Her Two Billionaires and a Baby(BBW Menage #4)

Chapter Four

Dylan couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The past few weeks with Laura and Mike couldn't have been scripted to this kind of perfect. Maybe he was a bit biased, but he felt like he had really aligned the planets or pleased the gods or found the secret to the cosmos that day he'd read her profile, her sweet smile and creamy skin almost climbing out of the computer screen and saying, "You found me, Dylan. You found me."

As he sauntered into the fire station and unlocked his locker, he shot Joe, the chief, a look that must have been pretty wild, because Joe frowned and said, "You been hit by the dumb love stick, Stanwyck? Why you smiling like a lovesick dumbass?"

"Because I am a lovesick dumbass?" Dylan stripped off his Howard Jones t-shirt (man, his brother must have had a lapse in judgment in 1989) and slipped his arms into his freshly-pressed uniform shirt.

Joe smirked back. "That explains it. The lovestruck part. You've always been a dumbass, and no woman will change that." A couple of guys nearby chuckled and Dylan just rolled his eyes. The banter was part of the job. Joe motioned for him to follow into the chief's office.

The station looked like the set of Barney Miller, frozen in 1977 with the exception of Internet service and the computers. Scratched metal desks with cheap, fake-wood tops, battered filing and storage cabinets that were Army green and probably army-issued in the 1940s, or castoffs from the war. The floor was Army-green tile streaked with an off-white marble-like pattern that fooled no one; it was linoleum, cheap, and the second the custodians finished the annual stripping and waxing it was scuffed all over again, making Dylan wonder why on earth they bothered.

The place was clean as a whistle, though. When there was nothing to do the paramedics and fire fighters all had chore rotation, and Joe kept a tight ship. A veteran of Vietnam and the first Gulf War, he ran the place like a military officer and it showed. Response time was lightning fast, employee retention was nearly 100 percent, and they hadn't had a new hire in four years. The waiting list to work there was dozens deep.

Joe closed the door, but didn't sit down. He pulled out a manilla envelope and said quietly, "Murphy just found out his wife has breast cancer."

Cold descended over him. "Oh, shit." His heart rate shot up. No man should have to go through this. He and Mike had, though, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining what Murphy was going through.

"You know how hard it is, Stanwyck. And Murphy's dad has Alzheimer's. His wife's been taking care of him. They need to hire some kind of caregiver to help with his dad now, and they have the kids... If she gets the right treatment they think they caught it nice and early. We're taking up a collection, though." He handed Dylan the envelope and reached for the doorknob. "It's none of my business what you put in – just give what you can manage. No amount's too small."

You have no idea. "Of course."

"Put the envelope in my top drawer when you're done." He slipped out, face impassive. Dylan stared at the envelope in his hand, full of 5s and 10s. He'd just been to the money machine that morning and had taken out $300. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out his wallet and threw it all in there, mixing it in with the 5s and 10s to reduce suspicion. Not that it would help; it was pretty obvious.

He wondered if there was a way to ask the trust guy to send a bunch of money anonymously to Murphy's family. How many other guys like Murphy were out there, though? He had fifty million a year coming in, and the station was trying to get a few hundred to help with parking, meals, and babysitting for this poor family struggling with cancer and so much more. The weight of the money rested heavily on his shoulders, a new burden to carry. How could he help people with it?

Eh. $300 was a good start. He slipped the envelope in Joe's desk and walked out. What a great place to work. At least Murphy wouldn't have to worry about health insurance; their coverage was solid. Thank goodness; one less burden for the family.

It was the perfect job, really. Yet Dylan was thinking about quitting lately. He'd hung on for months after getting the first payment from the trust, not wanting to let go of his life. His old life. That's what it was rapidly becoming, when he was honest with himself. Unfolding before him was a new life, one filled with more money than he could spend in 200 years, two amazing partners, and a sense of hope and renewal that made him think long and hard about how he wanted to spend his time. Coming to work now had become an exercise in habit, following his schedule and hanging out, working rescues and just doing what he'd done for most of his adult life because, well, that's what he had done.

Had. Had done.

He stopped picking up extra shifts – didn't need the money. Some of the other guys were thrilled to pick up the extra, making Dylan strongly doubt why he was there. Was he hogging a job someone else could really use? Desperately needed? In this economy, it was no small matter to find decent pay, good work hours, great benefits and a well-oiled machine like the station run by Joe. Another guy (or woman, he reminded himself) who really wanted the job and who needed to earn a living would appreciate what Dylan now considered tossing aside.

He didn't need it any more. What had once seemed so valuable was now only important because of the social and emotional ties he had to his fellow coworkers. But even there, he was changing. Never before had he realized how much conversation revolved around money. Specifically, the lack of it. People seemed to bond over it, complaining about high prices (especially gas!), student loans, hard-to-get mortgages, spouses and girlfriends who wanted to spend more, and how expensive kids were to raise. He'd once easily joined them, shouldering a crazy-high car payment and his own credit card bills that testified to his spending stupidity.

All debt was washed away a few months ago with a check bigger than his ego. Ah, Jill. Only Jill could orchestrate something like that.

Jill. As his eyes scanned the assignment chart and found his name, he realized he hadn't thought much about Jill these past few weeks. He wondered what the smile that elicited looked like, for it twisted his cheeks and lips into something unhappily nostalgic, not really pleased but marginally amused. Wistful.

He wasn't the wistful type.

His finger drew a line to what he needed to do. Cook! Ah, nice. That he could manage. A mess of meatballs and pasta and the guys would be full and appreciative. He made the same damn meal every time and no one ever complained. And that was part of the reason he couldn't leave just yet. When he knew exactly how to act, how others would react, and exactly what to do, it was so easy to check his feelings at the door and just deliver on life's fixed expectations.

What he and Mike and Laura had, though? Totally uncharted territory. You couldn't blame a guy for hanging on to the familiar when so much was uncertain, no matter how wonderful it promised to be.

He heard the television droning on, some morning show with two female and one male co-host creating reasons to open their mouths. He needed to get started for lunch. Whatever he made needed to be dropped on the spot if an alarm went off and he needed to go on a call, so he reached for the crock pot and started a routine he could almost do in his sleep.

The bustle of the other guys working the same shift coming in, the outgoing shift leaving, the flash of freshly-showered guys toweling their hair dry as they came out of the locker room, hungry for bagels and cream cheese and whatever they could find – he knew it well. Ten years here and he knew it all.


Until silence descended, like someone shook a blanket and settled it across the room, smothering the sound and turning it into a muffle. "Hey, Stanwyck! You're on TV again!" someone shouted. He turned, puzzled. On TV?

The morning show co-hosts were showing a clip of his appearance in a charity bachelor auction a couple of years ago, shirtless and wearing a fireman's uniform, a red bow tie around his neck. The guys hooted. "Did you oil your pecs? Holy shit!" someone crowed. Ah, geez. What now? he wondered. Wiping his hands, he abandoned the cooking and walked over to the television to join the curious crowd.

The clip ended and the camera focused on one of the women, a blonde in her 40s with a perfect, sharp bob and a symmetrical face that looked like a surgeon had crafted it. "Boston's most eligible bachelor just got a whole lot more eligible! 1.1 billion times more eligible, in fact."

The guys laughed and shot him looks. His legs went numb. Oh, f*ck. He tried to turn away and walk but he couldn't, rooted by horror. Mike had been right. Oh, how Mike had been right and oh holy f*ck how he wished Mike had been wrong.

Laura.

"Records show that Dylan Stanwyck, firefighter extraordinaire, former model, and one of Boston's hottest bachelors, is the heir to shipping tycoon Richard Matthews' daughter's estate. Matthews' daughter, Jillian, died in 2010 and left Stanwyck, her longtime lover, a trust fund of $1.1 billion, with an annual income of more than $50 million."

If the room could have turned into a black hole it would have saved him the agony of living millisecond by millisecond through this. Half the guys were fixated on the television, but the guys he knew best stared openly at him, their faces morphing slowly from shock to disbelief and, unfortunately, to anger in some.

"Sources confirm that her $2.2 billion estate was split between Stanwyck and Mike Pine, a local ski instructor who recently used his inheritance to purchase the struggling Cedar Mountain Ski Resort. Here's to the lucky lady who finds her way to either man as the billionaire bachelors become the hottest dates in town and Stanwyck can buy himself many times over now in whatever charity auction he pleases."

Someone cut the power to the television, everyone turning and gawking openly. Murphy's eyebrows were in his hairline and he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and left the room.

Finally, the chief took two steps toward him, inhaled slowly, then planted his hands on his hips, shifting his weight to one leg. His jaw flexing with tension, he said, "Stanwyck, you got something you wanna tell us?"

"I thought you'd been promoted. Not that you're the new owner!" Shelly stormed into Mike's office with spit and vinegar, looking like a younger version of Madge. It was unnerving. Being yelled at by a teenager wasn't on his list of expected experiences this morning, so his response was stunned silence.

"Hello? Going to say something?"

"What are you talking about?" Shit. Had someone in the CFO's office finally leaked the truth? He reached for his travel mug and took a long sip of coffee, buying time.

"The television show. All about you and some hot firefighter bachelor auction dude being billionaires. It's all over the morning talk shows and even on the radio."

