The Billionaire's Command
Page 29
“Really, Sassy. You’re an adult. There’s no need to dress like a rebellious teenager.”
“Yeah, I’m an adult, so that means I can dress however I want,” I said, feeling incredibly annoyed. What a pompous asshole! I couldn’t believe he had thrown out my clothes. It was like Pretty Woman if the dude had been an enormous jerk.
“I got you something more appropriate,” he said, and motioned to the shopping bag on the floor beside the sofa.
I scowled at him. “It’s not like I wear stripper clothes in public,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with shorts and a t-shirt. That’s what every girl my age in New York wears all summer! You’re a judgmental psycho.”
“You aren’t every girl,” he said. “As long as you’re with me, I expect you to maintain a certain level of personal appearance.”
Good grief. Still muttering darkly, and stark naked, I crouched down to see what he’d gotten for me.
It wasn’t actually that bad. I’d been afraid of a tweed skirt suit or something, like an old lady would wear, but it was just a sundress, with sleeves that went down to the elbow and a scooped neck. And a pair of leather sandals, to replace my flip-flops.
“How did you know my size?” I asked, suspicious, and then realized the answer: he had looked at the labels on my clothes, of course. “Never mind. Dumb question. You know everything about me, right?”
“Hardly,” he said. He folded the paper and set it aside. “Sassy. I should apologize. I didn’t realize that you were so… attached to your clothing.”
I sat back on my heels and looked up at him. He looked genuinely sorry, and it occurred to me that maybe he’d been trying to do something nice. He’d gone out—or had someone go out for him, probably; I had a hard time imagining Turner shopping for clothes—and bought me a pretty dress that he thought I would like. So, still weird and infuriating, but my mom always told me that people’s intentions were what mattered. Okay. I could be gracious. “I’m still mad at you for throwing out my t-shirt, but the dress is nice. So thanks.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”
“So where’s my coffee?” I asked him.
He at least had the courtesy to look ashamed of himself. “I wasn’t sure what time you would be up.”
“You need to upgrade your life,” I said. “You’ve got this kick-ass apartment with nothing in it, and you don’t even have coffee. Do you really go out every single morning and buy coffee? You don’t even have a television! Nobody lives like this.”
“I do,” he said. “It’s time for me to head to work, Sassy, which means it’s time for you to go home. I’ll give you cab fare.”
“Sure, just one question,” I said. “Did you throw out my underpants?”
The look on his face told me that he totally had.
“That’s cool,” I said. “I don’t mind freeballing.”
“Free—but you don’t…” He trailed off. “Never mind. I’m not engaging in this conversation. Take my money and get out of my house.”
I grinned, and took the shopping bag off to the bedroom to get dressed. I had definitely won that round.
* * *
Yolanda had left for work by the time I got home. As much as I liked living with her, there was something really nice about coming home to an empty apartment, and an entire empty day with nothing I needed to do. Turner hadn’t said anything about seeing me again that night, so maybe I would actually be able to keep my promise to Yolanda and go out for dinner with her.
I had a ton of things I needed to get done: grocery shopping, cleaning, yoga, playing with Teddy. But first: coffee.
I let Teddy out of his cage and fed him while the coffee was brewing. When the coffee pot stopped gurgling, I left Teddy perched on the kitchen counter happily ripping apart an apple and sat down with my laptop to finally satisfy my curiosity.
Alex Turner, I typed into the search engine, and then frowned at the results that came up. Apparently he was an English musician. I found that hard to believe, unless he was leading some kind of transatlantic double life. I tried Alex Turner New York, and that gave me more of the English musician guy, and also stuff about some football player. I found it hard to believe that someone like Turner had no internet presence whatsoever, but maybe it went along with his whole “dark and mysterious” shtick.
Well, whatever. I probably wouldn’t find anything very interesting anyway. Some boring corporate profile. Alexander Turner, CEO, CPR, QFC, has made many strippers cry and driven at least five competitors out of business. Five didn’t sound like enough. Ten? Fifteen? For all I knew, he owned every gentlemen’s club in the city.
I sent Scarlet a text message. Won’t be at work for the next month. Everything’s fine, see you in August.
She wrote back a few minutes later: ??????
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure what to say, and I didn’t want to do it by text anyway. Maybe I would drop by the club soon and talk to her in person. Turner had only said I couldn’t work at the club, not that I couldn’t be there. Loopholes.
I spent the day running errands and fussing over Teddy. I knew I didn’t give him as much attention as he wanted and deserved, and I felt guilty about it, so I tried to make up for it whenever I had a day off. He still seemed pretty well-adjusted, though, so I tried not to worry about it too much. I had a feeling that Yolanda played with him a lot in the evenings when I wasn’t home, even though they both pretended that they barely got along.
Yolanda got home from work around 6. I heard her coming up the stairs, and then the sound of her key in the lock. Teddy waddled along the back of the sofa and shouted, “Hi Teddy! You feathery jerk!”
I cracked up. I was laughing when Yolanda came in the door, and she stopped and gave me a narrow-eyed look, keys still in her hand. “What’s so funny?”
“Teddy just greeted you,” I said. “You don’t call him a feathery jerk every time you get home, do you?”
“Not every time,” she said. “I forgot you were home today. What else has that bird told you?”
“Everything,” I said. “All of your secrets. Do you still want to go out for dinner?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I need a drink first, though. And I want to change. You’ll make me a drink, right?” She shot me a pleading look.
