Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Read online

  “Seven, god.”

  “That was later though.” He paused a moment. Swallowed again. I had a feeling of immense privilege—I knew without him saying as much that he never, ever spoke of this to anyone. “When I was eleven years old, I came home from latchkey. That was one of those other things Mrs. Thomas did for me, made sure I got to stay at school as long as possible. Knew I hated going home, because I’d be alone, or because my mom would be strung out, drunk, passed out, or have a trick with her to pay for her next hit. And some of those dudes were…scary. I saw and heard some shit no kid should.”

  “Yeah, I know a bit about that.”

  “I know you do.” He sighed, heavily. “So yeah. Came home from latchkey around six. And I’m sure you can remember as well as I do how it feels to walk in and just know something is majorly wrong.”

  I nodded against his chest. “Oh yeah.”

  “That stillness. That quiet, a sick, wrong kind of quiet. Like the air itself is…heavier, somehow, you know? Your skin crawls, your gut just…squirms. This thick, dark sense of dread just creeps over you.”

  I nodded again. “I’m all too familiar.”

  He growled a sigh. “She was on the couch of our trailer, on her back. Naked. Brand-new bag of meth on the coffee table. Pipe on the floor, arm flung out, limp. She’d OD’d. Fuckin’ mess. You know what that’s like, don’t have to tell you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I walked all the way back to school by myself, found Mrs. Thomas and told her. She let me stay with her while things happened. I remember…going to her house. It was weird, because I was still young enough to be sort of surprised to see Mrs. Thomas as a real person, you know? Like, with a home, a family, a whole life outside of school. She had a son, who was sixteen or so at the time, and he was just the coolest thing in the world to me.” He scrubbed his hair. “I think I cut my hair like this even now because of how cool I remember him looking, with his hair like this.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “You’re under oath to uphold my rep as a big mean tough guy, remember.”

  I kissed his chest, laughing. “Yeah, I know.”

  “She made fresh oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Let me help her make them, let me eat the batter. I watched TV with her son, and he didn’t treat me like a kid, which for an eleven-year-old is a big fuckin’ deal.”

  “Yeah it is.”

  “Then, late at night, a police cruiser showed up, with a big white male cop and little black female cop, but I remember the woman being the one in charge, which I thought was cool. I remember that. She was just tough, you know?” He laughed. “Weird, the little shit you remember, right?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  He squeezed me, as if reminding himself he was here, now, with me. “I wanted to stay with her, but I knew better than to ask if I could.” Another pause. “They told me they had a place for me to stay, and they were bringing me home to collect my things. Mrs. Thomas’s son came out when I was about to get in the cruiser, and he had this old Gameboy. He had a case for it and a bunch of games, extra batteries and all that, even an old pair of headphones, and he gave it to me. Said ‘here, I don’t need this anymore. You take it.’ It was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.” He laughed. “Four years ago, I looked him up. He graduated from UC San Diego, and was working at a construction firm as a structural engineer. I anonymously paid off his student loans.”

  I felt my chest tighten.

  “I got placed in a foster home,” he continued, “and that first one was fine. Nice couple, but foster homes don’t last, so I got moved in with Jeff and Nina, and they were pure fuckin’ evil. Treated me like Cinderella, only with daily beatings, which included kicking and cigarette burns. Got moved again thank fuck—basically, I bounced from foster to foster for about six months.” A long, tense pause. “And then I got brought into the Child Services office by a caseworker, and they sat me down in a conference room. No one told me anything, just left me there alone for like, half an hour. I was like, am I in trouble? Is this an interrogation? What the fuck? Then, the door opens, and I see these feet in a wheelchair come through. My dad.”

  “Ohmygod.”

  “Yeah. He was in the Siege of Sarajevo. It was this big deal, I guess. He got some kind of medal or award, but he lost both legs from the knee down in the process. Rocket launcher, or a landmine, I dunno. He wouldn’t talk about it. I guess it happened the same exact week Mom OD’d, but he had to spend a few months in a hospital in Germany recovering before he could ship back Stateside.”