Spew. He shot drops of coffee all over his desk, choking, the coughs racking his chest as he set down the mug. Oh, my God. Oh, my f*cking God. Dylan had been so wrong. Why hadn't they told Laura? She was going to kill them.

No. Worse.

She was going to leave them.

He jumped up, tipping the travel mug on its side, a pool of tan coffee inching its way to contaminate the papers, the stapler, the tape dispenser. Shelly grabbed the mug and uprighted it, plucking tissues from a box on the desk to mop up the mess. He was out the door as she shouted, "Where are you going?"

Getting to Laura before she heard the news was his only rational thought. If she heard before they told her...Sprinting to his jeep, he frantically searched his pants pockets for his keys before he realized he'd left them back in the office. By the time he got back there, Shelly was finishing her cleanup of his desk. The words "thank you" were about to exit his mouth as he searched for his keys, eyes methodically cataloging the desk's surface when she tipped her face up with a dismissive expression.

"Looking for these?" The keys dangled from her finger. No words. He grabbed the ring and left as she screamed, "You're welcome!" to his disappearing back.

Unlock car. Climb in. Insert key. Turn. Reverse. Gas. Thank God for autonomous responses, because he was working on muscle memory right now, the jeep racing down the mountain to go to the city, to find Laura, to –

To what? He had no plan. Punching the steering wheel, he flipped the radio to the channel most likely to be chattering about him and Dylan, a stupid DJ show known for caustic comics and nasty, biting commentary on local sports and characters.

Traffic report. Great. Now he knew everything was backed up before exit eighteen eastbound because a tractor-trailer jackknifed. How critical. And now the sports report. Another football player with CTE. Yet another arrested for abusing his wife. And now someone accused of doping. The miles passed as he balanced speeding with getting caught.

Ding! His phone notified him he had a text. He was guessing it was Dylan. Ignoring it, he just...drove. Wasn't sure where. Just needed to get closer to Laura.

Ring, ring! If Dylan was using the phone then he must know. Mike reached into his shirt pocket and answered. "Hello?"

"Shit, Mike. Have you watched the morning news shows yet?" He sounded as panicked and sick as Mike felt.

"No, but Shelly just told me everything. F*ck of a day to be there super-early for inventory."

"We need to get to Laura."

"Where is she?" The clock read 8:12 a.m. "At work by now?"

"That's what I'm guessing, too." The radio DJs started saying something about firefighter billionaires. Mike's brain couldn't process driving, talking with Dylan, and their banter. Situation f*cked up, though, if this was all over the morning commute. F*ck, f*ck, f*ck.

"I told you we should – "

"You can chew me out later, dude. Let's work on fixing this." Steel edged his words, filling in the spaces where panic receded. Don't f*ck with me right now, Mike, he seemed to say. I don't have it in me.

"Fair enough." Silence.

"She works at the Stohlman building downtown. Thirty-second floor. Meet me at the reception desk. How far are you?"

Mike ran a quick mental calculation. "Twenty minutes?"

"I'm a little closer. Probably beat you by five."

"Just get there and try to explain it before she sees it plastered all over the f*cking television or hears some disc jockey cackling about it." Click. He pressed "end" and found himself practically throwing the phone out the window. His ears perked and zeroed in on the DJs' conversation.

"So this guy is just some muscled firefighter who oils up for these bachelor charity auctions and gives some rich cougar a nice night while underprivileged kids or AIDS patients or earthquake victims get an extra grand to spend on help. And now it turns out his girlfriend dies and leaves him a billion? Where can I find some rich, young woman to leave me a billion?" Mike's knuckles turned white against the tan steering wheel as he gritted his teeth and sped up.

Different voice, higher and more derisive. "OK, sure, I can see that. It's like 50 Shades of Fire, right? But why'd she leave another billion to the other dude, the ski resort guy."


Pause. A woman's voice. "Maybe she was livin' the dream?"

Derisive DJ: "The dream?"

Woman DJ: "You know. Two guys."

First DJ: "That's our dream!"

Derisive DJ: "Your dream is two guys?" The radio spilled over with giggles and full-throated guffaws.

First DJ: "Haha, no – two women! Two chicks for one dick, man. For a billion bucks, though, I might do two guys. (Laughter). Girls don't fantasize about threesomes with two guys – "

Woman DJ: "In what universe? Of course we – "

Mike cut the radio off with a sharp flick of the wrist. F*ck, f*ck, f*ck. Laura was about to be completely devastated. She had openly asked them to tell her their secrets, and Dylan had told him they should wait. Dylan. God damn it! He'd listened to Dylan and this – this was the end result.

How had anyone found out about the trust? And of course the news station would use the whole firefighter bachelor angle. What a great lead. He knew the brouhaha would die down within days, and soon people wouldn't talk about it, but that didn't help him to get through this minute, the next hour, the next day – and he couldn't predict Laura's reaction here. She may already be lost. But he had to try.

The highway was packed with the tail end of the morning commute, the pike thick but moving at about forty mph. Better than nothing. What had they been thinking, keeping the whole billionaire thing from her? That night in their apartment, dinner and a movie, everyone coming clean and her open, honest request that they not keep secrets – why had they, then? Her openness had been so damn appealing and they'd flung it in her face (behind her back), still hiding like creeps with a secret that, now that it was out, really wasn't that bad. How many women wouldn't like to date someone who could buy their hometown? Who could make it so they never had to work again? What was so shameful about the money that he and Dylan had pretended to be working class saps while cashing trust fund checks?

Their stupid fear. That's what it all boiled down to. Dylan would never in a million years call it fear, but that was the word for it. He could posture and preen and flex and be Mr. Macho all he wanted and claim he was waiting for the right moment, wanted Laura to get comfortable, wanted the three to bond more before dumping such big news on her, but in the end he was just a big old p-ssy who didn't want to confront the emotional landmine the money created.

And it exploded in their faces.

Construction held up traffic near downtown, making him change the channel to AM radio to hear the news report about alternate routes. Ten more minutes of inching through a mile of traffic and he was free. He hadn't been downtown that often and was unsure; Boston wasn't exactly laid out in a grid like his hometown in Indiana, but he was able eventually, with two different circlings of Laura's financial-district building, to find a parking garage and park.

$35 for a few hours? Doesn't matter, stupid, his conscience hissed. Oh. Yeah. All his old ideas about life and money didn't apply any more. Ski Instructor Mike had pinched pennies to buy time and freedom. Billionaire Mike needed to pinch himself and wake up from his stupor of denial. He and Dylan had f*cked up so badly by not telling her the truth. And she wasn't going to handle this well. It's the lying. Not the actual truth itself.

And Jill never bothered to tell you guys, either.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced to the skyscraper's main lobby, then searched for the right set of elevators to take him to the thirty-second floor. If Dylan had beaten him, he was upstairs already, hopefully with Laura.

Time was their biggest enemy right now.

No, he thought. We are our biggest enemy.

The murmurs coming from down the hallway were loud enough for Laura to come out of her office and poke around. She only shut her door when she needed to make calls or just had to tune out the drone of corporate life to get some actual work done on reports or code. Her half-open beige door allowed sound to travel easily from the reception area, and she heard Debbie, the receptionist, gasp and say, “Oh, that's Laura's delivery guy!”

Huh? She fast-walked down the hall to see what on earth the ruckus was about. Her delivery guy? What delivery guy? Then her face flushed hot. Dylan? Did Debbie mean Dylan? He'd posed as a flower delivery dude that day when he'd come to her office and they'd –

She flushed even more. Then her nether regions swelled with heat. Oh, my. Just thinking about hot monkey office sex was getting her –

Laura came to a screeching halt at the sight before her in the reception area, where ten or so coworkers were crowded around the lobby television. Normally set to news, this time was no different, the morning chat show that masqueraded as “news” barking out into the open area.

Except this time, Dylan was the feature of a video clip, dressed in – my, my!

Shirtless Dylan, with an oiled chest and red bow tie, wearing the bottom half of a fireman's uniform and carrying an ax? While strolling down a runway at a charity bachelor auction. She laughed; she'd seen the same clip on YouTube. But why was he being featured on a morning news show?

“Laura, that's him, right? The guy who delivered flowers to you a few weeks ago.” Debbie nudged a woman standing next to her. “I could never forget that, uh...face. Yeah,” she said with a low whistle. “That face.”

“With a chest and abs like that, who needs to look at his face?” someone said, her voice older and smoky. The women in the group laughed. The video ended and the scene cut to the co-hosts on comfy couches, two women and a man doing that chat thing that was designed to keep people watching.

"Records show that Dylan Stanwyck, firefighter extraordinaire, former model, and one of Boston's hottest bachelors, is the heir to shipping tycoon Richard Matthews' daughter's estate. Matthews' daughter, Jillian, died in 2010 and left Stanwyck, her longtime lover, a trust fund of $1.1 billion, with an annual income of more than $50 million."

Laura's stomach turned to acid. Debbie's eyes were as wide as saucers as her head bounced between gawking at Laura and staring at the television. One of the men in the room walked away quietly.

“Holy shit,” someone muttered. “A billionaire?”

“What's he doing delivering flowers?” Debbie squeaked.

