Burning Ultimatum (Trevor's Harem #4) (15 page)

“We can tell them I was mistaken. I
thought
I said something to Kylie, but got mixed up.” Inspired, I add: “Oh! And you can confirm it! You have a photographic memory and can tell them how I was just remembering wrong!”

Jessica shakes her head. “Yes, and we’ll do that, too, but they’ll still know. Everything is accounted for. Just by checking the kitchen supplies, it’ll be obvious that peanut butter was set out for a while but not every day, as it otherwise would be. We have to argue that Halo thought you were allergic but actually aren’t. It’s the only way.”
 

I don’t think that will work. Not even a little. And we’re still not covering the biggest thing, which it seems to me is a rather conspicuous omission.
 

“Jess,” I say, “I
just said,
aloud, that I’m allergic to peanuts.”
 

“You have to say you were kidding,” she says. “It’s the only way.”
 

I don’t answer that, just lift the pillow off our faces and sit up.
 

I suppose I could pretend all the things Jessica’s proposed. And that, for reasons unknown, I decided to joke about being allergic to peanuts, and hope I’m not tested.

But why? Nobody, anywhere, ever, would buy it.
 

It’s like Jessica said: we’re fucked.

Hard.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I hear the helicopter before I see it. The rotors seem to thump a bone-deep resonance through the cool, blue Colorado sky from far away, like a distant encampment of natives with heavy drums. For a while, as the horizon remains innocent and vacant, I try to believe I’m hearing another chopper. The weather service. News traffic. Or Life Flight ferrying an injured person from accident to emergency room.
 

But then I see it. Tiny at first, like an insect. It grows while I stand on the roof deck, jacket-clad arms clasped behind my back. And when it’s close enough, I see it’s a midnight-blue Sikorsky S-76C — the exact same color and model of luxury copter owned by my friend Hunter Altman. So either Hunter decided to pay me a spontaneous, unannounced visit all the way from LA, or this is who I think it is, with his ass in a seat that belongs to me.

I warred with the decision to come up here. Waiting for Welty to touch down then greeting him as he emerges could be seen in one of two ways. It’s either subservient — receiving the man who’s come to chastise and punish me like a penitent on bended knee — or a show of confidence.
 

I’m hoping the latter, but am far from certain.
 

I’ve lost control of the house, the people, the grounds, even the helipad. Halo’s a dumb set of ones and zeroes, but the people behind it aren’t as stupid. The staff were all spying on me. My hired men, who’ve always been loyal, turned against me. They’d have turned on Trevor, too, I’m sure, seeing as he’s become as complicit in this as I am. The board has taken over and will continue to do so as long as no one stands in their way. It’s like they’ve forgotten who calls the shots and signs the checks, assuming that soon they’ll be the only ones who do either.
 

And now, it looks as if they may get their wish.
 

I watch the bird approach, standing tall, sunglasses on against the glare. I shaved; I put on the best clothes in my closet; I’m going to stay exactly where I am as the pilot puts the skids down on the big H in the roof’s center. The rotors are too high and far to hit me. Flinching shows weakness. And no matter what he holds over me, the one thing I’m still sure of is that Welty is weaker than me. By far.
 

He obviously knows everything. By the time Tony let me pass, finding Tattletale Tim was pointless. I didn’t bother trying to call Welty. I knew he’d come, and we could discuss this in person.

I wonder what he’ll try to do. I wonder what he’ll say. I wonder if I’ll fight when he tries to take everything away from me. I honestly don’t know. On one hand, it’s only money. But on the other, it’s
mine
. Tom Welty and his ilk deserve nothing. We invited them to help
us
. But tentacle by tentacle and inch by inch, the board
became
this company. They were never meant to supersede proper authority. They haven’t earned it.
 

They have no right.
 

The skids kiss the concrete. The rotors slow. Once Welty is clear, the pilot will take off and head to the remote pad. I won’t have a helicopter on my fucking roof, blocking the view from below. Welty ducks toward me, as if the little shit is nearly tall enough for the rotors to give him a haircut, then scuttles like a rodent while I stand tall. His clothing pales next to mine. As does his stature. The idea that this repugnant man thinks he can beat me is ridiculous. And the truth that he’s
about
to is intolerable.
 

