Chapter Forty-Six
RHYLAND
I woke up to the fucking apocalypse.
Thunder cracked outside my window. It sounded like a leather leash whipping at skin.
My phone alarm hadn’t buzzed yet. I tapped my screen, checking the time. 5:15 a.m.
Rubbing my eyes, I peered through the window. On top of it raining like a motherfucker, patio furniture was swirling in the air, curling upward to the sky before crashing onto the ground. I heard shouting and screams, muffled by the shrieking winds, and squinted to focus on the figures of Bruce and Jolene, all bundled up and weighted down by big jackets, herding their cattle into the stables.
I bolted out of the bed as if my ass were on fire, not bothering to put on a shirt, and skidded across the hallway. The front door splintered off its hinges as I ripped it open and ran barefoot to Bruce. He was locking up the stables and pushing heavy furniture against the door, his wife nowhere in sight now.
“Coltridge, son, good to have you here. Come help me push this bench against the door.” He seemed completely unbothered by what was happening, which begged the fucking question: Was I in business with a goddamn psychopath?
I grabbed the large wooden bench in one hand and angled it against the door handle, my eyes unwavering from Bruce. “Is this doomsday?” I demanded. “Because if so, I need to get home even faster to be with Dylan.”
“I’m afraid ain’t no one flying out anywhere in this weather.” He squinted up at the gray sky, the downy cotton balls he called hair dancing in the wind.
“What?” I felt the life draining from my fucking body.
“I said, ain’t no one flying out anywhere in thi—”
“I heard you the first time.” I grabbed him by the collar of his puffy jacket, fisting my fingers around the cloth and tugging him to me so my nose crushed his. I was beyond furious. I was somewhere between feral and murderous. “How long is this shit going to last?”
“May I suggest, son, that you release me before your whole darn future goes down my overflowin’ drain?” He squinted.
I released him so suddenly he stumbled backward, his ass landing in a pool of mud. Turning around, I stalked back inside. I needed to check the weather report. Then I needed to get a car and drive out of the eye of this tornado to the nearest operating airport. Ideally, a private one with a plane I could charter.
Bruce got up to his feet with a loud grunt, chasing behind me. “It’s going to be like this till five, I’m afraid, but it’ll clear out soon. It was completely spontaneous.”
“So is your upcoming death.” I made my way to my room—the same one I’d occupied with Dylan and Gravity five weeks ago.
Dylan.
She was never going to forgive me for letting her down if I didn’t make it to my babysitting gig. Cal was already on a plane alone, en route to New York, and they had no backup plan. Just me.
I flipped my suitcase open on the bed, shoveling my clothes into it haphazardly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Bruce got in my way, trying to stop me. I pushed him so hard he slammed against the closet.
“What does it look like? I’m packing.”
“The airports are closed.”
“I’m driving out to Irvine.”
“It’s a two-hour drive.” He snorted. “You can’t drive in this weather.”
“Wanna fucking bet?”
“I’ll rephrase. No one in this retreat is going to give you their vehicle to drive yourself into sure death. Just call your lil miss. She’ll understand.”
“She won’t.” I slammed my suitcase shut. For the first time in my life, I felt powerless. I turned to look at him, heaving. “She won’t understand, because she has a concert she needs to get to. It’s the first fucking thing she’s done for herself in four years, since her daughter was born, and maybe it seems trivial to you or silly, but it means the world to her. And to me. I’m getting there in time no matter what. You understand?”
His eyes were as big as saucers as he raised his palms up in surrender. I shook my head, contemplating calling her and telling her about this mini tornado sweeping its way through rural Dallas, but then I decided against it. I wasn’t going to make excuses. I was going to show up and not bother her with this bullshit, like I’d promised.
I pulled my phone out and called Tate, putting him on speaker. Bruce watched me intently the whole time, the flash of anger and betrayal passing over his face when Tate’s low baritone filled the room like black smoke.
“What is it?”
Yeah, he wasn’t winning any congeniality awards.
“Are you in the States?” I demanded.
“Christ, no. I’m in New York. What would I do inside America?”
Tate Blackthorn was an obnoxious snob. But he was an obnoxious snob with a 747–8 VIP. His private airplane included a fourteen-seat boarding room, two Jacuzzis, and full-size bedrooms.