"Sources confirm that her $2.2 billion estate was split between Stanwyck and Mike Pine, a local ski instructor who recently used his inheritance to purchase the struggling Cedar Mountain Ski Resort. Here's to the lucky lady who finds her way to either man as the billionaire bachelors become the hottest dates in town and Stanwyck can buy himself many times over now in whatever charity auction he pleases."

Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod, her mind screamed. Rooted in place, she couldn't move. Couldn't inhale. Couldn't feel her fingertips or her tips or her eyelids. Dylan and Mike? Jill? Billions? Money? Why hadn't they – ? What were they doing – ? Wha?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Like a robot, she reached in and mechanically looked. Five texts.

Dylan: “Laura, please call me now.”

Mike: “Laura? Call me.”

Dylan: “I'm coming to see you at work.”

Mike: “On my way to see you.”

and Josie: “Those a*sholes. I am so sorry. Come to my apartment to hide.”

“Laura!” Debbie squealed, pulling on her arm. “He wasn't just a delivery guy, was he?” Her expression showed she was very proud of herself to connecting the (obvious) dots. “Oh, my God, you were dating him! Are you still dating him? Holy shit, you landed the most eligible billionaire bachelor in Boston? You're, like, Anastasia Steele!” The room broke out into a mixture of nervous laughter and derisive murmurs. Debbie's long, perfect, chocolate-brown hair shimmered down her shoulders and her creamy skin made Laura want to claw her.


“If I had a billionaire boyfriend I sure would quit in a heartbeat!” Debbie couldn't – wouldn't – shut up, and Laura was quickly growing faint, her heart rate through the roof and brain spinning out of control. Air. She needed air.

“Do you know the Mike guy? Does he have a girlfriend?” Shut up, Debbie! Her mind screamed. She opened her mouth to say the words when her boss touched Debbie's elbow lightly and pointed to the phone, which was lit up like a Christmas tree with waiting callers. Mercifully, Debbie sat down and plucked her way through call after call as her boss mouthed the words “go home” and made a shooing gesture.

She needed to escape the Red Lobby of Pain right.this.minute and a flood of gratitude overwhelmed her. “Thank you,” she mouthed back. Shaking Debbie off, she fast-walked back to her office, grabbed her purse, and fled down the back staircase. Thirty-two flights of stairs in a spiral pattern of nausea would take her mind off whatever was coming, right?

Those bastards. Step, click. Step, click. She'd forgotten how hard navigating stairs could be in heels. Tears pooling in her eyes didn't help, the grey, institution cinderblock walls floating as she descended carefully. Step, click. Step, click.

Billionaires? Billionaires? Really? Seriously? Could they have kept something bigger from her? It had been bad enough that they'd never told her they knew each other, that they were in a committed threesome before meeting her, that they wanted her – and had set up that night in the cabin as some sort of test. She was still raw from that – and had just started to heal from it, allowing herself to trust them slowly, giving herself permission to believe deeply that this was going to work, and that they could overcome convention and find their own, unique path to happiness.

Just. Just barely. She needed more time, more experiences, more of everything to understand how to function as one woman with two men, to be so wanted and craved that she could satisfy them both.

The tears flowed freely now, her nose filling, and she fumbled for a tissue. Step, click. Step, click. She stopped, searching her purse. No luck. Ah, f*ck it. Her skirt felt too tight, restricting her calves as she worked the stairs, and finally, in a fit of desperation, she slipped off her heels and walked in her stocking feet, the hose snagging within half a flight and making her foot cling slightly to each step. Nothing was going right today.

She snorted, snot pouring out of her nose, and using the back of her hand she wiped the bubbles as best she could. Who cared what she looked like now? The billionaires? What a spike to the heart that thought was as she reached the twenty-seventh floor. She remembered how Dylan had casually grabbed the check, how she'd wondered how a firefighter could afford such a fancy place. Hah! Joke was on her! He was a f*cking billionaire, made stupendously rich by Jill.

Jill. Of course she was a wildly rich heiress. Of course. It wasn't enough to look like she was chiseled by people making a model of beach volleyball players. And it also wasn't enough that she was this dead, perfect girlfriend Laura could never measure up to.

She was also ridiculously wealthy and had made Dylan and Mike filthy, stinking rich, too?

Sharp, bitter laughter echoed up and down the stairs as Laura cackled, mad with overwhelm. She just couldn't win, could she?

“I give, Jill! I surrender!” she shouted, her voice carrying like crazy through the stairwell. “You win! Uncle! Uncle! I can never be you. Dylan and Mike can't even tell me that you left them more money than God. You are perfect from the grave! You even made the balls on the warlock waitress at Jeddy's! You're a f*cking legend!” Laura's arms outstretched as she screamed the word “legend,” her shoes flying out of her hand and tumbling down the metal railings, plink, plunk, plonk as they rattled and rolled, landing who knows where.

As she rounded the twenty-fifth floor, retrieving her shoes, a security guard poked his head through the door, then entered the staircase. The older gentleman reminded her of her grandfather, a beer gut and kind eyes crashing through her overwrought sensibilities. “Excuse me, Miss?”

She didn't stop her slow trek. “Yes?” she called back.

“Are you OK? We're hearing reports of someone yelling in the stairwell.”

“Oh, I'm fine. Just getting some exercise.” Her voice had that shaky hitch to it she got when she was upset, but she tried to cover it up by acting winded. “And boy, do I need it.”

He followed her, and as she passed him on the spiral one floor down, she saw him pat his stomach. “I'm with you there,” he chuckled. “I'll walk down behind you if you don't mind. Just making sure it's safe here and that there aren't any troublemakers.”

Great. Just f*cking great. She couldn't even vent without having it ruined. F*ck you, Dylan. F*ck you, Mike. Why would you lie? She thumped and skipped her way down, moving faster now that she had an audience, hoping she could get to the bottom without making herself dizzy. She'd been a tad lightheaded these past couple days and didn't need the added dose of unreality from spinning around and around as she descended thirty-two floors.

She was somewhere around floor eight when the old man gave up. “See you!” he shouted, waving from five or six flights up. Waving back, she sped up, eager for sunshine and a flat walking surface. The balls of her feet were scraped up from the no-skid surface at the edge of each stair, and her hamstrings and IT bands were screaming. Tomorrow, she'd pay for this.

Today she just needed to get to Josie. If she fixated on that, she'd be OK. Falling apart at Josie's apartment would be the best possible solution here. Fear that Mike or Dylan – or Mike and Dylan – would get to her first drove her. Dylan was likely on his way to her office to explain. Explain, explain, explain. She huffed as she hurried around floor five. Of course he had an explanation. She could just guess.

“Um, well, it's complicated.” His tone of voice, the little sidelong look with a half-smile, Mr. Charm turning it on to cozy up and sweet-talk his way out of discomfort.

Well, Dylan, have fun snuggling up to those complications, because that's what you'll be f*cking. Not me.

And you, too, Mike.

Anger seeped in, like an old friend who was a lousy house guest, but you forget every time he leaves how much you wish him gone, and welcome him heartily when he reappears. Anger was so much easier than hurt, or heartache, or regret, so anger it was. Welcome my old friend.

Bursting through the street-level door, the morning greeted her with hot, sultry air and a brightness that made her squint and cringe. She balanced herself on one foot to put on one shoe, then the other, and took a moment to rebalance herself. Ouch. Her feet felt like raw ground beef right now, but that was fine. Anger would keep her going, dull the pain, make it alllll better until she could collapse at Josie's.

Hailing a cab was easier than usual; maybe she looked as pissed off as she felt. She knew it would be a quick, cheap ride, and as the cabbie raced to deliver her she massaged her feet and ignored the increasingly-active smart phone in her purse. If she looked she knew she'd find a ton of messages.

Ring! Ring! A quick peek showed Dylan calling. Nope. She turned off the phone; five minutes from Josie's meant she didn't need to worry about missing a call from her. The cab was stinky but clean, carrying the residue of countless cigarettes, the stale odor of nicotine and coconut air freshener giving her something to gag on. Something other than sheer anxiety and panic. A quick nudge of the window button and she gave herself an inch of fresh air. The cabby shot her a look and turned up the air conditioner, then looked again. Sorry, Bud. Whatever he saw in her return look made him shift his eyes down and keep his mouth shut.


Within minutes he screeched to the front of Josie's building, a triple-decker that she'd lived in for years, a dingy grey that melted into the neighborhood, a gentrifying section of Cambridge that was always on the verge of “up and coming” but, thankfully, stayed under the radar and kept reasonable rents. They'd toyed with rooming together and renting a big place, but neither could give up their neighborhoods, Laura enjoying Somerville more than she really ought to.

She threw some cash at the cabbie and ran to Josie's first floor apartment. Her friend was already on the porch, a look of crumpled compassion on her face, and she embraced Laura without words, holding her and stroking her hair as the tears returned.

Pulling back, Josie put her arm around Laura's waist and guided her into the sunny apartment. “Let me make coffee for you this time,” she said, sighing hard. “It's the least I can do.”