I’ve been locked out of the monitoring room. My code has been changed. Trevor’s, too. Locked out in our own house, asked to kneel before this intruder. To plead our cases. Maybe to ask for forgiveness, to beg for leniency.
 

Well
Fuck. That.

Welty crosses to me, his weasel-like features exaggerated as he squints into the bright sun. He seems to have ridden here with aviators on, but he’s holding them in one hand as he ducks the blades, as if the wind will blow them from his face.

He extends his hand in a farce of civility. After a long five seconds, I move one hand out from behind my back and shake it. It’s a macho asshole thing to do, but I squeeze too hard, and feel him wince.
 

“Daniel,” he says. “A pleasure.”
 

“Mr. Welty.”
 

I don’t break eye contact. Finally, he does, pretending to take in the grounds. He doesn’t come here often, and the grounds are indeed gorgeous, but we both know he can’t face me.
 

Coward
.
 

Do what you came to do, and get it over with, you motherfucker.
 

But Welty just looks back up at me and says, “Shall we go inside?”
 

I gesture toward the exit. Let him go first. He can hold the door open for me.
 

The helicopter lifts off behind us. By the time we reach the door, its driving wind has relented to a breeze. I wait for Welty to speak. To say that he told me so, that he was on to me all along. I wait for him to insult Bridget, and I anticipate my reaction if he does, not knowing what it might be or whether blood will be drawn. I wait for him to tell me I’m incompetent. To sneer down his thin little nose at me. To tell me he heard all about the peanut butter incident, the segments missing from the Halo archive, or any one of a thousand other bits of evidence mounting against me.
 

He turns at the door. Finally. A small, crooked, squinting-into-the-sun smile forms on his lips. “I’m very excited by what you’ve accomplished here, Daniel.”
 

“Really.”
 

“It’s groundbreaking. And a real feather in Eros’s cap.”
 

Welty holds the door, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him, that ugly little smile still on his face.
 

I don’t move. I can only stare, wondering why I haven’t been insulted. Belittled. Usurped, as I captain this mutinous ship.

When I move toward the open door, Welty opens his mouth. I’m so keyed up, I interrupt him before he can manage a single word.

“What?” I ask, sure this is the point where he pulls rank and drops the hammer.

“Such a beautiful day,” he says.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

My dress is sliver and sparkly enough to make me feel like a disco ball. I have matching shoes and too much jewelry. I didn’t choose the outfit. When I returned to my room after my face-smashing, hot-whispering, tits-groping palaver with Jessica, everything was laid out already. Maybe by Sammy, who delivers the envelopes. Or, given all Halo seems to control around here, maybe by some kind of a robot.
 

Jessica, beside me, is also silver and sparkly. I glance at Daniel, this pointless question in my eyes. He’s the scientist. He’s the one who tests for things, being sure to have control groups and clean experimental conditions and all that other stuff I ignored in high school while smoking out back. I want to ask him if Jessica and I are dressed like twins for scientific reasons. Like, maybe he wants to be sure that whatever chooses winners around here — Trevor, Daniel, Halo, the board — they’re choosing based not on the dress, but on the woman wearing it instead. Have we been twinned up so we’re in matching wrappers, where only the filling can make the difference?
 

Thinking of wrappings and fillings makes me think of Twinkies. I wonder if this competition could possibly be won by someone who sometimes enjoys anything made by Hostess. Surely not. And despite my nerves, I giggle.
 

Jessica looks over at me. So does the new guy, who I heard Daniel call Welty. He must be from the Eros board, but all I’ve gathered is from supposition. Ever since yesterday’s breakfast, when I mentioned my peanut allergy and raised a flag to anyone who’d notice its absence in Halo’s memory, Daniel’s stayed away from me. We haven’t spoken, or shared more than a glance. The tension around here, until the helicopter landed this morning, was cloying like a bad cologne. Everyone is afraid to speak. Trevor and Jess haven’t talked, so far as I know, and even she and I have kept our distance.
 

