The Billionaire's Flame

Automatic Reflex

Well, he took me home.

And now I’m getting dolled up for my date with the last person I want to be dating.

I can’t stop thinking about it—about what that date with Kieran would have been like. There would have been champagne on the jet, I’m sure. We would have both been a little giggly by the time we reached the Grand Canyon, but the hike would have sobered us. We’d reach that killer view, and he’d look down at me, and…

And what? I still have no idea what the guy wants from me. Sure, he tossed around the word “date” and got a bit flirty, but he hasn’t actually attempted anything.

I’m beyond confused.

Connor is taking me to the Orpheum in San Francisco tonight. He’s been talking about going to see a Broadway play for a while now, but the one he picked doesn’t exactly call out to me. I forget what it’s called, but it’s about some scientist who discovers the secret to time travel and goes to see Cleopatra.

I would have preferred Moulin Rouge!, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.

I don’t have much in the way of fancy clothes, but Mom’s always been a bit of a hoarder, and I manage to find a nice dress in her closet. Very vintage vibe, not the sort of thing one might find in a billionaire’s closet, but that’s okay—I’ll probably never see Kieran again.

I wish that thought didn’t make me feel quite as disappointed as it does.

Anyway, I don the emerald green frock, throw on some of my mom’s gold jewelry, and brush a bit of makeup over my face and eyes. I’ve never been one for much makeup—probably because Mom absolutely adores my freckles and raises hell whenever my attempts to cover blemishes cover them, too.

“You look beautiful,” Mom tells me when I come to her room to tell her goodbye and thanks for the borrowed items. “That loser doesn’t deserve you.”

“Like mother, like daughter, right, Mom?” I joke.

It doesn’t land, of course. Jokes about how awful Dad was never land with her. I should have known better.

I hurriedly apologize, kiss her on the top of her head, and then head for the door.

I freeze in my tracks when I see the limo waiting outside—and the greasy-haired man in the cheap suit leaning against it.

“You got a limo?” I ask Connor dubiously as I approach the embarrassingly long stretch. “For a play?”

“It’s a Broadway play,” he reminds me defensively. “I thought it would be nice.”

It isn’t. I don’t want to ride in a limo any more than I wanted to ride on a private jet. Why do men think this is what women want? Or am I the outlier?

“It is,” I say, because I unfortunately have to get back into his good graces.

As soon as we get settled into the limo, he pops a bottle of cheap champagne and pours me a glass. It’s warm and not very good, but I smile and sip, anyway, because a little liquor never hurts when you’re having to fake feelings for someone you can’t stand.

“You look really sexy tonight, baby,” he says huskily after downing a full flute of champagne. “Come here—sit on my lap.”

I reluctantly do as he asks. He immediately gropes at my ass. I let him. He kisses me, and I let him do that, too. But then he starts trying to pull down my underwear.

Look, I’m not exactly a prude, but the drive to the Orpheum from my house really isn’t that far. We Oakland locals always drag our heels and whine about the drive time to San Fran, but it isn’t more than thirty minutes or so from my house—like going downtown from the suburbs. I guess technically that’s enough time for a quickie in the back of a limo, but there’s something really trashy about that to me—trashy enough that I try to stop him.

“Oh, come on,” he gripes as soon as my hand pushes his away. “It’s been way too long.”

It’s been maybe a week.

“I’m yours for the whole night,” I remind him. I know he’ll like that choice of words. Men like Connor are all about ownership. “I got all dolled up and I don’t want to ruin it with a quickie. Can’t we do it after?”

But either the champagne has already gotten to him or he had something to drink before he came here, because he doesn’t like that answer. His hands paw hungrily at my breasts, shoving the delicate material of the dress aside. I feel a tear and pray it isn’t too noticeable. “I do so much for you, baby. Can’t you do a little more for me?”

Like I said—transactional arrangement.

A part of me wants to just give it up to avoid the argument, but my self-worth is low enough already, and I have to draw the line somewhere. So I pull away from him again and say firmly. “Later.”