If Laura's apartment looked like a Scandinavian designer with a pink fetish had decorated it, Josie's was pure '60s hippie Buddhist funk. It looked like Carole King and the Dalai Lama shared the place. Decorated in thrift shop finds and Tibetan boutique splurges, the perpetual scent of sandalwood and lavender was comforting, though it generally covered up other odors that were finally legal in Massachusetts, as long as one kept it under an ounce and in the privacy of home.

Laura slumped down on an overstuffed monk-red recliner covered in a funky silk throw, vibrant mustard yellow and rich steel blue competing with little reflector things. She could see Josie in the kitchen, the apartment a converted single-family home. Doorways were random and seemed to have no meaning, just plunked here and there. Aside from the bedroom and bath, it was open concept but with walls and thresholds, making the fairly-large place seem smaller.

Josie used a Keurig, and shouted, “Glazed donut or Breakfast blend?”

“Scotch!”

“I have Bailey's.” Her voice said she didn't have scotch, though.

“Good enough! Breakfast blend and Bailey's!” It wasn't even nine yet. Who cared? It's not like she was really into following social conventions lately, anyhow. If a girl couldn't get drunk the day one of her threesome boyfriends was outed as a secret billionaire on local television, when could she?

“How did you hear about them?” she called out to Josie. A hiss and gurgle told her the first cup was brewing.

“That stupid morning TV Show. I had it on and heard Dylan's name and, well – I texted you right away. I'm guessing they did, too?”

Bzzz. Her phone hummed in her pocket and she pulled it out. Squinting, she read the screen. “Jesus.” Low whistle. Josie wandered into the room and handed her a steaming cup of coffee, tinted tan by the Bailey's.

“Let me guess. Dylan's texted you seventy-six times?”

“And Mike's a close second.” Sip. The alcohol hit her taste buds like a tsunami of flavor. It felt weird to drink this early. Weird was becoming her default waaaay too fast for comfort, but if that was her reality, she'd embrace it. Especially if it tasted like Irish crème.

“F*ck 'em. I can't believe they – man, Laura. Billionaires? I mean, they aren't gorgeous enough, but they have to be secret billionaires, too? Your life is like a cross between General Hospital and Desperate Housewives with a touch of Fifty Shades.”

She knew it was funny. She should laugh, right? Instead, though, she swallowed too much scalding liquid too fast, making her nearly scream from the burning pain. If she coughed, she'd scald her throat and mouth even more. The alcohol tasted weird, anyhow – a little too...something. As she gagged and choked, poor Josie ran between the living room and the kitchen, shouting, “Are you OK?”

“Ice,” Laura hissed. Josie returned with ice water, which Laura eagerly sucked into her mouth, keeping her lips closed and pooching out her cheeks to retain the cold balm against her torn, raw mouth. Great. Just great. She couldn't even manage to drink a f*cking cup of coffee without something going wrong. Don't try to walk and chew gum at the same time. Might break a leg.

Finally, she swallowed, refilling her mouth with the ice water and feeling the sting abate somewhat, little ridges on the roof of her mouth throbbing horribly. That raw, scratchy feeling that comes from a good scalding started to sink in, and she knew she was in for a good two to three days of this. The universe could stop shitting on her. Seriously. Cut it out, God, she thought. My middle name isn't Job.

“...well, now, he can bring his fire hose to my garage any time...” a voice said, wafting into the living room.

“F*ck!” Josie shouted, sprinting for her bedroom. The sound cut out fast. Laura's eyes filled, less from mouth pain and more from life pain. This hurt. This was going to hurt for a good, long time. And the hurt was like Ryan times a thousand.

No.

Times two billion.

Laura nursed her ice water, Josie drank her coffee, and the two said nothing, comfortable the way old friends could be, knowing that friendship meant that silence was sometimes the best form of support. She needed someone there, someone to witness her pain but not to comment on it, or judge it. A few years ago she would have needed Josie to join her in spewing rage about her being betrayed and lied to, but that wasn't what she needed today. Instead, Josie's calm, steady presence gave her the room to let reality fill in the cracks of her heart and to come to her own ready place for processing it all.

One of Josie's cats, an old calico named Dotty she'd adopted from a local rescue shelter a few years back, settled on the couch next to Laura. Her own cats weren't nearly as social, hiding away and largely independent, three puffs of fur who had come to her the same way, two of them Persians that had been owned by an elderly woman who had to go into a nursing home. No one had wanted cats the ages of teenagers, so Laura had taken in Miss Daisy and Frumpy. Snuggles had come to her from an abused animals rescue network, her ears clipped in jagged wrecks and part of her tail mangled. Snuggles liked patches of sunshine and to be left alone. Somehow, Miss Daisy and Frumpy respected that, and all three coexisted nicely.

Too bad other threesomes couldn't be so smooth.

“How's Snuggles doing lately?” Josie asked. “I never see her when I come over.”

Laura laughed, petting Dotty, who tipped her chin up as if granting permission. “I never see her, either. I only know she's real because I see a tail under the bed and she eats her food.”

Josie nodded and finished off her mug. “Like a teenage boy. Needs sleep and food.” The joke fell flat. Laura was done talking.

“More coffee?”

“God, no.”

Josie winced. “Sorry. More ice water?”

“Yes, please.” She was starting to sound like Mike. Two word sentences weren't her style but right now, it was all she could manage. Maybe this “woman of few words” schtick was something she should try on, see how the other half lives in a world of low verbal output. Was there something to not spilling every thought out of your mouth? Could Mike be on to something, being the quiet but steady type who was a deep presence without contributing to the non-stop flow of words that filled modern life?

Why was she even thinking about this? Her open mouth called out to her hands to fan cool air inside her, her tongue drying out quickly. She couldn't even drink a cup of coffee correctly. Why mull over esoteric ideas?

Because it was easier than facing the fact that they had destroyed this burgeoning relationship yet again. And, most likely, once and for all.


“So,” she and Josie said in unison. Startled, both laughed at the other, the nervous tension that filled the room making Laura's stomach turn again. She'd been queasy all day, her stomach bearing the brunt of the stress.

“You first,” Josie deferred.

“So, it looks like I managed not only to find two amazingly hot, wonderful guys who happen to be in a secret, complicated – ” Josie snorted as Laura emphasized that word “ – relationship and we turned it into a great threesome. Oh. Yeah. And they happen to be billionaires and never bothered to tell me because – because – ” She faltered there. Why in the hell hadn't they told her about their money?

Josie seemed to have the same thought, scrunching her face in a weird expression. “Huh. What a supremely odd thing to hide from you. I mean, their whole knowing each other and double-teaming you secret was strange, but I can at least understand it. It's really out there, and they didn't know how to approach it, and in typical clueless man style they butchered it.”

Laura's turn to snort.

“But this? I mean, wouldn't most guys consider being a f*cking billionaire something to gloat about?”

Laura swallowed. Hard. “Maybe they're embarrassed?”

“Why?”

“Because it's Jill's money?”

Josie considered that, tipping her head from one side to the other. “Mmmmm, maybe.” Skepticism filled her voice. “You think they were ashamed of coming into the money because she died and left it to them?”

Laura shrugged. “I'm as stumped as you are.” As she shifted, Dotty sniffed the air, stood, and transferred her loyalties and attentions to Josie, who absent-mindedly stroked her multi-colored head.

Josie sighed. “Wouldn't you share that kind of thing pretty soon in a relationship? I've never had that kind of money – any guy who dates me gets Taco Bell, not trips to private islands in Mexico – but I'd think it would be something you throw out there to clear the air right away.”

The two sat in silence for a minute, thinking this through. Laura's rage was suddenly tempered by thoughtfulness and pensive considerations on the money issue. Dylan and Mike weren't flashy about it – though this explained Mike's amazing cabin. They both drove new cars, but they still shared a sleek apartment. It wasn't a billionaire's life, but any means. Dylan even kept his old job. He must wipe his ass with his paychecks.

Exchanging confused glances with Josie, the puzzle became more intriguing as she thought about it. If the news channels were covering this, it meant it was all recent. So perhaps it was too recent – they just didn't know how to explain it?

Too much benefit of the doubt. She yelled at herself mentally. They still should have told you! Of course they should have, and they damn well knew it. She'd given them every opportunity over the past few weeks, and she was most hurt not that they were billionaires – which she actually found to be pretty damn awesome – but that they hid it from her.

Why?

Josie stood, dumping Dotty unceremoniously from her lap, the cat landing gracefully on the small, shag carpet and surveying the room, eyeing her options. Laura, a throw pillow, the carpet. She chose to leave, clearly displeased with her sudden displacement.

“This calls for some breakfast. You hungry?” Without waiting for the answer, Josie went into the kitchen and started the Keurig up again. The sounds of rummaging floated toward Laura, and in two minutes Josie returned with a box of frozen donut holes and her new cup of coffee.

“Martha Stewart,” Laura sighed, hand over her heart.

“I'm more a trashy version of Rachel Ray. But these are yummy pumpkin donuts.”

“Already? Isn't that a fall flavor?”

“It's August.”

“August isn't fall.”

“In retail it is.” Josie threw up her hands and grabbed one of the dough balls, carefully biting into it. Laura did the same, surprised by how hard and soft the donut hole was. It was a cakey consistency and dense. The half she managed to bite was absolutely delicious. Without being asked, Josie grabbed Laura's glass and returned with it full. A girl could get used to this. She was the one who tended to cater to Josie; it felt nice to be taken care of like this, even in the smallest of ways.

