Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (50 page)

“What? She told you she hates him?”

“Nope.” I slip my hands in my pockets. “She’s my woman. I pick up on these things.”

Muscles smirks. “Sure you’re not just jealous?”

“What’s this important thing with need to discuss?” I exact.

He sobers. “Lots’ ex. Tommy finally unearthed his carefully buried background.”

“Anything helpful?”

“Yeah…” He drags this word out, and his hand goes to the back his neck, rubs. That move.
Shit.
That rub-neck move, Muscles does this only when he has extremely bad news. He throws a glance over his shoulder at Q, who’s tonsils-deep with a blonde he picked up within five minutes of our arrival. “Turns out…he’s got a brother.”

I frown. “How do you figure that’s helpful?”

Muscles head swivels back to me. “Andrew Jameson’s real name is actually Drew
James
.”

“Wha—” I start, then break off as this fact registers. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? No. No way. No way
in hell
.  “Q doesn’t have a brother.”

“That
you
know of,” Muscles amends.

With a jerk of my head, I move farther to the left, out of earshot, and Muscles follows. “Maybe he doesn’t know,” I attempt to defend. “Q would never betray me like this.”

“What did he tell you he was doing in Dubai last weekend?”

“I didn’t goddamn ask,” I snap at him. “I’m not his goddamn keeper.”

Not even a flinch at my pissed-off tone. “Our sources picked him up villa-shopping with Lotty’s ex—his
brother
.”

Unable to allow myself to believe this, I stare and say nothing.

Muscles goes on, “Q’s dad, Papa James, had a mistress. How he managed to have a Hispanic mistress all the way in New York, only he knows. Long story short, Drew James is the result of that affair. Six years in, the wife died, still none the wiser of that affair or the kid. A year later, Papa James moved his mistress and kid to London, tried to make it work as a family. Q forgave them and was on board, glad to have a brother, but Drew wanted none of it, tried to run away countless times. He was hostile, rebellious, acted out. At eighteen, they gave up and let him go.

“He moved back to New York. Cut all ties. Changed his name. Wanted nothing to do with the James’ side of his family. That’s the last of what we have on him. How he got back in touch with Q, or why Q omits he has a brother, we don’t know. Nonetheless, facts are facts. Your boy and your girl’s ex are
brothers
.”

There I stand, muddled, confused, trying to wrap my head around all this, trying to process it so it all makes sense, when Kiera skips up to us.

“Lotty’s purse,” she demands, hand out.

“What?”

“Lotty’s purse,” she repeats. “She said it’s in your back pocket.”

Frowning, I pat my back pockets, belatedly remembering that I’d wrestled it from her earlier after she spilled champagne on her dress trying to hold both her flute and purse in one hand so she could have one free hand to wave in the air. Crazy woman.

“What do you want with her purse?” I question. 

“I want something from it.”

“Specifically
what
do you need from it?” At this point, after hearing what I just heard, I trust
no one
with Lotty.

“What the hell’s your problem, dude?” She flushes, her gaze flicking to Muscles and then back to me. “Just give me the frickin’ purse. Lotty’s been my best friend forever. She’s been your girlfriend for, like, two seconds!”

Keeping the purse put, I cross my arms. Like hell she’s getting this purse.

Before I can voice this, Saskia Day runs on stage and the crowd goes
insane
.

If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be at a rock concert, I would’ve laughed in your face. Concerts and crowds and screaming youngsters, not my scene.

I like quiet, relaxation, mediation. I like being at home. I like sweating. I like back-shots. I like blow-jobs. I like licking pussy. I like climaxing. I like fondling nipples.

This? This kind of noise and music and new adult BS, I
do not
like.

But this is what Lotty likes, so I do it for her. And I’ll do it for her every given day if that’s what she wants. Because giving her what she wants is what gives me pleasure. I could come just watching her laugh. How can I
not
marry her?

