The Billionaire's Fake Girlfriend: Part 2 (The Billionaire Saga 2)
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I blanched. “Or…at your earliest convenience.”
He jerked to attention. “Of course, miss. I can have the plane ready in thirty minutes. Is Mr. Taylor already en route or would you like me to call—”
“Mr. Taylor won’t be joining us.”
For the first time, Captain Jim Helmsman faltered. “He’ll be remaining on the island?”
My eyes tightened. “Or wherever he so chooses.”
More hesitation. “Miss White…of course that’s all well and good…I just need to check with Mr. Taylor before filing any—”
“Captain Helmsman?” I clutched my purse to my chest, shivering a bit in the chilled night but stan
ding tall. “I need to go home. Now.”
His eyes widened slightly and he glanced at the plane.
Seeing him crack, I pressed forward. “If you can’t take me, I more than understand. In that case, would you be so kind as to call me a cab to the main airport?”
He called Marcus himself. And Marcus gave him the okay to take me home. I thought he’d come to the airstrip and try to convince me not to leave, but he didn’t. I guess he was done with me. Whatever. I tried to keep the tears from falling.
Thirty minutes later, we were up in the air.
I gazed dully out the window, wrapped in a cashmere blanket a stewardess had found for me in storage, slowly emptying each shooter I’d swiped from the bungalow’s minibar.
Five dollars. Nine dollars. Seven dollars.
What did I care? I was still on the plane, and that was the deal, right?
All expenses covered…
Chapter 2
We chased the setting sun through three time zones so that it had just barely slipped below the horizon as we touched down in Los Angeles. I thanked the pilot and flight crew profusely. Captain Helmsman summoned me a cab home.
The apartment was just as I’d left it. Amanda was out with Barry—sparing me the immediate retelling of my monumental night—and Deevus was howling and stress-shedding in a corner. After tipping a bit of kibble into his bowl, I stripped out of my clothes and stood in the center of my bedroom in only my underwear. The alcohol had made me a bit fuzzy, but I soaked in the noise and stench of East Hollywood with a smile. The dream was over, but despite its countless flaws, I had never been so happy to be home.
The sound of someone vomiting in the back alley brought me to my senses, and I pulled on a tee-shirt and jeans. The apartment was still full of sharp little reminders of my time above the clouds…and I was determined to destroy every single one of them.
Ten minutes later, I was standing in front of the huge Dumpster in the parking lot, an armful of glittering fabrics and mementos clutched to my chest, facing an existential question.
How did one throw away Prada?
I pinched the Dumpster lid between two fingers and peeked tentatively inside, reeling back in horror at the stench of rotting food and garbage coming from within. My arms tightened automatically, protecting the innocent clothes.
I couldn’t toss them on top of all of that, could I? Even if I did want a cathartic cleanse, the clothes hadn’t done anything wrong. They were just helpless bystanders, caught in the middle of all this.
I hugged them to my chest, debating my options. Suddenly, I brightened. I darted back to my car and pulled out an old garment bag. I bundled up the memories solemnly into the bag. The least I could do was offer them this little amount of protection. Who knows? Maybe some poor girl exactly my size would be rooting through the trash, find them, and start a new chapter. A chapter where all her dreams would come true. Or maybe they’d rot in a landfill for the rest of time. With a long sigh, I returned to the dumpster.
But I still couldn’t do it.
Come on, Bex, have a little will power.
It just seemed like such a waste. And what if it was the nine vodka shooters talking? I didn’t want to wake up in the morning and regret what I’d done…
“Considering a move?”
A greasy voice made me jump and turn around. Teller Hamberg, my landlord from hell, was meandering slowly across the parking lot, eyeing the Dumpster with a wicked grin.