The Tycoon

“This is crazy,” I breathed.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’ve been waiting five long years to get you back, Ronnie. I won’t let you go again.”

With those words blowing holes through me, he left, and I just stood there on my mother’s porch, touching my lips and wondering if I’d lost my mind.

Because when he said those words, it felt like he was choosing me.

And I was seriously considering this.

11

VERONICA

For a while, when I first moved into my apartment before I rented the house in Austin, I’d go running. At night.

I know. I know. Dangerous. But my head was just so…loud…for a while. And I hated running with the fire of a thousand suns. But I found myself putting my shoes on and walking. Somehow that wasn’t enough, so I’d run a few steps. And then a few more. And then I’d stop, hand braced against the closest lamppost, trying to convince my lungs to work.

And then I’d run some more.

For a few months—six, maybe—I was actually a runner.

And it helped. It cleared my head. It doped me up on endorphins and made me feel like I might just survive my heartache. My humiliation.

Two days after Clayton left the ranch I found myself up in my room, putting together something I could run in. My threadbare yoga pants, a T-shirt, and my crappy three-year-old runners were the best I could come up with and then I was out the front door. Running around the long driveway, out to the feeder road. And then back when it felt too far. But somehow it wasn’t enough. And I did it again.

And again.

I wanted to call Bea, tell her what was happening and have her talk some sense into me, but that wasn’t how our relationship worked. Besides, her plate was full. And she would know that I was considering Clayton’s offer partly because of her, and she would hate being the catalyst for that kind of sacrifice.

So I didn’t call her.

Because…maybe it wasn’t a sacrifice. A life of security for my sisters, fundamentally satisfying work, and children…oh, and don’t forget the sex. It didn’t actually sound like a hardship.

Who needed love when we had a mutually beneficial agreement?

And orgasms.

On my third loop, Trudy was outside sitting on the steps. She handed me a glass of water.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Is the running helping?”

“I don’t know.”

And I ran again. One more time. My lungs screamed. My legs burned. My belly jiggled. Just so I could get myself to this decision I didn’t want to make. Just so I could run some of the fear away. Run myself down to something basic. Something…ready. And brave, maybe.

I had to remind myself that I was capable. That I could control the anxiety I was feeling.

You don’t have to love him.

I staggered to a stop. Trudy was still there and I collapsed beside her.

“So?” she asked. “Feel better?”

“Maybe?”

“Well, if running didn’t help,” she said, “let’s see if cheese will.”

“Oh.” I stood up behind her. “Cheese always helps.”

I can do this.

He can’t hurt me again.

I called Clayton the next night.

“Hello Ronnie,” he said, his voice warm with a timbre I didn’t want to hear. Or acknowledge. But my body did. My body heard that pitch in his voice and vibrated like he’d hit a tuning fork only my sex drive could hear. “I was getting worried I might not hear from you.”

Cool it, I told myself.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow in Dallas,” I said. “What time?’

“Well, I suppose that depends on what your answer is.”

“Why?”

“Well, if the answer is no, you could meet me in my office.”

“And if the answer is yes?”

“I’ll make you dinner at my condo.”

“What if the answer is…maybe?”

“I’ll still make you dinner at my condo.”

“Make me dinner?” I couldn’t even imagine.

“I thought that would be…different. From last time. If you’d rather go out, or…”

The hesitation in his voice was like a crowbar against my armor, finding that weak spot and digging in. “No. It’s fine.” It was sweet and romantic as hell. “I’ll meet you at your condo.”

His laughter was dark and rich and…satisfied.

I hung up and went for another run.

He cannot hurt me.

The Dallas skyline was like honeycomb in the twilight sky. Beautiful and glowing. I used to love the view of the city at night. Watching it from the backseat of my father’s limo as we drove from the ranch into the city for that night’s tedious social events. We’d show up at the opera or the art museum, get our pictures taken, and then get shuffled back into cars, without even getting to try the appetizers. We’d get cheeseburgers on the way home, carefully trying not to drip ketchup down our fancy clothes. And it was fun enough that it almost erased the sting of the King family reality.

My sisters and I were just props in our father’s life.