Dotty returned to the room at the entrance of the donut holes, sniffing the box until Josie shoved her off. Offended, she strutted into Josie's room and out of Laura's sight. Although the pastry tasted great, her stomach just didn't want anything.

Why? Why hadn't they told her?

“Maybe they're just a*sholes,” Josie said slowly, answering Laura's internal question. “Maybe they thought you were a gold digger.”

“How could I be a gold digger if I didn't know they had so much money?” Her phone buzzed again. Turning it off completely seemed like a perfect solution, her finger holding down the off button with so much force it left a red imprint in her fingertip. Too bad you couldn't slam a phone down in the cradle like you could when she was a kid. That satisfaction was one area where smart phones just didn't measure up.

“They keep calling?”

“They keep something-ing. Calls. Texts. Hell, they may have resorted to email.”

“Not email! Only our parents use email.” An old joke between them.

“I expect Dylan will find a passenger pigeon's corpse and resurrect it.”

“Or worse – use MySpace.”

Bzzzz. Confused, Laura looked at her phone. It was definitely off. “That's me,” Josie explained. Leaping across the room, she foraged in her giant purse and found her phone. Slide, tap, tap. Her face! The look on her face made Laura want to administer oxygen and call 911.

“Josie?”

“Dylan!” She shouted his name like she was screaming the word “f*ck!” Flailing her phone to and fro, she added, “How in the hell did he get my number?”

“I never gave it to him or Mike. I swear!” Laura answered. He was this desperate? Really?

“At Laura's work. She's not here. Is she with you? Is she safe? We'll keep searching.” Josie laughed, a barking horsey sound that registered extraordinary disgust. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

Sigh. “He's persistent.”

“He's a whackadoo.”

“Well...” That he would somehow track down Josie's cell phone number meant he was serious about finding her. She had zero desire to see either of them right now. Zero. They really had shredded her life, and what she wanted most was to turn the earth backwards, like in that old Superman movie, and make all of this go away.

No. What she really wanted was two men who could be honest and open and tell the truth about themselves so they could all live happily ever after. Was that too much to ask? Jill had died and turned out to have gobs of money that she passed on to the guys. They hid that information from her because –

Her blood ran cold, stomach twisting.

Because they didn't trust her.

“Oh, God,” she muttered. “Josie.” Her friend sensed the shift in her voice and came closer, curling her legs under herself on a small, faded, orange velvet chair.

“Yeah? What is it.”

“They – they,” she stammered, her chin quivering now, eyes filling with hot tears and throat salty and thick. “They never trusted me. They wanted the money and a woman but couldn't tell me because they didn't trust me. They just – I don't know!” she wailed, her volume increasing as her pulse raced and her mind raced even faster.


“Oh, Honey,” Josie replied, reaching for Laura's hand. “You are so trustworthy and so not into money.”

“I know, right?” Laura screeched. “It's laughable.” Maniacal laugh. “They couldn't have picked a worse thing to be worried about, right? I'm the girl who shops as much as possible at vintage and thrift shops to save money. I drive an older car and I put money in my stupid 401K every paycheck and I pay my student loans on time and I follow all the rules.” Her voice rose. “All the f*cking rules, right? I do everything right. Everything! And this is how the universe repays me? Seriously. I feel like I got a galactic shit dumped on my head this morning.”

“You did.”

“A billion dollar shit!” Her voice was like a gospel preacher, the intonation more revival than revulsion.

“Yes, ma'am!”

“And if those two f*ckers thought they could have the best sex ever with me but couldn't bother to tell me the truth about something this big, then they don't deserve me!”

“Indeed.” Josie sat back down and leaned forward. “Billionaire bastards.” Laura shot her a harsh look, wondering if she was poking fun, but she wasn't. The words mattered, and they were true. Both men were such steaming a*sholes she couldn't believe it, the urge to start hyperventilating competing with the desire to punch them both in the face, even if she'd need a stool to reach Mike.

“I can't believe Dylan tracked you down like that,” Laura chuckled.

“Should I reply?”

Blinking, Laura came to a screeching halt in her mind, the question jarring. Should Josie reply? What would she say? What should she say? No etiquette manual was designed for this. Dan Savage needed to write one. How should your best friend reply when one of your threesome boyfriends turns out to be a billionaire and stalks you to try to make up?

That would be popular.

Laura smoothed her sweater over her belly, which pooched out enough to send some sort of a cat invitation to Dotty. She plopped down on Laura's lap and turned into a furnace, which was great in January but horribly warm in August. Get used to it, Laura, her mind said. It's the only touch you're getting for a long time that doesn't involve plastic and batteries.

For some reason, that made her finally break down and sob. Not the sheer humiliation in the work lobby. Not the rage that claimed her so easily on the staircase, her feet still aching from that howlingly stupid move. And not the thought that once again, as with Ryan, as with so many guys in high school and college, as with Dylan and Mike the first time they made love, she felt tiny and cheated and shamed and grotesque because nothing had turned out as planned, and her own blind naivete meant that here she was sobbing and racked with grief, her best friend stroking her shoulder and nothing had changed.

She was the same Laura this happened to, time in and time out, a decade and more of falling for guys who cared less for her than she cared for them, respected her in a way that made her queasy with doubt, and who managed to give her just enough hope such that when it all came crashing down what hurt most was that they ever gave her any.

It would have been easier to become a cat lady who never bothered, and she was about to do just that. As soon as it was safe to go home. If Dylan was hunting down Josie's number and texting her, then she damn sure couldn't go home right now. Weak and addled, her mind might play a game of sabotage on her, believing whatever smooth line he came up with to try to convince her that she should get up once more, strip naked before them, and let them ridicule her pure, loving heart.

Nope.

Done.

“Josie,” she announced, her voice sounding like a drill sergeant's. Wiping the tears with the bottom hem of her sweater, careful not to get cat hair in her eyes, she sniffed and demanded, “you are going to text that motherf*cker back.”

“Yes, Ma'am!” Holding her phone, Josie looked expectantly at Laura. Hmmm. Now what? What could she possibly say to Dylan that would make him stay away? That would make him just evaporate, with Mike, and let her go on and live a life that didn't have so much pain and wonder in it? Were there magic words she could fit in a text that would do that?

She had to try. “OK, so type, 'If you say it's complicated I'll cut your balls off and put them on the warlock waitress.'”

Josie choked and clapped. “F*cking brilliant!” Tap, tap, tap –

“No! Don't do it. Changed my mind.”

Pout from Josie, then a quick change to a neutral face. “Sure.” Tap, tap, tap as she erased it.

In her heart, what she wanted was an apology from them both. A long, drawn-out pleading and self-flagellation filled with regret and recriminations and sorries and kisses and flowers and all that crap. More words than things, though, more affection than promises, and more attention than empty phrases. At the center of it all was a ball of pain that now lived in her stomach, hot lead and napalm and poison that leaked and festered in her, planted there by Mike and Dylan because this?

This was a bitter pill to swallow. And swallow it she had, whole and dry and without any awareness of what it meant.

That was all fantasy. Her dream world was about her, about people caring what she felt, what she thought, what she needed and wanted. Fantasy.

The real world involved self-centered men who didn't trust her enough to tell her their second-biggest (or first!) secret and who let her learn about it from a fluff-chick morning chat show cougar who had the self-awareness of a bottle of nail polish remover. If that wasn't a big sign that their respect for her was in the crapper, nothing else was.

Add in the little detail that they clearly didn't trust her to be anything but a money grubber and she was, well, she was still struggling to sum all that up into one pithy text.

“Try this,” she ordered. Josie's finger hovered over the glass keyboard. “Don't chase me. Give me that one shred of respect. Why? Because it's complicated.” Josie typed it in and looked at her, eyebrows raised with a question.

Laura nodded and Josie tapped “Send.” Laura took a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth, making a weird vibrating sound with her lips.

Bzzzz. “Man, he's fast,” Josie muttered. Dotty made a hissing sound and arched her back. “It's just a phone. Not a predator,” Josie chided the cat. “She does this all the time,” she explained, squinting at the screen.

“He replied, didn't he?”

“Yep. Wanna hear it?”

No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Ye – “Yes.”

Josie made a disgusted sound, complete with a slow shake of the head that Laura interpreted as not good. “He says, and I quote: 'It's always complicated.' With a little smiley face.”

A slap across the face would have shocked her less. Laura felt a rising numbness take over, blinking furiously with a neutral face, completely unable to comprehend what on earth had possessed Dylan to think that that – that? – trite and flippant response would somehow be perceived as funny. Or endearing. Or clever.

If the intended effect were to charm her, he'd failed miserably. If his goal was to piss her off and harden her resolve never to see him – or Mike – again, then he had succeeded wildly.

Yay, Dylan.

“Am I crazy for thinking he's a f*cking a*shole for sending that piece of shit text?' Laura railed.

“Not crazy.” Josie seemed to be keeping her face as still as possible, watching Laura with a wary eye. “It's insulting, really.”

“Thank you. Thank you! Because it is, isn't it?”


Bzzzz.