  “Wow. That must have been…unexpected.”

  “No kidding. I’d met him exactly once, that time when I was five. And then, suddenly, there he was, no legs, angry, and in charge of me.” A sigh. “I guess that ain’t fair. He had his career taken away from him, and came home to discover I’d been abused and neglected and was in foster care, and now, suddenly, a career Army officer and a lifelong bachelor who’d just lost his legs had to figure out how to be a father to a wild, angry, violent punk-ass twelve-year-old who hated the whole fuckin’ world and didn’t trust a soul.”

  “That had to be so hard. For both of you.”

  “It was.” A long silence. “He was the one who got me into boxing. I was getting picked on and in fights, gettin’ my ass kicked every other day. I was scrawny then, short and skinny with these feet too big for my ankles, and these giant hands and wrists that made me look like a fuckin’ cartoon character.”

  “You obviously grew into those hands and feet.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. The summer I was thirteen, I grew six inches, and gained like fifty pounds. My dad got a disability package through the army, and then got a good job managing a security firm, so we had money, and he could afford to feed my bottomless pit as much as I could eat. I boxed, I worked out, and I ate. I was like five-six when I turned twelve, and I was over six feet by fourteen. I went from victim to bully in one summer.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t a bully.”

  He snorted. “You’d be flat wrong. I was a fuckin’ prick. I was an angry miserable violent piece of shit and I went out of my way to make everyone else around me miserable. Finally my dad got in my face, yanked me down to his face and shook me like a rag doll, tellin’ me I had to get my shit together and stop being a fuckin’ asshole all the time or he’d kick my ass himself, legs or no legs. And believe me, I knew he could and would. He lifted like a maniac after he got injured, so he was scary huge from the waist up.”

  “Is that what changed you?”

  “Nah. I was still a dick. I just got old enough to start boxing competitively, and I was able to get most of my rage out in the ring, tearing poor unsuspecting kids into pieces with my fists. I was a monster, but it got me win after win, and I liked winning. And the refs always pulled me off before I could do anything too bad. But I was, shit, I was just so angry, you know?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I can sympathize. I acted out a lot in college for a lot of the same reasons, partying and screwing around. It wasn’t until I met Lizzy and discovered selling houses that I found a purpose beyond living a life that was basically me cutting off my own nose to spite my face, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” A pause, and he craned his neck down to meet my eyes. “And that’s my heavy shit.”

  I sighed. “And now you want mine.”

  “We did have a bargain.”

  “I told you some, already.”

  “Yeah, but I know for a fact there’s something else. That thing you just don’t talk about.”

  “Why would you want to know?”

  “Because…I guess because I feel like I won’t really know you and understand you otherwise. And I want to. I like who you are, and I want to know what makes you tick. And that includes the heavy shit.”

  I swallowed hard. “Dammit, Seven.”

  “Wrong answer, or right answer?”

  “An answer I can’t argue with, and I’m scar
ed.”

  He rolled to his back and brought me on top of him. “Autumn, do you really think I’d let anything happen to you? Ever?”

  “No, but it’s not what you’d let happen that I’m scared of. It’s…what you’d do. Or not do. You’d hurt me—inadvertently, I’m sure, but pain is pain regardless of intent. And…I’ve been hurt enough in my life, and I don’t know if I could survive being hurt any more. And the way you’d hurt me—probably not on purpose, but still…it’d be the worst pain of all.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  He held my gaze, frank and unafraid. “Yes. I can.”

  “I’m still scared. Too scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Being hurt.”

  “Be more specific.” He ran his hands down my back, over my butt, back up. “Tell me exactly what you’re afraid of.”

  I wanted out of this conversation. I wanted away from him, from his earnest eyes and fearless soul. From his demanding honesty. “Seven. I can’t.”