“I need to borrow your jet,” I gritted out, bracing myself for all the shit he was going to give me. A favor from Tate always came with a hefty price tag. The exterior was hedge-fund baby, but the interior was Napoli-style Camorra.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Dallas.”
“Isn’t there a tornado there right now?”
“Mini tornado,” I corrected. “And I promised Dylan I’d be home before five.”
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to care about your fake relationship with your fake fiancée?” he drawled.
Shit, shit, shit.
Bruce heard him and immediately perked up, his shoulders squaring, expression honing into fury. “Tatum,” Bruce boomed.
There was a beat of silence from the other end of the line before Tate sighed. “I forgot it was hick o’clock CT.”
Bruce ignored the quip. “What did you say about Miss Casablancas being Coltridge’s fake fiancée?”
Tate didn’t miss a beat. “I did not say that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Prove it.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Oh, well then.”
Tate was a ten-out-of-ten gaslighter. Unfortunately, Bruce had already heard him the first time.
Actually, I wasn’t even that bothered. Fuck the deal, and fuck Bruce Marshall. I’d bent over backward for him. If this was what made him pull out of the contract, then he really was a piece of shit.
“Tate.” I snapped him back to attention. “I need that jet.”
“I’m not flying my precious four-hundred-million-dollar private plane to tornado-stricken Dallas just because you found a moderately good pussy to sink your dick into.” Tate spoke slowly, like you would to a stubborn child.
“Irvine is out of the danger zone. I can drive there and have the plane wait for me.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll owe you one.”
“You already owe me six,” Tate ricocheted back. “I’m keeping your secrets, drafting your contracts, firing assholes who mistreat your precious Dylan. Next, you’ll ask me to wear a pencil skirt and bend over your executive desk.”
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and slammed my teeth together. “What do you want?” He knew he had me against the wall. Knew I was going to give him whatever the hell he wanted. Now all I could do was hear what I was about to lose.
“I want twenty-five percent of your shares in App-date.”
Motherfucker.
My whole body was shaking, and I was sweating, cursing the very day I met this asshole. He’d wanted his hands on this app since the night at Casablancas when he tried to outbid Bruce. Tate was simply biding his time. And as always, he’d succeeded.
Bruce groaned. “Don’t do it, son.”
I turned to him. “Then you lend me your plane.”
“I would.” Bruce gave me a panicked look. “But it’s in Dallas. It can’t fly out of there.”
Dammit. He was right.
“Fifteen percent,” I bargained into the phone.
“Twenty-eight,” Tate countered, a hint of cheerfulness slicing through his unbearably smooth tone. “Every single time you try to negotiate, I’ll up the ante.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” I spat out.
“No,” Tate said. “I don’t waste my precious humor on people I don’t want to fuck.”
“Do you waste your humor on people you do want to fuck?” I asked doubtfully.
“Good point. I never developed one. Might attract unwarranted affection,” Tate muttered. “That’s a risk I can’t take. So do we have a deal?”
“We’re keeping it at twenty-five, and you are giving me the option to purchase it back for the current rate.”
“0.2 percent rate, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Considering there were triple-digit millions on the line, 0.2 percent was atrocious, but I knew I couldn’t get anything more from him. “Fine. I’ll text you the name of the airport.”
“Text it to Gia.” Gia was his PA. “I’m entirely disinterested in doing more admin than you’ve already assigned me.” He hung up.
That left me with one thing to sort out: a car to take me to Irvine.
I glanced out the window. It was pouring harder than before, the wind shrieking and whining, pounding on the windows like a soul-sucking ghost. I shook my head. What the hell was wrong with this state? It was as hot as sweaty balls yesterday.
“Did you just…” Bruce pointed at my phone, then at me, tilting his head sideways in confusion.
“Did I just what?” I barked impatiently, searching through car rentals online on my phone. Everything was closed.
“Hand over twenty-five percent of your shares to that devil?”
I looked up from my phone, dead-ass serious. “I need to get to New York before that concert starts.”
“Fine. Take my car.” He pushed his hand into his front pocket, rummaging for his keys and tossing them into my hands.
I caught them midair. It was a Ram. Less likely to blow in the wind. Silver linings and all.
“But I have to warn you, Coltridge. There’s a good chance you won’t make it to the airport in one piece.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”