The Billionaire's Command
Page 1
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
PART ONE
Sasha
1
There’s something I’ve noticed about human nature: people don’t like things they don’t understand. Scarlet told me once that primitive man invented religion to explain why the sky got dark at night, and it sounded reasonable to me. If you knew why something happened, it wasn’t as scary anymore. It made sense. It happened for a reason.
So that was why I decided to blame the traffic light for everything that happened that summer.
Okay, obviously it wasn’t really the traffic light’s fault. What happened probably would have happened even if I didn’t trip on the sidewalk on my way to work. But I had to blame it on something, and the traffic light was as good a culprit as any.
That way I could tell myself it was fate. Pre-ordained. That the universe worked in mysterious ways. I could neatly sidestep any uncertainty.
I didn’t like uncertainty.
It was one of those sweltering July days that made everyone in the city feel like dropping dead. What was the cliche? Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. I wasn’t late for work—the club didn’t open for another hour—but I was later than I wanted to be. I liked taking my time getting ready, and I didn’t enjoy feeling rushed; and anyway, I didn’t want to be outside any longer than I had to be, as hot as it was. I had chosen my apartment based largely on how close it was to work, but there were some summer days when the half-mile walk seemed endless. And I was too cheap to ever take a cab.
I was almost to the intersection when the light changed. The flashing red hand on the crosswalk sign stopped flashing and shone with a steady light, and the stoplight turned yellow and then red in quick succession. Annoyed, I sighed and slowed to a stop. Traffic was too heavy to ignore the light and dart across the street. I wasn’t about to play chicken with New York City cabbies. They would run me over and not even feel bad about it.
I had lived in New York long enough that I didn’t wait obediently for the walk sign before I crossed. As soon as traffic was more or less clear, I booked it.
I forgot to check the bike lane, though.
The furious ringing of a bell alerted me to the cyclist bearing down on me, and I swore and lunged for the sidewalk. The bike passed behind me, close enough to rustle my skirt, and the cyclist yelled, “Watch where you’re going!” as he continued down Hudson Street.
I stumbled onto the sidewalk, off-balance, and then tripped on my own flip-flop and went down.
So really, if I wanted to assign blame, the cyclist probably deserved a large helping. Maybe even more than the traffic light.
Falling always seemed like it happened in slow motion. I had plenty of time to recognize that I was falling, regret my clumsiness, and hope I didn’t hurt myself too badly. And then I was down, knees and hands burning, and I just knelt there for a few long moments, embarrassed and annoyed.
I lifted my left hand to check the damage. The palm was scraped, but not badly. No blood. The right one was fine, too.
My knees, on the other hand.
I stood up and tottered to a nearby bench. Both of my knees were skinned raw and oozing blood, stuck with bits of dirt and gravel and who knew what.
Shit.
“That looks bad,” a passing woman said.
Real helpful, lady. I ignored her and started digging through my bag, hoping I had a few spare napkins crammed in there somewhere. I didn’t want to bleed down my shins all the way to work.
“You look like you could use some help,” a deep voice said, and I looked up.
And up.
Our eyes met.
Jesus, he was tall.
He was dressed like a businessman, in a dark suit and tie, but he didn’t look like a businessman. His black hair was buzzed so short that I could see his scalp, and it made him look dangerous, like he had just come back from a war. He was handsome in a sort of generic way, nothing special, but there was something about him that kept me looking. He raised one eyebrow at me and said, “That was a nasty fall. Bikes are a menace.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open a little, and hastily closed it. “It was my fault. I should have looked,” I said. “I’m okay, though.”
“You’re dripping blood,” he said. “Stay here. There’s a drugstore right across the street.”
Oh, God, was he offering to bandage my skinned knees for me, like I was a wayward toddler? “I’m really okay,” I said. “That’s totally nice of you, but I have to—work—”
“That can wait,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.” And he turned and strode off toward the Duane Reade.
I couldn’t have said why I waited. I really did need to get to work, and I really was fine. Mostly fine. Not in any danger of dying, at least. But it wasn’t every day that incredibly handsome strangers not only spoke to me but went out of their way to help me, and I was curious. I wanted to see what would happen.
It didn’t hurt that he was really, really hot.
And that I liked the way he had swooped in and taken charge. Most men in New York were so wishy-washy.
I kind of liked being ordered around.
My mystery man emerged from the drugstore, plastic bag in hand. I watched him approach me with a feeling like I was observing myself from the outside. It was too weird to be real. Things like this didn’t happen to girls like me. Maybe I was on a television show and there were men with cameras hiding in the park behind me.
But nobody jumped out and shouted that I’d been punked, and he crouched on the sidewalk in front of me and drew a small package out of the bag.
“You’re going to ruin your suit,” I said, because the sidewalks were beyond gross.
“Nothing the dry cleaner can’t fix,” he said. He opened the package and pulled out a wet wipe, the kind that you used to clean your hands at a BBQ place. I watched, totally dumbfounded, as he began gently cleaning the blood and grit from my knees.
Get a grip, Sasha. “You don’t have to do that,” I said, wanting to draw my legs away but afraid I would sock him in the face with a kneecap. “Don’t get me wrong, this is really nice of you—like, really, really nice—but I’m sure you have way better things to do this afternoon than, like, mop the blood off some stranger’s legs—”
“You’re babbling,” he said, interrupting my word vomit, and I blushed and shut up.
He dabbed at my knees until they were clean of dirt and congealed blood. It stung, but he was careful, and every time his fingers brushed against my skin, I felt a little spark flare up my spine. Bad idea. Bad idea. He was way out of my league.
