CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NOAH

Ryder is waiting for us when the plane touches down.

The weather’s a perfect seventy degrees with sunshine and no breeze. A sign of good things to come, I hope. As we were leaving New York, the skies opened up and hammered the city that never sleeps.

“Good flight?” Ryder asks.

“Yes,” I answer and shake his hand.

He and my brothers finish greeting each other while the chauffeur loads our things into the trunk. We pile into the back seat, and I ask Ryder, “Learn anything else?”

He grins. Ryder’s a year younger than me, and we’ve always been close. He’s a technology genius. Making his family millions by selling tech designs and stuff. Their dad, my uncle, started the company, and when Ryder and his brothers took over, things  soared. Now it’s a billion-dollar business and growing.

“Didn’t learn too much more,” Ryder answers and hands me a piece of paper.

“Thanks.” I glance at it, fold it, and put it in my shirt pocket.

“This girl must be important.”

“You have no idea,” Blake says.

“Yeah,” Rob chirps and pretends to stick a finger down his throat and gag.

“That bad, huh?”

Rob over-exaggerates an eye roll and nods. I let it go and gaze emptily out the window because I understand who I’m dealing with. These guys are wolves, and if I get defensive, they’ll seek and destroy. Just not worth it at the moment.

Things grow quiet from there. Blake doesn’t like quiet, so he asks Ryder about the nightlife. That’s a conversation that’ll liven things up.

“You guys haven’t seen my new place yet, have you?” Ryder asks when the limo pulls up to his condo.

“No.”

“It’s nice.” He grins. “Twenty-six hundred square feet. Two bedrooms, two and a half baths. Concept kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows.” The limo rumbles to a stop. “Hell. Why am I telling you about it? Let’s go see.”

The chauffeur is out of the vehicle and opening the door. “Will you let me borrow the car?” I ask Ryder.

“Of course. Yeah. For as long as you need.”

“Good luck, big brother,” Blake says.

“Yeah,” Rob states. “Go get her.”

“Thanks, guys.”

They pile out. The door closes. The driver gets in. Cranes his head. “Where to?”

I dig the paper from my pocket and hold it in my hands. My throat goes dry. Heart rate picks up. What if she wants nothing to do with me? Guess I’ll find out soon enough.

I look at the paper and give him the address.

He puts the car in gear.

We’re off.

* * *

“Be there in five minutes,” the driver says.

“Okay, thanks.”

The neighborhood is typical middle class. Uniform homes. Manicured lawns. Mom-and-pop businesses peppered throughout. This is where Amber grew up. It’s not unlike where I spent my first four years of life before Dad took over the business from Grandpa and struck it rich. My memories of back then may be skewed, so it might not have been quite like this. But then again, who cares?

The car slows and stops in front of a two-story house made of brick. Nice.

I tap the front seat and tell the driver I’ll let myself out and I’m not sure how long I’ll be.

“Take your time, sir. I’m not going anywhere.”

I open the door and step out onto the curb. Straighten my suit while neighbors gawk, point, and whisper.

I give them a casual wave and proceed.

My hands are moist by the time I reach the house, and I dry them off on my pants. Raise my arm to knock, and the door magically opens.

A man walks out, and I stumble back. He closes the door. “May I help you?”

He’s the rugged type that works with his hands. Big shoulders, big forearms. Probably never lost an arm-wrestling match.

“Yes,” I say. “Is this the Allen residence?” Of course, I know it is. Ryder gave me the address, and their name is on the mailbox.

“Yep,” he answers.

“Amber here?”

“You missed her.”

My mind goes blank at his rapid response. I’m not able to respond. He’s looking at me like I’m Homer Simpson. I think he feels sorry for me.

For Christ’s sakes!

The guy offers me an out when he asks, “Would you like me to give her a message?”

I still have a catch in my throat.

“Message?”

Did he drag that word out like I don’t understand the meaning? Come on, Noah. Snap out of it.

“What’s your name?” I ask defensively. I don’t like this guy.

“Bob Franken. I’m Amber’s fiancé.”

My neck kinks and my stomach knots up.

“Fiancé?” I repeat.

“Yeah. Amber and I have been best friends since grade school, so when she got back from New York, I popped the question. Don’t want her leaving again. Chicago’s our home.”

Silence overtakes me again. Intense pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I need to go. You’re sure you don’t want to leave a message?”

I shake my head.

“Wanna leave a name?”

What’s the sense?

I turn without replying and trudge to the car.

How?

The driver already has the back door open for me. I slide in and open the minibar—this is Ryder’s limo, so of course there’s liquor—and pull out a bottle of whiskey. Forget the Coke and glass. I unscrew the top and tip it up. Let the burn tickle my throat.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.

“Back to Ryder’s, I guess.”

He puts the car in gear, and we move off. I was going to drop to my knees and beg her to come home. Tell her whatever I’d done, I’ll never do again. How weak am I?

It was stupid of me to think we had something special. That there was such a thing as true love.

Lesson learned. Never again.