“Yeah, I’m an adult, so that means I can dress however I want,” I said, feeling incredibly annoyed. What a pompous asshole! I couldn’t believe he had thrown out my clothes. It was like Pretty Woman if the dude had been an enormous jerk.
“I got you something more appropriate,” he said, and motioned to the shopping bag on the floor beside the sofa.
I scowled at him. “It’s not like I wear stripper clothes in public,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with shorts and a t-shirt. That’s what every girl my age in New York wears all summer! You’re a judgmental psycho.”
“You aren’t every girl,” he said. “As long as you’re with me, I expect you to maintain a certain level of personal appearance.”
Good grief. Still muttering darkly, and stark naked, I crouched down to see what he’d gotten for me.
It wasn’t actually that bad. I’d been afraid of a tweed skirt suit or something, like an old lady would wear, but it was just a sundress, with sleeves that went down to the elbow and a scooped neck. And a pair of leather sandals, to replace my flip-flops.
“How did you know my size?” I asked, suspicious, and then realized the answer: he had looked at the labels on my clothes, of course. “Never mind. Dumb question. You know everything about me, right?”
“Hardly,” he said. He folded the paper and set it aside. “Sassy. I should apologize. I didn’t realize that you were so… attached to your clothing.”
I sat back on my heels and looked up at him. He looked genuinely sorry, and it occurred to me that maybe he’d been trying to do something nice. He’d gone out—or had someone go out for him, probably; I had a hard time imagining Turner shopping for clothes—and bought me a pretty dress that he thought I would like. So, still weird and infuriating, but my mom always told me that people’s intentions were what mattered. Okay. I could be gracious. “I’m still mad at you for throwing out my t-shirt, but the dress is nice. So thanks.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”
“So where’s my coffee?” I asked him.
He at least had the courtesy to look ashamed of himself. “I wasn’t sure what time you would be up.”
“You need to upgrade your life,” I said. “You’ve got this kick-ass apartment with nothing in it, and you don’t even have coffee. Do you really go out every single morning and buy coffee? You don’t even have a television! Nobody lives like this.”
“I do,” he said. “It’s time for me to head to work, Sassy, which means it’s time for you to go home. I’ll give you cab fare.”
“Sure, just one question,” I said. “Did you throw out my underpants?”
The look on his face told me that he totally had.
“That’s cool,” I said. “I don’t mind freeballing.”
“Free—but you don’t…” He trailed off. “Never mind. I’m not engaging in this conversation. Take my money and get out of my house.”
I grinned, and took the shopping bag off to the bedroom to get dressed. I had definitely won that round.
* * *
Yolanda had left for work by the time I got home. As much as I liked living with her, there was something really nice about coming home to an empty apartment, and an entire empty day with nothing I needed to do. Turner hadn’t said anything about seeing me again that night, so maybe I would actually be able to keep my promise to Yolanda and go out for dinner with her.
I had a ton of things I needed to get done: grocery shopping, cleaning, yoga, playing with Teddy. But first: coffee.
I let Teddy out of his cage and fed him while the coffee was brewing. When the coffee pot stopped gurgling, I left Teddy perched on the kitchen counter happily ripping apart an apple and sat down with my laptop to finally satisfy my curiosity.
Alex Turner, I typed into the search engine, and then frowned at the results that came up. Apparently he was an English musician. I found that hard to believe, unless he was leading some kind of transatlantic double life. I tried Alex Turner New York, and that gave me more of the English musician guy, and also stuff about some football player. I found it hard to believe that someone like Turner had no internet presence whatsoever, but maybe it went along with his whole “dark and mysterious” shtick.
Well, whatever. I probably wouldn’t find anything very interesting anyway. Some boring corporate profile. Alexander Turner, CEO, CPR, QFC, has made many strippers cry and driven at least five competitors out of business. Five didn’t sound like enough. Ten? Fifteen? For all I knew, he owned every gentlemen’s club in the city.
I sent Scarlet a text message. Won’t be at work for the next month. Everything’s fine, see you in August.
She wrote back a few minutes later: ??????
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure what to say, and I didn’t want to do it by text anyway. Maybe I would drop by the club soon and talk to her in person. Turner had only said I couldn’t work at the club, not that I couldn’t be there. Loopholes.
I spent the day running errands and fussing over Teddy. I knew I didn’t give him as much attention as he wanted and deserved, and I felt guilty about it, so I tried to make up for it whenever I had a day off. He still seemed pretty well-adjusted, though, so I tried not to worry about it too much. I had a feeling that Yolanda played with him a lot in the evenings when I wasn’t home, even though they both pretended that they barely got along.
Yolanda got home from work around 6. I heard her coming up the stairs, and then the sound of her key in the lock. Teddy waddled along the back of the sofa and shouted, “Hi Teddy! You feathery jerk!”
I cracked up. I was laughing when Yolanda came in the door, and she stopped and gave me a narrow-eyed look, keys still in her hand. “What’s so funny?”
“Teddy just greeted you,” I said. “You don’t call him a feathery jerk every time you get home, do you?”
“Not every time,” she said. “I forgot you were home today. What else has that bird told you?”
“Everything,” I said. “All of your secrets. Do you still want to go out for dinner?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I need a drink first, though. And I want to change. You’ll make me a drink, right?” She shot me a pleading look.
