Page 18 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

TWELVE

WEST

I tell myself to think of anyone else while I’m jerking myself off in the shower, but my mind constantly swings back to London.

Raven hair. Golden rings. That goddamn fucking gold bikini.

She knew what she was doing, testing the boundaries placed on us by unfortunate circumstances. Another thing to add to my list of reasons why I hate Heath.

I slap my palm against the cold tile as hot water streams down my back. I’m angrily stroking myself, thinking of her with him. I shouldn’t be thinking of him with her, especially not with my hand wrapped around my dick, but I can’t help it.

I’m jealous of my dead brother. I have been since I saw him wrap his goddamn arms around London at Julianna’s birthday party.

I’m jealous of how he stole her and took her for granted.

London deserves to be worshipped. She always has been.

I think about my promise to her all those years ago and how I’ve failed at every turn to keep it.

I’ve tried to make it up to her this past month and am determined not to fail again.

Even if she doesn’t remember me.

It makes me angry how she remembers him, not me .

I close my eyes and think about her in her gold bikini.

The way the sun shimmered against her black hair.

Her fingers running along the backside of her bikini bottoms. The way the curves of her breasts bounced as she adjusted her top.

How her fingers danced up and down the curves of her stomach, taunting me.

Heat explodes in my lower belly, and my cock swells. I stroke myself until I hang my head between my shoulders and watch the cum spill from the end of my dick.

“Fuck,” I breathe, watching it swirl down the drain until the last bit is gone and all that’s left is clear water.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shame filling my gut. Not because I’ve just jerked off to the thought of London, but for every day that’s passed since I was fifteen.

My knees pressed into the cold, wet dirt. The leaves that had fallen from the tree last fall were still on the ground, surrounding me as I lifted my hands to cradle London’s terrified face.

Her gray eyes were panic stricken, spread wide with fear. Dirt covered our skin, her cheeks, my hands. Blood spilled from my knuckles, but I didn’t care. I only cared about the blood spilling from her nose.

“I’m here, London. I’m here.”

“Is he…” She quivered, unable to look at the body lying beside us, keeping her eyes trained on the cold, hard dirt. “Is he dead?”

I snap my eyes open, breathing as if I’ve just completed the Boston Marathon. I curl my fingers against the cold tile and force the memory of the last time I’d seen London before she returned from my mind.

I’d much rather remember her as the last time I actually saw her, with sun glistening off her skin, and that goddamn gold bikini.

Although I thought I was taking a shower to release some of my tension, when I rinse off and step out, I’m more wound up. My muscles feel tight, and the frustration grows.

All I want is for London to remember.

But all that does is make me selfish because along with me comes the nightmare we lived through in foster care.

I step into my walk-in closet to get dressed in a daze. A cloud hangs over my head as I button my shirt and tuck it in to my dark forest green slacks. Once I’ve adjusted my tie, I drape my suit jacket over my arm and stride out to the main living area of my apartment.

I’m clasping my watch when I find my driver Alden standing in my kitchen with a cup of coffee. “Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Alden.” I eye him over my mug and look at him apprehensively.

Besides Holt and Asher, Alden’s the closest thing I have to a friend. In all honesty, he was the first friend I made when I decided to open my first bar, and the real money—money that didn’t get handed to me for simply being adopted into the right family—started pouring in.

“Have you ever been into art, Alden?”

His eyebrows arch across his forehead before they furrow in thought. “In what sense, sir?”

“Do you follow any big-name artists? Modern ones, not the classics like Van Gogh or Picasso.”

“Hmm. I can’t say I do. But you know who might be able to help?”

“Who?”

“Your friend, Holt Capuleti. A man like that who runs one of the top editorial magazines in the country knows practically everything about everyone.”

“You’re right.” I clear my throat and shoot Holt a quick text, asking if he has a minute to talk. He must find it strange yet intriguing, considering I’m not usually the one to reach out first, because he’s quick to call me.

I’m swallowing a sip of my coffee when I answer.

“Hey, man,” he says.

“You were quick to call.” I suddenly feel weird for reaching out to him at such an odd time. “We can talk later if it’s better for you.”