  “Try. Please?”

  I rolled out of his arms and sat up, reached for my clothes. Dressed without looking at him. Felt his silence as a heavy weight.

  “Did I lose you, Autumn?” His hand rested gently on my shoulder.

  “Just…give me a minute, okay?”

  “All right.”

  I stood up and kicked barefoot through the sand toward the water’s edge.

  Why was this so hard? He’d given me zero reasons to distrust him. He’d protected me from myself when intoxicated, from Charles when drugged. He’d pulled out when I’d lost all sense and gotten on him bare—I had been so far gone with lust and pleasure that I hadn’t even realized. He’d told me private, personal, painful things about his past. And as someone with an equally painful history, I knew how hard that was, how big of a deal. None of what he’d told me was public, either. I doubted he’d told many people, if at all.

  He was the most generous sexual partner I’ve ever had, by several orders of magnitude. He was generous, attentive, fierce. He knew his way around a female orgasm, and seemed to always put my pleasure before his own.

  He was gorgeous. Powerful. Hung like a freaking horse. Dominating without being controlling. Didn’t fall asleep seconds after coming. Had rhythm, stamina, and power.

  He was funny. Wealthy without being douchey about it—crazy expensive and super flashy car notwithstanding; he was allowed to enjoy his money his own way, after all. Didn’t make him an asshole. He was generous with his time and wealth. He even seemed to appreciate that I’m independent and successful, that I don’t need him, that I’m not starry-eyed and fawning over his fame and net worth.

  His list of positive traits was overwhelming. What negatives could I even find?

  Um…

  I was having trouble finding anything about him I didn’t like, didn’t attractive.

  So…what was my hang-up? He wasn’t proposing, just asking me to tell him about my past. Share my heavy shit.

  Trust him.

  How did you go about making a decision like that? A list of pros and cons? I’d already made one, mentally, and the pros list was overflowing while the cons side was literally empty.

  Why shouldn’t I trust him? If I trusted him, I’d end up falling for him—if I hadn’t already—and then he may decide he didn’t feel about me the way I did about him. The last time I’d trusted a guy with my heart, he’d smashed it into a million pieces, set the pieces on fire, and then put the fire out with his piss.

  There it was, the real reason. I mean, obviously. I knew that. I knew the reasons behind my trust issues. And yeah, Mom had a lot to do with it, as did never having a father figure.

  But trusting Seven was made painfully impossible because of…

  Bobby Reisz.

  That history was something only Zoe knew about. Mom did, but I wasn’t even sure if she was even alive anymore. Bobby, but he was dead.

  Just me and Zoe.

  I blinked hard, because twenty-some years later, it still had the power to cut my heart open.

  I had to talk about it, didn’t I?

  Fuck.

  I went back to the blanket. Seven was dressed and had everything packed up, was sitting on the blanket, just watching me. I sat facing him, crisscross. “Okay.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Okay? Okay what?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

  He nodded. “Here, now? Or would you rather drive and talk? Or wait till we can sit at home—mine or yours? Whatever you need, Autumn. And if you can’t talk about it, I do understand. I just…I want you to trust me.”

  I shook my head. “It’s gotta be now, while I’m worked up to talk about it.”

  He reached out, scooped his hands under my buttocks and lifted me to sit on his lap, tucked me against his chest.

  I would never have imagined I’d find real, undeniable, physical and emotional comfort from being held by a man like this. But yet there I was, cozy as a kitten in a basket, feeling safe and protected and sheltered.

  I sucked in a long slow deep breath. Held it, let it out shakily. “The year Mom had cancer. Worst year of my life. Zoe was working because I couldn’t, so we barely saw each other. I wasn’t going to school. I was literally at home, all the time, taking care of Mom. I was alone, like all the time. We had a neighbor, Bobby.” I swallowed hard. “Bobby Reisz. Lived across the street. I knew him, it was a small town so everyone knew everyone. He was a grade older than me, so he had graduated already, working at an oil change place. Mom was usually asleep by eight or nine, but she woke up a lot and needed help, so it’s not like I could leave. So I’d sit out on the porch and smoke.”