“Don't you answer that! He had his chance. One. I gave him one. And that's more than he and Mike deserve.”

“OK. Whatever you want.” Thank God for Josie, because right now she was rising to the occasion in a way Laura had never thought possible. Of course, they'd been there for each other over the years, through heart breaks and break ups, through angry, gritted-teeth conversations where they'd tried to convince each other to DTMFA, as Dan Savage would say. Dumping the motherf*cker already, though, was easier said than done in most cases, and this was another one of those, ahem, complicated situations.

Not really, she argued with herself. Its simple. DTMFA. Both of them. Because the lack of respect they'd shown her told her everything she needed to know, even if that feeling of “f*ck you” went against everything her heart was crying out right now, its words pleading with her to give them at least a quick meeting to hear why they hid this from her.

Why she had to learn about it at work, in a lobby, on a cheap television while two women who knew more about anal bleaching than world affairs got to prattle on and drool over Dylan and make comments that made her feel tiny and small and –

Ashamed. God, that really was a huge part of this, wasn't it? It had taken so much effort to overcome her feeling of discomfort at owning her own desire for both men, and here she was tentatively growing and accepting who she was and what her authentic self really needed and wanted. And it was Dylan and Mike, together as a trio that would make everyone so happy.

Her shame, now, was overflowing. Shame at thinking she could really have it all. Shame at wanting something so unconventional. Shame that they couldn't trust her.

Shame that she had trusted them.

And, worst of all, shame that she had something inside her that made her feel so much shame! She couldn't win.

She just couldn't win.

“You've got Netflix, right?” she asked Josie.

“Yup.” Josie's face changed, shifted to something softer. “Ooo, I know what you want to watch.”

Laura sighed. “Let's do it.”

“Oh, my God! It's the billionaire bachelor!” the receptionist screeched as the elevator doors parted and Dylan stepped out onto Laura's floor. The lobby at Laura's work was more crowded than it had been when he'd delivered flowers to her last month and heads turned. Then more heads.

Then every.single.head.

Oh, geez. The last thing he needed. “You remember me, right?” the receptionist crooned, walking over and extending her hand. “Debbie. I was here the day you delivered flowers to Laura.” Wink.

The absolutely last thing he needed. He didn't shake her hand. “Where is Laura?” he asked, not caring that he was being blunt, pointedly ignoring all the eyes on him.

“She went home sick.” A deep male voice answered, to Dylan's left. The man was middle-aged, greying temples, a bit of a paunch. Nice suit. Her boss? He nodded to Debbie, who skittered over to her station and began answering phone calls, eyes glued on the two men.

“Oh. Is she OK?” He frowned, concerned.

“I won't comment on that, but after she watched the news report featuring you, she clearly wasn't doing well.” Ah. This guy was a straight shooter. A little angry on Laura's behalf. Dylan could understand that.

And respect it. Even if it pained him deeply to have caused her pain.

“Thanks. I'll try to catch her at home.” Debbie's eyes widened and she reached for a smart phone, texting furiously. Gossip. Great. Poor Laura.

Poor Laura? He was the cause of what made her poor Laura. Holy f*ck. He'd never considered that the fallout could do this to her.

A hand on his arm. Firm. Unyielding. His hackles went up and a thin thread of fight grew in him. The boss's eyes were cold steel, pointed directly at Dylan like a weapon. “I wouldn't do that if I were you. If she wants to see you, she can contact you.” This wasn't advice.

This was a veiled threat. Or, at least, that's how it sounded to Dylan's hypersensitive ears. Who was this tool to tell him how to handle Laura? He shook the man's hand off him roughly and got right in his face.

“I'll talk to her if I want to.” His face was inches from the boss, who stood up and matched Dylan on height. This guy was twenty years older and probably out of shape, but he was a fierce dude who wasn't backing down, even in the presence of a very muscled fire fighter.

“If she wants to talk to you. Otherwise, you're just an angry stalker.”

There was that word again. Stalker. “You don't know anything about – ”

Ding! The elevator behind Dylan slid open and he heard two heavy steps, then Mike's breathless voice. “Is she still here?”

Debbie just about had a heart attack, her jaw dropping so low her mouth could have been a dustpan. “Thor,” she whispered. Dylan nearly barked out a laugh, the comment shaking him from his stand off with Laura's boss.

“No. She's gone,” the boss said, then looked at Dylan. Hard.

A new hand on his arm, this time Mike's. “Let's try her apartment.” He jabbed the “down” button for the elevator as Debbie removed her telephone headset and stood, smoothing her tight skirt, then sauntering over.

Mercifully, the doors opened before she got to them, Mike practically dragging Dylan in. With a pneumatic hiss his last view of Laura's work floor was Debbie's disappointed voice and the back of the boss's head.

Good riddance to both.

Mike stared up at the ceiling and blew out a huge breath of air. “Has she answered your texts or voice mails?”

“Nope. You try?”

“Once, for each. No luck.”

“Where were you when that stupid television report came on?”

“At work.” A low whistle from Mike, whose eyebrows shot up, made Dylan wince. He took in Dylan's uniform and cringed. “Yeah. It was bad. Let's just say I am no longer gainfully employed.”

“Joe fired you?”

“No. I resigned peacefully.”

“Peacefully?” Mike smirked. Damn it, he knew him too well.

“It's complicated.”

“It's always complicated,” Mike said bitterly.

“I'm getting really tired of hearing that.”

“I think you started it.”

“Do we really need to go there right now?”

“No. We need to go to Laura's place right now. But tell me what happened with the chief.” Mike didn't seem to care on an emotional level; he was just asking out of voyeuristic curiosity. The difference in tone and demeanor was starting to freak Dylan out.

Dylan laughed, a cold, harsh sound that hurt his own ears. “He said there was a waiting list out the door for the jobs, that if I was a billionaire I sure didn't need the pay, and that I was welcome to join the volunteer force.”

“Ouch.”

The volunteer guys were welcomed by the regular staff, but often considered weaker contenders when it came to running calls. There was more to the conversation he wasn't going to tell Mike right now, how the chief had looked in the envelope and found all the cash Dylan had stuffed in there, how Dylan asked about sending a much larger amount directly to Murphy, and how within the course of a painful fifteen minute talk he'd managed to lose his only career but gain some insight into how his future could unfold, using Jill's money for good.

“Yeah. So I guess I'm free now.”

“Free.” Mike snorted. “If this is freedom, I think I prefer...ah, I don't know what I'm saying any more.” Definitely not the time to tell Mike anything.

Ding! The elevator reached the main lobby and they walked out of the building, the August heat hitting them like a wall of soup. “You drive here?” Mike asked.


“No.”

“Good – I'm over here,” he nodded, “so let's get to Laura's. You remember her address?”

“Yeah. In Somerville, over near Tufts.” They walked down the cold, concrete staircase, descending two levels to the underground spot where Mike's Jeep sat, patient and still. In silence now, they were perfunctory. Get in car. Turn on car. Screech tires on painted concrete to exit. Pay. Leave. Dylan hoped like hell she was at home. It's not like there were many more –

“Wait. What about Josie?” he asked as Mike made a tough left turn.

“What about her?”

“Maybe she'll know where Laura is. Or maybe Laura's with her.”

“Let's get to Laura's and see what's going on. Josie's kind of...” Mike made an inscrutable face.

“Batshit crazy?” He didn't relish seeing her under these circumstances. Getting whacked with the plastic balls at Jeddy's had been bad enough. Now that they had f*cked up even worse, what would she use to arm herself? Eek.

“Not what I was going to say. My words would have been 'fiercely loyal'.” He paused, then added, “I don't think she's truly crazy. Just a little unbalanced.”

“She whacked my real balls with the fake ones and teabagged them in the restaurant while you were talking to Laura.”

“Says the man who actually f*cked a blow up doll.” Mike's droll delivery didn't surprise him. The words did, causing his to choke with shock.

“How did you know that?”

“Who actually names a blow up doll? You were so bizarre that first year of college.”

Dylan laughed. “That's true.”

“Besides, I didn't know you f*cked it. You just confirmed it, though.” Smirk.

Shit! “Oh, please. It was a dare and we were drunk and I was stupid enough to want to be in the fraternity and they...just. Ugh. Let's drop this.”

By his judgment they were five minutes or so from Laura's place. Parking would be a problem, until Mike pulled into a “Permit Only” spot and turned the car off.

“What are you doing? We'll get a ticket.”

The look on Mike's face was so out of character as he said, “We're billionaires, Dylan. Who gives a f*ck about a $25 parking ticket? That's like losing a penny now.” The same wolfish look, a deeply-engrained expression of cold, brutal action, that he'd seen only once before on Mike's face, when...when...

When he'd told Mike about Laura.

Bounding up the steps to Laura's landing, Mike poked the buzzer over and over, like a little kid calling on a friend for a play date. No answer.

Dylan reached over and rang the bell, too. “Right. Like it didn't work the twelve times I just pushed it,” Mike practically growled.

What the f*ck? “So sue me,” Dylan scoffed, rapidly getting pissed. He grabbed his phone and tapped rapidly. Search, search, search – there! Her last name was Mendham, he remembered that much, and she said she lived in Cambridge, and –

Score! Josie Mendham's phone number. Some charity thing she organized in Allston for old people, the number and email were posted on a web page. He furiously tapped out a text and hit “Send.”

