Chapter 24
T he numbers danced in my head as, at the time, I wished I had danced on Thursday.
When I thought of the original deal that Burnston Investments could have given me for the Taylors, I had visions of conquest and victory in my head.
It seemed inevitable that I would emerge victorious, given how Layla all but loved me, Craig smiled and shook my hand, and even John Burnston liked me for that time.
And then…
Well, let’s just say that false hope had a cruel way of crashing down.
But no longer. That was in the past, done with, forgotten. Well, not forgotten, it was too recent. But new success had a way of pushing the negativity of the past behind in rapid fashion.
At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.
I knew that, like a schizophrenic just recently brought to medical care, I sounded delusional.
One moment, I was on top of the world, happy as could be at the prospect that maybe everything had happened the way it was supposed to happen.
Maybe this all was actually a blessing… and then, less than a few moments later, I was lamenting everything, the “truth” of the moment weighing down on my heavily.
But what was I supposed to do, pick a side and just go straight ahead?
It felt like my world kept flipping because my world really was continuing to flip.
Not even a whole damn month had gone by from when I told Layla I loved her to now.
Everything that happened in between was so insane, I’d have to write a book about it someday.
I could stay grounded the only way I knew how—by doing work.
Yes, even at Burnson Industries, when it felt like I would never get anything done, I could stay focused for at least a few moments at a time just by focusing at the work at hand.
The problem with that particular deal was Layla’s name kept popping up, or at least her last name, and there just wasn’t a lot of work.
That wouldn’t be a problem here. This new lead that I would get when I got home would almost certainly be unaffiliated and unconnected to sex, romance, or even women. If the organization giving us this staggering offer was led by a man, that would be all the better.
The subway ride home went by like a blur, both literally in how fast the train moved and in how my mind processed everything.
I only realized I had come to my stop after the doors had already opened and the sea of people piled on, making my movement off the train like trying to fight a herd of stampeding bulls rushing into a river the side of my apartment door.
The PA announcer drolled on about standing clear of the closing doors, a voice I had long learned to shut out even at twelve years old.
When I got out, I continued to be in my own little world. The brisk fall sky of New York City did nothing to shake me from my thoughts. It seemed like nothing would.
Until I saw her.
Upon first glance, it just looked like a curvy woman from afar checking her phone, her professional attire blending in with the rest of New York City’s young professionals. But when I looked back ahead, I knew what I had seen, and I could not help but turn my head toward her once more.
Layla Taylor.
When I looked at her, I was surprised to feel like I wanted to approach her. I suspected this had less to do with sheer physical attraction—which I still had, though not to the degree I once did—and more because I had never gotten satisfactory answers to the one question dominating them all.
Why?
Why had Layla sold me out? Why had she manipulated me like that? Why had she cried when she insisted I say that I loved her no matter what?
Sure, she had given me some answers in the form of “I had to” or “it’s business” or “you wouldn’t understand.
” I knew how the art of the deal worked.
But even in that moment of unbridled rage, I saw them for what they are—deflections, attempts to avoid the tough questions, logical thought overrun by emotions I didn’t care to digest. They weren’t the real answers.
But right now, in looking at Layla—who looked worn down, wearing a weary expression and a hunched over body that suggested difficulty in where she was—I knew I was not ready to face her. I still felt visceral, real anger. I could not have an adult conversation without slipping into petty insults.
I walked ahead, keeping my eyes deliberately straight ahead, the better so Layla and I would not accidentally make eye contact. I put my phone up to my left ear so maybe it would block my features. I—
“Chance!”
Goddamnit.
Guess we’re about to find out if I can be an adult about this.
I dropped the facade of being on a phone call, partially because Layla saying my name sounded so pained. She did not sound like she wanted to rub it in my face, nor did she want to gloat. I stopped, turned, and waited for her to come to me.
She looked unbelievably nervous to approach me, as if I might berate her once again.
At the start, I had considered it, but seeing her now was like seeing a wounded dog that had bit me.
I couldn’t help but feel some sort of sympathy, even if I knew after I made sure she wasn’t dying or anything insane I would never talk to her again.
Liar. You know yourself better.
“How are you?” she asked.
“What is this about, Layla?” I said, not interested in small talk.
She gulped and hesitated for several uncomfortable seconds.
It wasn’t a New York minute—it was like a New York hour that passed in that time.
I crossed my arms and waited—it’s not like I had anything else to do.
You know, not like I had any major investment projects I had to do my research on. No, sir, nothing like that at all.
“I’m sorry.”
So it’s just like last time, huh. Just a bunch of stonewalling and nothing beyond that.
“Sorry for what?” I said, my words sounding more like a statement than an actual question.
“Sorry for everything.”
This is a waste of time. If she’s not going to go into any detail, we’re just playing games at this point.
