Page 15 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

BECK

S he doesn’t answer my question.

Just lowers her eyes and presses her lips together like she’s holding something back. Like whatever’s in that folder is made of glass and the wrong word will shatter it. I consider my options. I could push. Normally, I would. I’m not exactly a patient man.

But tonight, I don’t. I need to play this differently. I think of the new plan. Wonder if it’s too cold blooded. Too calculated. Then I push those thoughts aside.

Instead, I flag the waitress and nod toward Jules. “Coffee for her. Black unless you say otherwise.”

She blinks at me, wary. I think she’ll blow me off but she gives a small nod. “Cream. No sugar.”

The waitress scribbles it down and walks away, and Jules leans back like she’s rethinking her entire night.

Her fingers loosen on the folder but don’t leave it.

She won’t look at me, not really. Just studies the faded laminate of the table like it’s the most interesting thing in the diner.

Like the couple who are now actively having sex in the back corner aren’t there.

“You come out this late at night a lot?” I ask after a long stretch of silence.

She nods. “All the time.”

Liar.

But I let it slide.

The waitress brings her coffee and Jules sets down the folder.

It’s plain but I notice a sticker on the inside, though I can’t make out what it says.

She cradles the mug in both hands like she needs the warmth more than the caffeine.

She doesn’t look at the folder. Or at me for that matter.

Still hasn’t asked why I’m here or how I manage to keep showing up when she least expects me.

I grab a French fry and frown. It’s cold.

“Want some?” I ask.

She glances at the basket, then back at me like I’ve asked her to walk on fire.

“You going to answer me?”

“Silence can be an answer.” An eyebrow lifts. The right one. A move I’m sure she’s practiced many times.

“It’s not the one I want, though.”

She doesn’t smile, but she’s listening. It’s in the twitch of her mouth. The way her shoulders lower by an inch.

“I’m not the devil,” I tell her. “I’m just persistent.”

“You’re persistent with fries?”

“Among other things.” I lift a hand and motion to the waitress again. “Fresh basket, please. And a side of ranch.”

Jules raises that brow even higher. “Ranch?”

“I’m not a monster.”

That earns me the faintest curve of her lips. Not a full smile. But enough to feel like I’ve cracked the ice. Just a little. I’ve been a born charmer my whole life. I know the drill.

The waitress brings the fries a few minutes later, golden and crisp, steam still rising from the basket. I slide them between us and don’t say a word. Just lean back and sip my coffee.

Jules waits exactly sixty seconds before reaching for one.

“You’ve been out,” she says, chewing carefully. “Clubbing.”

“You always smell this good when you’ve been crying?” I decide to strike early and see where this lands.

Her gaze shoots to mine, sharp. A crack in the armor.

“I haven’t been…” She sits back, eyes on the folder. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Not yet. But I’d like to.”

“You’re my boss.”

I nod. Liking the curve of her lips more than I should. I figure it’s natural though. Me being a man and she being one hell of a looker. Doesn’t mean anything. Not in the long run anyway. I don’t get attached. Ever.

She pops another fry in her mouth, slower this time. Chewing thoughtfully. Then she sighs, fingers brushing the corner of the folder like she might finally open it.

She doesn’t.

And I don’t push.

By the time the second plate of fries is down to the last few, the tension between us has mostly dissolved. At least enough to let conversation stretch between bites.

“Okay,” Jules says, dragging the last fry through a pool of ranch. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re a sports guy.”

I raise an eyebrow, sit back and put my hands behind my head. “That a problem?”

“No. Just predictable.” She grins. “Football, right? You’ve got ex-linebacker energy.”

“Running back,” I correct, and the surprise flashes in her eyes.

“Really?”

“Played two years in college. Before life took a hard left.”

“Huh.” She leans back in the booth. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You make a habit of sizing people up?”

“Only the ones who own the building I work in and keep staring at me like they’re trying to figure out how I’m wired.”

I don’t deny it. She’s right.

“You follow football?” I ask, watching her over the rim of my cup.

“My brother used to be obsessed. So by default, I know more than I should. Fantasy leagues. Draft picks. Way too much Tom Brady trivia.”

I snort. “Tom Brady’s a classic.”