  He snorted. “I can’t see you as a smoker.”

  “It was short-lived. Just that year, basically. I don’t know how I got started, but it was Mom, probably. She was one of those on-again-off-again smokers. So anyway, I’d sit on the porch and smoke and drink beer and pretend to read a paperback. Bobby wasn’t allowed to smoke in his house, so he’d sit on his porch and smoke too. Eventually, we started hanging out. I don’t remember who initiated it, who went over first, but we’d just hang out on my porch or his, talking. He was easy to talk to, and he made me laugh, which I needed at that point in my life.”

  Seven huffed a laugh of affirmation. “A friend who can make you laugh when your life is hell is indispensable.”

  “It didn’t become physical right away. I guess that’s what threw me off guard. I wasn’t a virgin—I’d had several boyfriends by that point. Probably too many. But those weren’t serious, just…teenage flings, you know? Feeling your way around growing up, figuring out your body and your hormones.”

  “Gotcha,” was all he said; nothing else was needed.

  “With Bobby, it was different. I thought it was, at least. We talked about stuff. We’d sit on my porch for hours, smoking cigarette after cigarette, talking about life. Those long deep conversations that make you feel so adult, you know? Like you’re figuring out life, and this person next to you is on that path with you, figuring out right beside you. Mom would wake up and need me, need help getting to the bathroom, or she’d have thrown up and need help cleaning up, or whatever. I’d fix her up, and go back out with Bobby. We didn’t sleep together until about a month and a half after we first started talking. He was so sweet about it. He brought a blanket over, and a six-pack, and some little tea lights. Set it all up under the old oak tree in my backyard. It was nice. I thought I was in love.”

  “Eighteen and in love. You think you know it all at that age, huh?”

  “No shit.” I closed my eyes and let myself sink into the memories, Seven’s arms around me keeping me grounded in the present. “It was all the time, after that. We ended up making this little nest on the porch. We had this wraparound porch, and my house was on the end of the street, at a cul-de-sac, with nothing but scrub and hills beyond that, so that part of the porch, it was private. Couldn’t see it from the road, from his
house, or from anywhere in mine. We’d stay there all night, fucking and talking and smoking.”

  He tightened his grip. “Probably felt pretty real to you, I imagine.”

  I nodded. “It did. He even told me he loved me.”

  “But then.”

  I laughed bitterly. “But then, yeah. It was pretty great for the whole time Mom was sick. He was there for me. Took my mind off things. Made me laugh, made me feel good. We never saw each other anywhere except my porch, any time except at night, after Mom was asleep. Not because it was secret, just because that’s when we had time together.” I sighed. “So. Mom went into remission, I took my GED, and for a minute, things seemed to be leveling out, some. I was finally able to go out, like for a date with Bobby. We went to this dive he knew of, where his cousin was the bartender and didn’t ID if he knew you were cool. So we went out there, like an hour from where we lived. In the middle of nowhere, literally. We took Bobby’s truck, this old F-150 he was always fiddling with, trying to keep it running. We had burgers and drank a shit ton of beer, and at first it was fun. It was so nice to be out, to feel free, to not be trapped in that house with my sick mother. If I’d loved her, it would have been more tolerable, but she was fucking awful to us most of our lives, and I borderline hated her by then already. But I’m the type of person where when I knew she needed me, I had to help. I couldn’t not. I guess I was hoping the cancer would help her kick her habit, and as I said earlier, I thought it had. She’d been clean for months while on chemo. Anyway. Bobby and I were both drunk. Like, a lot. I was young, stupid. Careless. I got in the truck with him and let him drive and didn’t think twice about it. How the hell we made it home alive without killing anyone I’ll never know.”