Sasha
1
There’s something I’ve noticed about human nature: people don’t like things they don’t understand. Scarlet told me once that primitive man invented religion to explain why the sky got dark at night, and it sounded reasonable to me. If you knew why something happened, it wasn’t as scary anymore. It made sense. It happened for a reason.
So that was why I decided to blame the traffic light for everything that happened that summer.
Okay, obviously it wasn’t really the traffic light’s fault. What happened probably would have happened even if I didn’t trip on the sidewalk on my way to work. But I had to blame it on something, and the traffic light was as good a culprit as any.
That way I could tell myself it was fate. Pre-ordained. That the universe worked in mysterious ways. I could neatly sidestep any uncertainty.
I didn’t like uncertainty.
It was one of those sweltering July days that made everyone in the city feel like dropping dead. What was the cliche? Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. I wasn’t late for work—the club didn’t open for another hour—but I was later than I wanted to be. I liked taking my time getting ready, and I didn’t enjoy feeling rushed; and anyway, I didn’t want to be outside any longer than I had to be, as hot as it was. I had chosen my apartment based largely on how close it was to work, but there were some summer days when the half-mile walk seemed endless. And I was too cheap to ever take a cab.
I was almost to the intersection when the light changed. The flashing red hand on the crosswalk sign stopped flashing and shone with a steady light, and the stoplight turned yellow and then red in quick succession. Annoyed, I sighed and slowed to a stop. Traffic was too heavy to ignore the light and dart across the street. I wasn’t about to play chicken with New York City cabbies. They would run me over and not even feel bad about it.
I had lived in New York long enough that I didn’t wait obediently for the walk sign before I crossed. As soon as traffic was more or less clear, I booked it.
I forgot to check the bike lane, though.
The furious ringing of a bell alerted me to the cyclist bearing down on me, and I swore and lunged for the sidewalk. The bike passed behind me, close enough to rustle my skirt, and the cyclist yelled, “Watch where you’re going!” as he continued down Hudson Street.
I stumbled onto the sidewalk, off-balance, and then tripped on my own flip-flop and went down.
So really, if I wanted to assign blame, the cyclist probably deserved a large helping. Maybe even more than the traffic light.
Falling always seemed like it happened in slow motion. I had plenty of time to recognize that I was falling, regret my clumsiness, and hope I didn’t hurt myself too badly. And then I was down, knees and hands burning, and I just knelt there for a few long moments, embarrassed and annoyed.
I lifted my left hand to check the damage. The palm was scraped, but not badly. No blood. The right one was fine, too.
My knees, on the other hand.
I stood up and tottered to a nearby bench. Both of my knees were skinned raw and oozing blood, stuck with bits of dirt and gravel and who knew what.
Shit.
“That looks bad,” a passing woman said.
Real helpful, lady. I ignored her and started digging through my bag, hoping I had a few spare napkins crammed in there somewhere. I didn’t want to bleed down my shins all the way to work.
“You look like you could use some help,” a deep voice said, and I looked up.
And up.
Our eyes met.
Jesus, he was tall.
He was dressed like a businessman, in a dark suit and tie, but he didn’t look like a businessman. His black hair was buzzed so short that I could see his scalp, and it made him look dangerous, like he had just come back from a war. He was handsome in a sort of generic way, nothing special, but there was something about him that kept me looking. He raised one eyebrow at me and said, “That was a nasty fall. Bikes are a menace.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open a little, and hastily closed it. “It was my fault. I should have looked,” I said. “I’m okay, though.”
“You’re dripping blood,” he said. “Stay here. There’s a drugstore right across the street.”
Oh, God, was he offering to bandage my skinned knees for me, like I was a wayward toddler? “I’m really okay,” I said. “That’s totally nice of you, but I have to—work—”
“That can wait,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.” And he turned and strode off toward the Duane Reade.
I couldn’t have said why I waited. I really did need to get to work, and I really was fine. Mostly fine. Not in any danger of dying, at least. But it wasn’t every day that incredibly handsome strangers not only spoke to me but went out of their way to help me, and I was curious. I wanted to see what would happen.
It didn’t hurt that he was really, really hot.
And that I liked the way he had swooped in and taken charge. Most men in New York were so wishy-washy.
I kind of liked being ordered around.
My mystery man emerged from the drugstore, plastic bag in hand. I watched him approach me with a feeling like I was observing myself from the outside. It was too weird to be real. Things like this didn’t happen to girls like me. Maybe I was on a television show and there were men with cameras hiding in the park behind me.
But nobody jumped out and shouted that I’d been punked, and he crouched on the sidewalk in front of me and drew a small package out of the bag.
“You’re going to ruin your suit,” I said, because the sidewalks were beyond gross.
“Nothing the dry cleaner can’t fix,” he said. He opened the package and pulled out a wet wipe, the kind that you used to clean your hands at a BBQ place. I watched, totally dumbfounded, as he began gently cleaning the blood and grit from my knees.
Get a grip, Sasha. “You don’t have to do that,” I said, wanting to draw my legs away but afraid I would sock him in the face with a kneecap. “Don’t get me wrong, this is really nice of you—like, really, really nice—but I’m sure you have way better things to do this afternoon than, like, mop the blood off some stranger’s legs—”
“You’re babbling,” he said, interrupting my word vomit, and I blushed and shut up.
He dabbed at my knees until they were clean of dirt and congealed blood. It stung, but he was careful, and every time his fingers brushed against my skin, I felt a little spark flare up my spine. Bad idea. Bad idea. He was way out of my league.