“I just texted Josie.”

Mike pushed the buzzer again. Like it would magically work now? Laura clearly wasn't home. Gone from work. Not at home. She must be with Josie. He tapped on his phone.

The look on Mike's face made Dylan freeze, a preternatural instinct putting him on hyper alert. “You what?”

“I found her phone number on a web page and I just texted her. Let's see what happens. Maybe Laura's with her and we can figure this all out. And if not, I'm searching now for her address.”

Tapping his foot, Mike leaned against the metal railing on Laura's stoop. “So you can stalk the f*ck out of women and find eleven billion ways to try to contact them, but we can't have an open, mature conversation with Laura about the money? You're such an a*shole, Dylan.”

Bzzz. Someone, hopefully Josie, texted him. The word “a*shole” hovered in the air between them, like a drone seeking a target. And it had found one. He was the a*shole here? He's the one who found Laura in the first place. Mike's the one who had lied to him! And who did –

Wait. Read the f*cking message. More important. He squinted and read aloud: “Laura says to tell you Don't chase me. Give me that one shred of respect. Why? Because it's complicated.”

The sound that came out of Mike was like an animal that had just been hit and wounded by a well-placed, though not fatal, arrow. “Jesus F*cking Christ,” he groaned, hand over his heart as if pierced there.

A huge lump formed in Dylan's throat. They'd really blown it, hadn't they? No, you did, he thought. You, Dylan.

Without thinking, he typed back: “It's always complicated. :)” and hit “Send.” Mike didn't seem to notice, his back turned to Dylan as his arms flexed, gripping and releasing the metal railing, shoulders hunched over and tight with grief and fury.

“Josie lives nearby. In Cambridge. I found her address.”

Mike inhaled deeply, his shoulders spreading like a cobra rising up to strike, then descending as he exhaled. Five long, deep breaths later he turned to Dylan, blinking rapidly, his blonde hair a complete, wavy mess and his eyes shadowed and cold.

“Let's go before this gets any more complicated.”

Too late, thought Dylan, but he wasn't going to argue. He'd done enough damage as the leader. Time to let Mike take over.

All those years Mike had spent sitting meditation, going to retreats, reading books by Jack Kornfield and Pema Chodron and the Dalai Lama, all the time he'd invested in breathing techniques and the miles pounded out on his feet, in skis, swimming and biking in triathlons to maintain a sense of inner centeredness was a waste.

As complete, f*cking waste. Because the rage that rose up in him, like a megamonster coming up from the sea in some cheesy B film, was very real, rapidly growing, and so quick to activate that he wondered how he had fooled himself all these years into thinking he had tamed it.

Control? Hah. Control was an illusion. Awareness? F*ck that.

The ache that grew its own voice and began keening within him was what hurt most. Why had he listened to Dylan? Why hadn't he blurted out the truth to Laura when he'd been ready? Trusting Dylan had been such an enormous mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he berated himself as he drove the quick hop from Laura's place to Josie's, her triple decker near a baseball field and a large playground, the typical setting for dogs off leash and an impossible parking situation.

Rules? Who cared. They'd broken most of them already. Why not add a ticket? When Dylan objected to the parking job he'd shut him down fast. It felt good. Whatever made Dylan go silent, Mike needed more of that.

As for anger, there was an unlimited well inside him, as if he'd struck the rage vein, uncharted territory as he became a fireball of pure instinct, driven by the need to fix this, to go back in time, to have been honest and open with Laura and to –

To have Jill tell the truth.

That thought came out of nowhere, whispered in his mind like a snake hissing secrets. He stopped as they walked toward the three-story house Dylan said was Josie's, as if struck in the face by a falling acorn or a random stone. What? What about Jill? Why would –

“Hey. You ready?” Dylan's voice was clipped and nervous as he worried a button on his work shirt. Work? Joe fired him? He wanted to know more about what had happened, but didn't have the bandwidth right now to listen. Without warning, his hands began to shake, the feeling deep and visceral, his chest bones rattling. Completely out of his control, his body seemed to be releasing emotions he didn't know he possessed.


“Uh, uh, um,” he stammered, feeling like an eleven year old asking for a first kiss, giving a first speech, talking to his new stepmother and realizing she couldn't stand him. “Sure,” he chirped out, the sound pushed between his teeth by an ever-expanding tongue, his body feeling like it was swelling and shriveling all at once.

The bell on Josie's door made a buzzing sound. He heard an “Eep!” and then an old calico cat appeared in the bay window right next to them. A flurry of curtain movement, then a face that was unmistakably Josie's.

“Shit,” Mike heard, her voice muted but discernible. Then whispers. He and Dylan exchanged looks of rolled eyes.

“Hah!” Dylan hissed, then pumped his fist. Don't crow too much, Mike thought. We are still so screwed.

Ding dong! Dylan pressed the buzzer again and stepped back on the concrete steps, which were fairly shallow. He almost fell backwards. A flurry of scuttling sounds and whispers, and then Josie's voice through the door.

“Go away.” She hollered. That woman could project. Who knew such a tiny body could hold such a mammoth voice?

“Please,” Mike said loudly. “We want to talk to Laura and explain.” Please say yes. A massive wave of déjà vu hit him. How ridiculous this all was becoming. Inheriting this money wasn't his idea. All it had brought was problems.

“Dylan already said everything. He was quite clear.” Josie's voice was caustic, like battery acid in voice form. Mike just blinked, over and over, trying not to react to everything, and as he turned his head toward Dylan all he could think was, Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Don't kill him.

“What did you text back to Josie, Dylan?” He could feel the threat in his voice, like lead and cyanide, and knew his poisoned tongue would morph into pounding fists soon.

“I just texted back 'It's always complicated' and a little smiley face.”

Holy shit! “And you thought she wouldn't take that the wrong way?”He enunciated, every word spat out through gritted teeth, his jaw aching with tension and his mind reeling. Stay calm.

Deadly calm.

Clearly shaken, Dylan flinched. “Well, yeah. I was being light-hearted.”

“You have the instincts of a drunken frat boy when it comes to anything emotionally delicate.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

Instead of beating Dylan by ripping out his ego and dropping it on his head, thus flattening him to a pancake from the sheer mass of it, Mike stepped forward and pounded on the door. “Please, Laura, we just want to talk.”

“Go away,” Josie warned, even louder. The woman could do a decent imitation of a foghorn.

“Only when we hear it from Laura,” Dylan shouted back. “Otherwise, we're going to keep trying until somehow you let us in.”

“Ah, God, Dylan, don't say that,” Mike groaned. Two dog owners at the park across the field turned and looked at them, their animals playing on the baseball field. It was a hot August day and already his shirt clung to him. The dogs frolicked and the owners were talking to each other and pointing at them.

“Don't say what? I mean it.” Dylan plucked his work shirt away from his body. He was sweating profusely now, running one hand through his hair. The sweat made it look slicked back with gel, the sun shining off the blue-black highlights in his thick hair.

“You don't have any power here right now, you dipshit.” Dylan bristled. Good! The truth hurt.

“Quit calling me names.”

“I'm not calling you names.” Mike leaned in, pulling himself up to his full height. “I'm calling you out.”

The door opened and Laura appeared, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, hair askew, her skirt wrinkled around her belly and covered with white cat fur. Her shoulders were set and one hand clung to the doorway, the other on the doorknob, body language aggressive and dismissive all at once.

Mike's heart exploded with need and fear. “Laura, I – ”

“Go.Away.” Her voice got louder on the second word, cracking a bit, as her eyes narrowed and bored into him and Dylan, her chest heaving and throat choking out her words. “I texted you,” she said, accusation infiltrating every word, anger focused on Dylan, “and asked for one f*cking thing. One! Respect. You couldn't even manage that.”

“But I – ” Dylan's smile warmed and softened as he tried the charm thing. Mike could tell it wouldn't work. Hell, it pissed him off to see it. He could only imagine what it triggered in Laura.

“You smug son-of-a-bitch,” she said in a cold voice, chin tipped down and eyes tipped up, the look nearly evil in its perfect composure and composition. Dylan's neck craned back and he took a step away, which rattled Mike. No holding back, she was showing them everything right now, and he loved her for it. Raw and broken, she was peeling back to show her true self and he was torn inside, knowing he'd done this to her – they had done this to her – because they had been too afraid to reveal their own true selves to her.

So had Jill.

“All I asked of you – both of you – ” her eyes burning through them, making Mike's body go cold as she alighted on him “ – was honesty and respect. You gave me neither. No – worse! – you withheld both from me. I guess you didn't trust me? Thought I was some kind of gold digger?”

Huh? “Why would we think you were all about the money when we were the ones who found you?” he asked gently. She relaxed visibly, suddenly, as if he'd said what she'd been thinking. As she closed her eyes and screwed her face into an expression of pain, he wanted to take every action, every touch, every word, every breath where he'd hurt her and make it all dissolve and disappear.

Nothing would make their betrayal go away, no matter how much Dylan wished it away with his charm and sweet talking, no matter how much Mike's earnest tries came from a place of authenticity.

They had betrayed her to the core.