“No. I’m in the middle of my workout, but I could use the distraction. I’ve been up in my head lately.”

“Okay.” I scratch at my chin, then run my fingers through my hair, resting my elbow on the kitchen counter.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Do you happen to know any big artists in the New York area?”

“Of course,” he answers casually. “I know plenty. Is there one in particular you think I might know?”

“Um, Emily Rapture?” I ask, diving straight in while I massage the back of my neck.

“Oh.” Holt scoffs. “I know her. Emily is huge in the art scene. My magazine wrote an article on her a few years back. This was before she blew up and became a household name, but she’s incredible.

Her art, I mean. She has this incredible gallery in Upstate New York that’s supposed to be opening sometime this year. I can’t recall when, though.”

“Would you be able to find out for me?” I ask, checking the time on my watch before checking my phone. I’ve already done a search on Emily Rapture and know she’s opening her new gallery in New York in the next six months, but I don’t know the specifics.

“What’s all this about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“London mentioned her being one of her favorite artists, so I thought I’d see if I could get more details on when it opened. ”

“Of course. You know, if you want, I can see if Emily can get you an early showing.”

“What? Really?”

“Definitely,” Holt answers. “I like to follow up with people we’ve covered in the past. See if there are any fresh stories we can write about them. This will give me the perfect opportunity to do that.”

“Awesome, man.” I sigh. “Thanks.”

“No problem. We should grab a drink this week. When you’re not working, of course.”

“Sounds good,” I tell him, and I mean it. I could use a night with my relatively new friend. I don’t have many, and while I like to keep it that way, I don’t want to stay a recluse.

It might be a good distraction from London, anyway.

I hang up with Holt just in time to catch Alden slipping off the stool in the kitchen.

He leaves his mug on the counter and says he’ll be waiting for me downstairs.

I give him a nod, but my mind quickly falls back to London in her gold bikini.

My dick jerks, and fuck me , how am I going to spend the rest of the day like this?

My housekeeper makes her way down the expansive hallway of my high-rise apartment in Brooklyn, picking up Alden’s empty mug and loading it into the dishwasher.

Alden is already out the door when she asks if I’d like her to make me breakfast. I tell her no.

I’m hungry, but I know it isn’t food that will satisfy me.

I’m ready to walk out the door and race to The Veiled Door.

London said she wouldn’t be showing up until later this afternoon, but I try to eliminate any chance of missing her.

It’s starting to become problematic for me when it comes to the other bars.

I’ve ignored my bar manager’s suspicions as to why I don’t visit their locations as often anymore, but I can’t help it.

London has stolen all my attention. To the point that I’m now jerking off in the shower like some fucking teenager, fantasizing about her in a way I’ve never done before.

Remembering the old London is one thing.

Back then they were sweet and innocent thoughts.

It was about protection and laughter. About finding friendship and solace in a place of complete utter darkness.

But now? Now my feelings have transformed to an instinctual, hungry need. I imagine my teeth sinking into her flesh. My dick sinking between her thighs. How her voice would sound screaming my name.

It’s a clusterfuck of emotions I hadn’t been expecting. Incredible… but also terrifying.

My feelings for London aren’t simple, and they never have been.

And every day I see her I leave with a little more hope that she’ll remember me. Maybe I’m foolish for believing she might one day. But I hold out hope, despite knowing what comes with the memory of me.

I finish the last bit of my coffee when my housekeeper answers the ring of the doorbell.

I’m slipping into the sleeves of my suit jacket when my mother walks in.

Her black and gold sunglasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, despite the fact the sun isn’t shining today.

Her heels click on the tiles as she pushes past my housekeeper, not bothering to wait for an invitation before barreling in here.

I can tell she’s already angry with me as she lifts her glasses and slides them to the top of her head.

Her eyes are narrowed into two slits, her daggers aiming straight for me.

“Well, good morning, Mother.” I sigh, not in the mood for playing her games.

A piece of my heart has always softened for her.

She cared for me when no one else did. She took me in and gave me a life full of possibility.

If it weren’t for her and my adoptive father’s financial stability, I wouldn’t have had the starting point I had to get to where I am today.

Their bit of wealth blossomed into the level of wealth I have today.