“Jesus, Emerson—don’t be such a c**k tease.”

On the word Jesus, he thrusts the back of his hand straight out—and straight into the corner of my mouth.

I hiss with pain as the inside of my mouth scrapes against my canines. I taste blood.

I’ve been down this road before, but never with him. Never enough to draw blood.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “f**k, Emerson, I’m so sorry. It was like a weird, automatic reflex—I’d never intentionally hurt you like that, baby—”

I slide away from him, to the seat across the way. I cradle my wounded mouth with my hand and spit blood into my stupid champagne flute. My heart is pounding. What do I do? Do I yell at the driver to stop the limo? Would he?

“You know me,” Connor is rambling. “You know I would never intentionally hurt you, baby. I know what you’ve been through.”

He does know what I’ve been through, which is why this is all the more f****d up. He helped me escape this. And now he’s doing it to me?

“Let me make it up to you,” he urges me. “Come to the show. We’ll have a great time. I’ll take you home after—no funny business. Nothing until you’re ready to trust me again.”

Is he seriously bribing me to stay with him by offering to not force me to have s*x with him?

This relationship is so f****d up.

I really don’t know what to do here. I don’t feel safe with him, but I wouldn’t feel any safer insisting that the driver drop me in the middle of the road somewhere between Oakland and SF. He’s clearly not going to try anything else for the rest of the ride, at least, right? I can call an Uber after the show.

I really don’t want to go to the show, but I’m also not sure I’m ready to cut ties with Connor. I mean, I’m more than ready, but there’s still a chance Mom’s chemo-radiation actually works, and I’m not going to throw that away by tossing out the one person who can actually afford to pay her medical bills.

Also, there’s the other thing. The thing he knows about me that I really can’t have getting out.

“I don’t want to talk,” I say, crossing my arms. “But I’ll go to the show with you.”

Relief cascades over his face—probably because Connor’s never been much of a talker, anyway. “You got it, baby. Thank you. We’ll have a great time.”

The rest of the ride is (obviously) tense. He tries to join me on the other side of the limo, but one scathing look from me is enough to root him back in his seat. He says he’s sorry a few more times. I don’t tell him I forgive him. Like I said, I have to draw the line somewhere.

We finally make it to the venue. I’ve been here before, though not often. It’s nice—the sort of place I’ve never quite fit in, but enjoy visiting. There’s a gaggle of paparazzi out front, which probably means there’s some movie star here to see the show. Don’t ask me why they have such garbage taste in—

I freeze in my tracks when I see who the celebrity is.

“Jesus,” Connor says when he follows my gaze. “What are the chances?”

Kieran looks even more handsome than usual tonight. His suit is far fancier than the ones I’ve seen thus far, and his hair looks freshly cut.

There’s a staggeringly beautiful woman on his arm.

I look away from him, trying to still my suddenly skyrocketing heartbeat. So he has a date. Maybe a girlfriend. So what? I have a date, too, and a boyfriend. Sort of. Kieran is allowed to behave however he’d like—especially since I rejected him.

Does she really have to be that beautiful, though? Does she really have to be wearing a gown that makes my hand-me-down dress look like a burlap sack?

I wonder if she’s an actress. Maybe a model. Surely one of the two.

“Still can’t believe he ran me out of my own restaurant,” Connor mutters as he guides me away from the swarm of paparazzi. Kieran hasn’t seen me yet—at least, I don’t think he has. I stopped looking the moment I spotted his date.

“Yeah,” I say, even though I still enjoy that particular memory. “Brutal.”

We get stuck in the will call line. We got here fairly early, but the place is packed—probably because it’s a newer show. According to the signs, it’s opening night at this venue. I wonder how much Connor paid for these tickets.

I’m in the process of actively tuning out everything Connor says to me when I’m interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice.

“Hello, Emerson. Connor.”

Uh-oh.