Chapter Six
By Sunday, though, my plans have changed. One of our international suppliers is coming to the States and wants a meeting with me Tuesday in New York. I’m meeting with Dimitri and Lizzie first thing tomorrow morning, so the impromptu trip to Kansas is off, and I canceled the meeting with Beauregard.
Ben was thrilled when I told him. That supplier just saved you from making a huge mistake , were his exact words.
I’m going to New York instead. I’ll be working most of today before the meeting tomorrow, but tonight? An evening at Black Rose Underground is what I need. I’ll find a sub, do a scene, get back to who I truly am.
Who I was before Skye Manning catapulted herself into my life.
Flying in my private jet never gets old. The hum of the engines, the serene isolation of cruising at thirty-seven thousand feet, and the luxurious comfort of the leather seats provide an unparalleled sense of freedom. The flight attendants are well trained to serve me my preferred meals and drinks as I pore over business reports.
It’s early, and there’s nothing like a sunrise in the air. As dawn breaks, the soft hues of orange and pink lace themselves around the edges of the cloud clusters outside. I take a sip of my freshly brewed coffee, its warmth spreading throughout my body as I gaze out the window at the world below.
But even the beauty of the air doesn’t keep Skye from my mind.
I never should have begun a relationship with Skye. I knew it at the time, and I know it now.
However, that changes nothing.
She’s become a part of me, and I want to know more. I want to know what makes her tick. Why she is the way she is. I’ve never had such a drive to know someone, and frankly, it pisses me off.
Moreso, though, it scares me. Scares me in a way I’ve never been scared, and I’ve been through some rough shit.
I don’t need a night at the club.
I need to…
Fuck.
I want to go to Kansas.
I want to meet Skye’s parents. See where she grew up.
On pure instinct, I rise and walk to the cockpit.
“Yes, Mr. Black?” the copilot says.
“I need you to change the flight plan,” I say. “I want to go to Kansas City.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says. “We’re cleared for New York. It’ll take a few minutes.”
“How long?”
“Hard to say. I’ll let you know if there are any issues, but I don’t foresee any. I just need to get approval from air traffic control and then log the new flight path.”
“Great. Thank you.”
Back at my seat, I make the necessary arrangements. I’ll meet with Dimitri and Lizzie over Zoom tomorrow and be in New York for the meeting on Tuesday.
The flight is longer but uneventful, and two hours later, we land in Kansas City.
Once I deplane, I grab a taxi and ask the driver to take me to the hotel in downtown Liberty, Kansas, where I’ve made a reservation for the night.
“That’s an hour away, sir,” the driver says.
“I’m aware. I’ll be generous with my tip.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
And we’re on the way.
…
The hotel is a small brick building—only four rooms available. My room has a queen-size bed. I’m used to a king-size, but I’ll make do. The style is early American, so different from the sophisticated decor at the hotels I normally frequent.
In the corners of the room stand lamps with tasseled shades, shedding dappled light on the weathered hardback tomes arranged on a mahogany bookshelf. The rich, worn carpet underfoot releases a faint scent of old tobacco mingled with a touch of lavender. Odd, but not unpleasant.
The bathroom is small and tiled in black and white. The claw-foot bathtub gives a quaint air to the space, in stark contrast to the modern stainless-steel fixtures. The sink has separate faucets for hot and cold water. The edges of the mirror above the sink are tarnished with age.
The view from the window is simple. Liberty, Kansas is hardly a booming city.
Outside, the streets are lined with turn-of-the-century buildings, their facades a quilt of chipped paint and age-old brick. So different from the sleek glass skyscrapers I’m used to in Boston and New York. The town square features an ornate park with a rusted wrought-iron gazebo at its center, surrounded by a smattering of trees in varying stages of bloom.
The bed creaks under my weight as I settle onto it, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. I take out my cell phone. I have the number for Skye’s parents, Steve and Margaret Manning. They live on the outskirts of town on a small corn farm.
Is it too early to call them?
Maybe they’re at church. Are they churchgoers? So much I don’t know.
Skye doesn’t talk about her family, about her past. That never struck me as overly unusual as I don’t talk about my childhood, either.
On the off chance that the Mannings are at church, I choose to call later. Sometime this afternoon. In the meantime, I fire up the laptop to check emails.
But my mind wanders—back to Skye, of course.
What are your hard limits?
I only have one.
What is it?
I don’t talk about it.
Don’t you think I should know? So I don’t bring it up?
Trust me, Skye. You will never bring it up.
But she did bring it up.
And she couldn’t tell me why she wanted it. Why she wanted to punish herself in such a dangerous way.
Damn.
I rise from the bed, pace around the small room, rubbing at my temples.
What the hell am I doing here?
Is this really what I’ve come to? Chasing a woman to a Kansas farm town?
Skye’s not here. I could have easily had my people get her schedule for me. I was sure tempted.
So why didn’t I?
There’s the obvious answer, of course—that it would be a direct invasion of her privacy.
That’s never stopped me before. Hell, it’s not stopping me now. What bigger invasion of privacy is there than hijacking her hometown and her parents?
I grab my phone. Time to make that phone call.
I dial the number for Skye’s parents.
The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Until— “Hello?” from a female voice.
I clear my throat. “Hello, is this Mrs. Margaret Manning?”
“Maggie. Yes. How may I help you?”
I clear my throat again. This is ridiculous. I’ve stared down the world’s most successful businesspeople in meetings, and I don’t know what to say to Skye’s mother.
“I’m a friend of your daughter’s, ma’am.”
“Oh? I’m afraid Skye no longer lives here.”
“Yes, I know. I’m a friend of hers from Boston, and I’m in town on business.”
“How wonderful! Hold on a moment.” Then, “Steve, there’s a friend of Skye’s on the phone. He’s from Boston, and he’s in town.”
“Invite him over,” a muffled male voice says.
“Yes, I was going to.” Then back into the phone, “My husband and I would love to meet you. Are you here in Liberty right now?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m staying at the hotel in town.”
“How about stopping by this afternoon?” she says. “You could stay for dinner if you’d like.”
Wow. These are really trusting people. I haven’t even told them my name. They probably still keep their doors unlocked at night.
“That’s kind of you,” I say. “I’d love to meet you. My name is Braden. Braden Black.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“I’m Skye’s boyfriend,” I continue.
Maggie gasps. “Boyfriend?”
Why the hell did I say that? We’re over. I’m the one who ended it.
But she’s still in my heart. Fuck, I flew to Kansas for no reason other than to try to get to know her better by seeing where she grew up, meeting the two people who raised her.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ve been dating.”
“She never mentioned you—” Another gasp. “Braden Black? From Boston? The blue-collar billionaire?”
Another throat clear. I must sound like a chain smoker. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Of course, we are dying to meet you, Mr. Black. Please come over at any time. I assume you have the address.”
“I do. I’ll see you soon.”
Once the call ends, I’m surprised that my heart is racing.
Nerves.
And I don’t get nervous.