The crowd is getting wilder, deafening, which is baffling, considering Saskia has been on the stage twice so far. I glance at Kiera, and her eyes—now ridiculously dreamy—are glued to the stage.

Puzzled, I toss my gaze to the stage, too. And then I get it: Saskia Day’s husband is on stage. The same husband Lotty told me every woman—including herself—wants to sleep with.

The overrated pretty boy is perched on a stool while Saskia dances around him, stopping every now and again to give him a lap dance, crooning lyrics that’re giving me a headache. That’s all.
That’s. All
. Yet the crowd is tearing the roof down.
Jesus
, I’m really too old for this shit.

Muscles assesses our surroundings, the ground vibrating beneath our feet. “Boss, I’m thinking we should—”

Crash
!

The fence separating the VIPs from the regulars collapses as the crowd bulls toward the stage. Our special section is elevated so it doesn’t suffer the same fate.

At once the music stops, and a stampede begins.

“Is everything alright down there?” Saskia Day asks, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. “Is anyone hurt?”

Her husband leaps off the stool, tags her around the waist, throws her over his shoulder, and runs off the stage with her.

I watch in horror as people attempt climbing the stage to get to them, stepping on each other, some using each other’s heads as ladders.

Hell, there’s going to be a truckload of causalities at the end of this.

“Let’s get out of here,” I tell Muscles. “Where the hell’s Lotty? Why isn’t she back yet?”

“Let’s just go out this way,” suggests Muscles. “We can get her from the bathroom on our way out.”

Except, on our way out, before we even hit the hall to the bathroom, Mike comes limping from the right, and Lotty
is not with him
.

Red coats of fury blur my vision as I push through everyone to get to him, grab him by his shirt, drag him up to his full height, glaring down at him. “Where is she?” I growl. “WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?”

“I don’t know, boss,” he groans, avoiding my eyes. “She came out of the bathroom and told me there’s someone outside she needs to see. When I tried to stop her, she kneed me in the sack and ran off. By the time I was able to chase her, she was out the door and climbing into a waiting car. So sorry, boss. I let you down.”

No. NO. She did not pull this shit. No. She didn’t. After everything, she’s still gone back to him? I thought I had her.
I thought I had her
.

“You got a plate number?”

Still no eye-contact. “No, boss.” 

“You, trained and licensed, didn’t get a plate number?”

“No, bo—”

Jerking him, barking in his face, “
Look
at me and tell me you didn’t get a plate number!”

His unfocused eyes come to mine and hold them only for as long as, “I didn’t.” But at “boss,” those eyes drop to the floor. Something’s not right.

“He’s lying,” Kiera dips in. “No way Lotty would leave without seeing Stage Dive. Especially if she knows going back to him means she’ll never get another chance to see Stage Dive. It’s him.
He’s
the mole.”

Mike jerks out of my grip, getting up in Kiera’s face. “Bitch, are you on crack? I’ve been loyal to this man for damn near three years! Where the hell do you get off accusing me of—”

Muscles intersects, pressing a hand to Mike’s chest and pushing him back. “Call my woman a bitch again and you won’t like the results.”

“Hold up, can someone tell me what the
bloody hell
is going on?” This is from a very perplexed and irritated Q. “What kind of trouble is our mouthy little brat Lotty in? And why would she
leave
when the only reason us grown men are in this kiddies’ den is because of her?”

At that, I catch Muscles eye, and he gives an imperceptible shake of his head. Yep. Things are definitely not making sense. Q can’t be the one helping his brother if he doesn’t even know what’s going on with Lotty.

In respect of her privacy and dignity, I kept her issue with her ex to just my security team. Mom and Kiera heard from Lotty.

Clapping my hands, I rub my palms together. “You know what, I’m too old for this. Lotty wants to go, then let her go. Let’s get back to the hotel. We’ll fly home in the morning.”

“Are you serious?!” Kiera explodes, suddenly in my face. “You’re not going after her?!”