Thirty-six hours ago, our goal was making it to the finish line with the status quo. All we needed to do, now that things had fallen into place, was keep our boat from rocking. But thanks to my stupid mouth, we’ve reached the finish line in a leaking vessel, all of us standing on the razor’s edge of its bow. One wrong move in any direction, and we’ll topple into shark infested water.
 

I almost wish this man, this Welty, would do whatever he’s planning to do and get it all over with. Jessica was sure the board would come down on us all, with the possible exception of Trevor. Daniel seemed even
more
certain, judging by the intensity of his eyes when he returned, escorted by Tony, after chasing the single-serving helper from the dining room. But now the board is here, and evidence is scattered like body parts on a battlefield. The way Jessica talks, he’d simply need to pop the lid on something and take a peek, and then it would all be over.
 

But he’s done nothing so far, accusing no one.
 

My lies are all queued. I almost need to spit them out because they’re wasting so much space in my head. I’ve gone over each, trying to decide which tale to tell. Jessica’s plan will fail, and I’ll have a hard time saying such absurd things to this board member’s face. But what else can I do?
 

Apparently, I don’t need to say anything. Welty’s been polite, accommodating, even respectful. You’d think he’d come only to witness this final elimination, as he so exuberantly claims.
 

I watch Welty smile as Trevor fingers the single rose on the table at the room’s front. His hands tremble as he rolls the uneven stem over as if in search of its perfect position. Trevor looks up at Jessica, then at me, seeming to say,
Are we really going to just do this as if nothing has happened?

Finally, he looks at Daniel, who appears just as uneasy.
 

“Go ahead,” Daniel says. I almost hear the words that should follow:
and let’s see what happens
.

“Okay.” Trevor says.
 

“Okay,” Daniel repeats.
 

I realize that neither of them knows who’s supposed to advance. They don’t have the answer, or any way to get it. I saw Daniel try the door to his little control room earlier, obviously frustrated that it wouldn’t open, that he’s been shut out of his usual loop. I don’t know how all of this normally works because I’ve been too nervous during our few successful eliminations to pay attention, but right now it’s clear that Daniel is waiting for Trevor to reveal the winner, while Trevor is waiting for Daniel do the equivalent of handing him an Academy Award envelope.
 

Daniel looks to me, to Jessica, to Trevor, and finally to the room’s front, where I get the impression the entire mysterious Eros board is watching this final elimination, waiting for their queen to be crowned.

“I don’t … ” he says to Trevor, trailing off. “I just assumed
you
… ” And he trails off again.
 

“How would
I
know?” Trevor says.
 

After the two men stare at each other for a bit, Welty seems to come alive, behind and between them. He chuckles good-naturedly, steps forward, and reaches into his blazer’s interior pocket.
 

“I’m so sorry, I was waiting for one of you to say,
The envelope please
.” He laughs then holds out an envelope — just like the numbered envelopes Daniel offered me months ago, when all of this started.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I don’t know if Trevor suspects what’s written on the piece of paper inside Welty’s envelope, but the longer I stare, the more he must know that something is amiss. I’m frustrated that he hasn’t yet risen to help me — that he hasn’t snatched the paper and stepped into his role, pretending to be in charge here the way I would if the board hadn’t slowly hamstrung me. But I can’t blame him. Trevor’s the face of this company, and we’ve deliberately built him a reputation as a carefree playboy cursed by family wealth. That’s not who he is, or was, but it doesn’t matter. Trevor’s become what the board made him. What
I
made him, and myself in the process.
 

I stare at the paper with a sinking feeling: It’s the last of my company moving under the board’s control and away from my own. It’s the board sinking its hands on the money I earned, as if they have any right to claim it. And I wonder: By allowing the public to believe that Trevor was the billionaire and I was his assistant, have I tied a gag around my mouth, to accompany the noose around my neck?