“You tell me!” she shouted. “Oh. No. You can't.” Her voice went sarcastic. “You can't ever tell me anything. Anywhere.” She made a strange, dismissive sound. “Except in bed. Right, boys?” The smirk that formed after that was Mike's personal embodiment of despair. He was dying inside, and just wanted to pull her into his arms, wanted her arms around him, wanted to lose himself in her lushness, her soft, warm self.

That was gone. Long gone.

He and Dylan had driven it away.

“You're right,” he said, his voice shaky. “I can't tell you.” Not the answer she expected; her face fell. “I can't tell you because I don't even know. If I knew, I'd pour it out. Whatever explanation I could give you, other than blaming Dylan for saying it wasn't time yet, would be so weak you'd just get angrier.”

She just stared at him with contempt, cheeks red and eyes bloodshot. How had they come to this moment? How could all three of them be standing within feet of each other and be so blindingly miserable?

“You can't tell me?” Indignant laughter seemed to strengthen her.

“But please, Laura,” Dylan crooned, “invite us in and we can talk. Out here,” he gestured at the staring dog owners, “we have an audience.”

Thirteen different emotions shifted in her face in rapid succession, most of them negative. She slowly stepped back and shut the door, saying, “No. Just go away” as Mike's view of her narrowed and then disappeared in a line of metal and wood.

“Laura, I want to come in and talk!” Dylan begged.


“You want to come in?” she screamed through the door, her seething so clear it was like a high-pitched tone that crippled, a dog whistle of heartbreak. “Then buy the f*cking building, Dylan, and walk in like you own the place.” Mike saw Josie appear in the window, shaking her head slowly.

“I told you,” she mouthed, and whatever shred of function that remained in him snapped.

“You can afford it!” Laura screamed.

And with that, Mike threw the Jeep keys at Dylan and began to run home. It was a good ten miles.

A good start to pound out the pain.

The sight of Mike's back as he began to run away was unbelievable. Dylan stared, mouth open, the keys loose in his palm. The guy was running home? It was at least ten miles, which was nothing for Mike, but he was dressed in jeans, a polo shirt, and Merill shoes – not exactly runner's clothing in August in Boston. He'd turn into a puddle of goo by the time he crossed the Charles River.

Maybe that was the point.

Right now, though, he really didn't have a spare ounce of caring in him for anyone but Laura. How could he have been so callous? Man, he had totally misjudged how she perceived him and his every move. The “It's always complicated” joke not only fell flat, it seemed to have been the nail in the coffin of any chance they may have had to rewind their botched attempt at waiting for the right moment to tell her about their money. Ego be damned; he could admit when he was wrong. He was man enough. And boy, oh boy, was he wrong.

Mike didn't even want to be in the same car with him, Laura had just told him, in so many words, to go f*ck himself, and now Josie stood in the window shaking her head, mouthing words in an exaggerated way, as if he should be able to lip read.

“She's done” was all he could read, and then Josie pulled back the curtain, replaced by the old calico.

Done.

He didn't want to give up, didn't want to get in the Jeep and head back to the apartment because there? There he'd have to face Mike. Eventually. Once Mike got home from his run, which – knowing Mike's speed – would be in less than an hour, they'd have it out. Not part of their relationship. They didn't do fighting. No one had ever put them in this position.

Wait. They had put them in this position. He had to be fair to Laura. Hope died a quiet, soulful death as no one moved, he heard no hushed whispers, and the cat began licking its privates.

Time to go home.

Standing on her front stoop, withering in the heat, the object of ridicule from the two hipster pet owners who now held little grocery bags of poop off their thumbs, Dylan made his way slowly down the steps to get in the jeep and just go home.

Home? Where, exactly, was home anymore? Laura was home, where he felt comfortable and important and where the three of them, together, could do or be anything.

Including a billionaire.

Driving Mike's Jeep made him appreciate his Audi, the Jeep too high, the steering imprecise. He managed it, driving without thinking while on autopilot, not even bothering to turn on music. The route he chose took him past Jeddy's, ironically, where he and Mike had inadvertently been successful in getting Laura to look past their clumsy error and to give them another chance.

If only he could have an another accidental meeting with her. Maybe if she weren't on her guard he could talk to her openly, apologize profusely, and at least tell her how much he loved her.

Good thing he was at a red light and at a full stop, because the words loved her made his brain smack against his skull. Love? Where did that word come from? He didn't throw it around lightly. Being a charity auction bachelor and a bit of a cad meant he had his share of women, and he liked it that way – having his share. His slice. His percentage. Love? Love was something he'd saved for Mike and Jill.

And now, apparently, for Laura.

The woman he'd just driven away.

The rest of the drive was a blur until he parked the Jeep in Mike's spot, then made his reluctant way to the apartment. When he walked in, he found the last thing he ever expected to see.

Mike. Beet red, veins bulging, shirt completely soaked and arms flexing, neck expanded as if he'd just been doing deep squats with twice his weight on the bar. Huffing from exertion, Mike wouldn't look him in the eye. Pacing, he walked back and forth down the entrance hallway, a hulking mass of nervous energy.

“How did you beat me home?” he asked, puzzled. At best, he was twenty minutes ahead of Mike's top marathon speed.

“Cab.”

“Why'd you take a cab? I thought you were running it out.”

Silence. This Dylan could handle; he knew what to expect when Mike withdrew. But walking into the living room gave him a scene he was wholly unprepared to encounter.

Glass. Shattered glass everywhere. On second thought, it wasn't nervous energy Mike emanated.

That was rage.

The smoked-glass coffee table was a heap of shards and broken footings. A fifty-pound dumbbell lay cock-eyed in the middle, books piled on it from the collapse.

“Mike, what the f*ck – ” Sheer terror consumed him as he turned to find Mike holding the other fifty above his head, not pointed at Dylan but rather at a small end table next to the leather couch. The crash was splinteringly deafening, the sound of Mike's grunt as he exuded enough effort to pitch the dumbbell in a perfect, parabolic arc combining with the breaking glass to create a noise that made Dylan's teeth rattle.

Jumping back, he avoided getting hit by shrapnel. His mind raced. Was he in true danger from Mike? Mike? His partner for more than ten years, the gentle man he'd admired and respected, who was always so compassionate and –

Mike stormed out of the room and started throwing objects in his bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing, loud thumps and thick cracking sounds making Dylan follow him, wary and ready to protect himself if needed. Entering Mike's bedroom, which has always been minimalist and sparse, the sight before him was jarring. Everything he owned was everywhere – clothes spilling out of drawers, his closet ransacked, candles rolling in jars on the floor and pictures face down. Mike was standing near his bed, wildly shoving items into a hockey duffel bag, head down and muttering to himself.

“What happened? Were we robbed?”

Mike snorted but didn't look up, robotically grabbing a blue sweatshirt, then a pair of torn jeans, then flip flops, all going in the bag by rote movement. “Yeah, Dylan. I was robbed. Of Laura. By you and your stupid, f*cked up ideas.”

“Hey, man, you can't pin this entirely on me.” His own rage swelled inside, ready to match Mike's molecule for molecule. “You're the one who primed her not to trust us in the first place.”

The look Mike shot him was pure evil. His heart sank as his ire rose. That wasn't a look you give to someone you care about. That was a look you get when someone you love turns cold. Turns off. Views you as no one.

It was worse than indifference. And it was a look he had only received once before, from an old girlfriend, and it had made his balls crawl into his throat, his soul shrivel into a shrunken mess, and he had resolved never, ever to let anyone in who could do that to him.

So far he hadn't.

Until now.

“I f*cked up,” Mike huffed. “I own it. But dammit,” he shouted, smacking his dresser top for emphasis, his wallet and change cup falling off the right edge. “We fixed that! She took us back in! And you – you! You wanted to waste all that because you're so f*cking afraid that taking Jill's money means you accept her death or that you loved her less of whatever f*cked up emotional process you have buried deep in your ego. I can't even look at you,” he added.


Stunned, Dylan couldn't form a coherent thought to respond. Who was this man? He looked like Mike but might as well have been some psycho twin, come up from the dead to steal Mike's spirit and destroy their relationship. Mike was never mean. He could be firm, and he could be sarcastic (though rarely), and he knew how to take a stand and hold firm, but he was never, ever an a*shole. Had losing Laura really driven him to some sort of psychotic break?

Or was Dylan just way, way off in estimating how much he had hurt Mike by wanting to wait to tell Laura about the trust fund? Was this more about him than he realized – and not in some self-centered way, but more in an “Oh, shit, this is all my fault” kind of way?

Mike strode angrily to the front door, then stopped cold. “Where are my keys?”

“Here.” Dylan tossed them in an arc, Mike's hand reaching up to catch them. Palm facing Dylan, the movement precise and clipped, like an athlete who had done it hundreds of thousands of times to reach perfection.

Grabbing the doorknob, Mike was halfway out the door when Dylan called out. “Where are you going?”

“My cabin.”

“What about this?” Dylan shouted, sweeping his arm out, indicating the mess.

“Hire someone to clean it up and replace everything. Bill me. I can afford it,” he scoffed, then slammed the door. A muffled shout: “I'm a f*cking billionaire!” and then the fading sound of footsteps.