“Everything doesn’t tell me anything, Layla,” I said. “I need to know what you’re apologizing for and why you did what you did. And don’t tell me ‘you know what.’ I want to hear you say it to know it’s sincere.”
Layla, noticeably, looked around us, as if paranoid about who might be listening.
I found this move curious, although in that particular moment, I didn’t think anything of it other than her not wanting to create a public scene that would draw unwanted attention.
Not that anyone in New York City ever had time or ever bothered to give unwanted attention.
“I’m sorry for using you, Chance,” she said. It’s a start. “I’m sorry that I took what you said and passed it along to my uncle. I’m… I’m sorry.”
I let my arms drop. I wasn’t about to hug her—that just felt repulsive and would destroy any self-respect I had—but I could let myself be a bit more open to what she had to say now. At least she could finally admit what she had done.
“It’s a start,” I said, the tension in my voice not quite as thick. “But why did you do it? Why?”
My questions also had finally started to sound like questions.
We still had a wall of ice between us, but at least the surface had begun to thaw just a tad.
I’m not sure what good it would do to have the wall melt other than for some cliche about peace amongst us all, but I couldn’t lie…
it did feel a little good to have hatred fade away.
“I…”
Well, so much for that.
Layla stumbled over her words for several seconds, but it became obvious after a point that she just wasn’t going to say anything.
This wasn’t about her not having a good answer.
There was something she was unwilling to say for whatever reason.
And so long as that was the case, I was not going to let that ice melt any further—if anything, I would resolidify it all.
“Don’t bother,” I said, crossing my arms. “I appreciate the apology, but I should have known you wouldn’t have a good reason.”
“Chance!”
“Or at least be unwilling to tell me,” I said, to which she did not have as strong a reaction as before. “You disgust me. I said I loved you. Nothing could have been said that was more honest than that. And you took that honesty for your own benefit.”
“I know,” she said, looking down. She wasn’t crying, but I wondered if that was a function of her having simply run out of tears. “Someday, you’ll find out. And when you do, I hope that you have sympathy.”
It took all of the maturity I had not to roll my eyes in dramatic fashion at that statement. So now she was the victim?
“Well, you found out my secrets, and you fucked me over with them,” I said.
Layla could not maintain eye contact with me. Good, I thought. She didn’t deserve to look into my eyes for what she did.
My phone buzzed. Briefly, I looked down at it and saw that Morgan had messaged me. I couldn’t say what else he said, but I knew it wasn’t about grabbing pizza later.
“But in any case, you might have done me a favor,” I said, starting to feel a little smug. “You set me free from Burnson Investments.”
“You got fired?!?”
“And because of that, I’m now in a position to succeed even more than before,” I said, putting on a cocky smile and ignoring her question. “Hope your uncle takes care of you.”
“Chance!”
I had started to turn away in disgust and ready to move on. But when she said my name with as much of a reaction as she had… I hesitated, considered turning back to her, but then kept walking away. I couldn’t take seeing the girl I had once loved like this any longer.
I don’t know what I had said that had caused her to react so strongly, but it was obviously something that went beyond my knowledge of her.
No one reacted that strongly without there being a very good reason, and I didn’t know what that good reason was.
I suspected, though, that she was not as close to her uncle Craig as I had suspected.
I also began to believe that Craig Taylor might be a horrible human being. Who else would whore out their niece and call them their daughter for the sake of information—not even money, information? Who did that who wasn’t a piece of shit?
And with family, no less.
No wonder Layla had it rough, if I was right. If I was wrong, and Layla knew full well what was going on and went along with it, then she was a true sociopathic piece of shit.
But I saw soul in her eyes. I saw her cry when we had sex after I told her I loved her.
I saw how she reacted when she figured out I got fired.
She couldn’t have faked those reactions.
Through and through, she was a human being with soul—a young girl, and someone perhaps easily controlled by family and others, but a human being nevertheless.
I couldn’t stay angry at her for much longer, although I could still try and stay the hell away from her.
Even if Layla was innocent in everything that had happened over the last few months, even if she just was a sex-crazed woman who was innocent in business and easily controlled, even if she had played no part in suggesting that the Taylors use me…
it was a field of landmines not worth going into.
Layla could very well be the perfect person for me, but with that family, with our history, and with the world of business at play, it was never going to happen. And I still had not completely ruled out Layla making all of this up and using me even now.
It was a stark contrast to Claire, her professionalism, her independent nature, her girl-next-door look… I swear I wasn’t trying to put Claire and Layla side by side. I looked at Claire as a business associate, Layla as a former romantic interest, and the only thing they shared was their gender.
Still, to some extent, with Layla so fresh on my mind, I knew I was prone to flirting with just about anything that moved. I knew that I had sworn not to make the same mistakes as before.
But with Claire…
No, no, no. I would not. I would be a good boy, focus on business, and help Claire strictly in business settings.
I swore to it.