“No,” I reply, moving around her to continue moving, everyone else following. “I tried to protect her, and she chose to go back to him. I don’t have time for this. I’m a businessman, not the mafia. So, no, I’m not ‘going after her.’”

“Go back to who?” Q asks again. “Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”

“Fill you in when we get to the hotel.”

“You’re an idiot if you think Lotty went back to that asshole!” Kiera spits at my back.

“Clearly, you don’t know your friend very well.” I brake and turn, Kiera almost crashing into me at the abrupt move. “Last night, when she told us she was tired and wanted to sleep, ten minutes later I ran into her on the elevator. She was about to go back to him.”

Immediately, Kiera’s eyes brim with tears. “You’re
lying
.” She furiously wipes away a lone tear, as if it annoyed her. “She
wouldn’t
. She wouldn’t leave me again.”

Reaching out, I wipe another roll of tears from her cheek. “Hate to break it to you, Kiera, but she would.”

“With all due respect, boss,” Mike’s voice comes at me. “I think you’re making the right choice. Miss Cooley’s a knockout, but she’s too much trouble. If that’s the life she wants, let her have it. She’s not worth tarnishing your rep.”

There it is. Those are exactly the words I want to hear. There, just like I suspected, is our culprit. My best bud didn’t betray me. Did he lie about having a brother? Yes. But he didn’t sell us out. I can breathe easy now because the thought of Qwesie being a snake had me in an invisible headlock.

Pointing a gun-finger at him, I shoot him my best “boss’ approval” look and tell him, “Thanks for being the only honest man here, Mike. Wish you’d been that sooner. It would’ve saved me a lot of time.”

Mike nods, chest puffing out, proud.

I catch Muscles’ eye. His jaw is set.

He knows, too.

Me
:
We need to talk. Muscles’ suite. Come down
.

Q
:
Bloody right we need to talk!

I glance up from where I’m seated on the coffee table as Muscles steps out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him.

He rubs a hand down his face. “Had to sneak a Xanax in her OJ. She’s out.”

Good
. Although Kiera’s honest reaction to my feigned insouciance served its purpose, her escalated dramatics all the way back to the hotel were wreaking havoc on my already tweaked nerves.

Muscles dragged her off to their room and did what he needed to do to calm her down.

“Sure she’s sleeping and not dead?” I throw at him as he approaches. “Sounded like you were murdering her in there.”

“You could’ve walked out,” he bitches back.

“Was about to, but by the time I got to the door it was over.” I flip my phone over in my hand. “Quick work. But effective.”

Muscles’ eyes narrow. “Not what you think. She’s on her—”

A knock at the door breaks up our idle talk, and we sober up, knowing it’s Q.

Two minutes later, we’re standing in a three-way face-off in the kitchen, Q glancing back and forth between Muscles and me.

“Are either of you sods going to talk,” he asks, “or do you intend on standing here all night and eye-slap me?”

“No,” Muscles replies. “
We’re
not talking. You are.”

“About what? Gay threesomes? Blow-jobs? Masturbation? Voyeurism?”

“
Drew James
,” I grit out.

Q blanches, shoulders rising in defense. “What do you know about Drew?”

“Nothing, except that he abused Lotty for the entire duration of their year-long relationship, and when she finally got out from under him, he chased her down, attacked her family all the way in Brazil, and now he’s kidnapped her. Oh, and that he’s your
brother
.”

Taking a step back, Q whispers, “What?”

Arms folded, I just stare at him. He knows I wouldn’t make this stuff up for games.

“Well, yeah, Drew’s my half-brother,” he goes on when he gets nothing back from me, “but what do you mean he abused Lotty, attacked her family and kidnapped her?”

“I’m sure you know the definitions of abuse, attack, and kidnap, Q.”

“But I was with him just last week, and he didn’t…” he trails off, shaking his head in bewilderment as he takes a seat at the little kitchen table. “It’s her. It’s Lotty. She’s the fiancée in Brazil.”