me. Let me take care of her.

Getting my cell phone from my jacket pocket, I dial up one of my long-time business partners. His wife answers the phone. “Good evening, Mrs. Nelson, is your husband nearby?”

“Yes…” Brief pause. “But he says I’m to ask the caller if it’s about business or sex. If it’s business, he’s unable to come to the phone. If it’s sex, he’s able to come
on
the phone.”

Typical Trev. I’ve learned to expect nothing more or less whenever I dial Trevillo Nelson. This man and his wife are walking nymphomaniacs. Shameless and unapologetic. I adore them.

I can’t help the chuckle that rolls through me.

“Hmm,” she hums, “I know that deep, throaty laugh. Nate? Is this Nate?”

At that name, my smile wilts. “
Noah
. You didn’t check the caller ID?”

She starts to apologize for the name slip-up, but her husband takes over the phone. “Nope. She didn’t. Her eyes were busy rolling over in her head as I lick—”

“Spare me the details, Trev. Did you get the tickets?”

“I told you, man. Tickets for that show have been sold out since six months ago. Krissy said they changed the venue three different times to accommodate a larger crowd and printed more tickets, and all three times the tickets sold out in a matter of hours.”

“C’mon, man. Isn’t your wife the sister of the star’s husband or something?”

“Yeah, but they don’t get along. Look, I’m driving over there as we speak—well, Krissy’s driving while I get her off. I hate the star’s husband. He’s a cocksure ass, and all I wanna do each time I see him is punch him in the eye.”

“Hey! That’s my brother you’re talking about,” his wife gripes in the background.

Trev continues, “But just this once, I’ll resist the urge to do so and grovel for a special VVVIP section for you guys. Why am I doing this?” His question is, of course, rhetorical, as he immediately answers himself, “Because I want something in return. Another meeting. Another meeting to convince you to build a hotel on my island.”

I groan. Not this again. Hey, I might be a billionaire, but the Nelson brothers’ money is out of this world. You heard him. He said his
island
. Understand the kind of rich I’m talking about now?
Stinking
. All three of them earned that kind of wealth, none of them even close to forty, because they take risks.
Risky risks
.