“Tom Brady’s a meme,” she shoots back.

That makes me laugh—low, surprised. The sound draws her eyes to mine, and for a moment, the world outside this booth doesn’t exist.

“What about you?” I ask. “You into pop culture? Trash TV? True crime podcasts?”

She shrugs. “I read a lot. Watch old movies when I can. I’m a sucker for anything with good lighting and a tragic ending.”

I tilt my head. “You like books?”

“I majored in art history. It came with the territory.”

“Any favorites?”

She doesn’t answer right away, just gives me a careful once-over. “You’re trying to impress me now.”

“I don’t have to try.”

That earns me another one of those faint smiles. It would be easy to get addicted to them, if she wasn’t a Horner.

She sighs, then gives in. “Okay, fine. I love Donna Tartt. The Secret History is kind of a comfort read, even though it’s dark as hell. Also Zadie Smith. And anything by Toni Morrison. What about you, Mr. Running-Back-turned-billionaire?”

I glance down at my coffee like it might give me a neutral escape route.

Then I say, “I read.”

She blinks. “Wait—seriously?”

“You sound shocked.”

“You don’t exactly give off ‘book club’ vibes.”

“Good,” I murmur, meeting her gaze again. “I hate being predictable.”

“So… what do you read?”

“Everything,” I say honestly. “Nonfiction. Psychology. Poetry, sometimes. Nabokov. Baldwin. Some sci-fi when I want out of my own head. But mostly the classics. Stuff with teeth.”

She stares at me like I just recited a Shakespeare soliloquy in flawless French.

“Jesus. You actually read, read.”

I shrug. “Had to learn early how to be comfortable alone. Books made it easier.”

Something about the way I say it hushes her for a moment. She looks down at her coffee, then up at me again—something softer in her expression now. Not pity. Something closer to understanding.

“I didn’t expect that,” she says quietly.

“Yeah, well.” I tap the side of my cup. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

She nods once.

I wait a beat and then ask the question that’s been sitting at the back of my throat for the past ten minutes.

“You said used to be obsessed.”

Her head yanks up and I see the surprise.

“What?” She frowns, reaches for her coffee cup, then realizes it’s empty.

“Your brother. You said that he used to be obsessed with football.”

She’s tracing the rim of her coffee cup, though her eyes move to the folder on the table. I watch her in silence, not pressing, not pushing.

Her eyes lift to mine. They’re shadowed. Guarded. I’ve hit a nerve. Now’s the time to push a bit.

“Past tense,” I add.

She exhales. Long and low. The kind of breath you take when you’ve already decided something’s too heavy to carry, but you’ve got no choice but to pick it up anyway.

“Billy,” she says finally, voice quiet. “That’s his name.”

I nod, saying nothing even though I already know everything.

“He was in a motorcycle accident a couple of ago,” she continues. “Late summer. He’d just turned twenty-three. New bike. Dry roads. No helmet.”

That last part hits a bit even though I don’t want it to. I guess a part of me is still human, because I know exactly how fast a perfect day can turn into a fucking nightmare.

“He wasn’t reckless,” she adds, almost defensive. “He was careful. He was serious about bike safety. He was good at it. But a car ran a red light, the man was texting and…”

She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry,” I say, watching her closely.

“He survived,” she says, swallowing hard. “But barely. He was in a coma for months after and when he finally woke up, well he’s not the same person he was. And everything after that was just… hell.”

She fidgets with the coffee spoon, spinning it slowly, hitting the edge of her empty cup in a way that slices through the quiet with a sharp ping.

“He’s got a spinal injury. Some brain trauma.

His speech is slow now. He can’t walk without assistance.

He forgets things—sometimes me. Sometimes he thinks he’s fifteen and we’re in the Hamptons for at the house in Malibu and…

” She exhales and lifts her chin. “Sometimes he knows who he is, but sometimes it slips away.”

She blinks fast, like she’s trying not to cry. But there’s no drama in it. No theatrics. Just quiet devastation that hasn’t dulled over time.

“He’s in a long-term care facility. One of the best in the state.

He needs around-the-clock help—physical therapy, neurological care, constant monitoring.

I couldn’t afford it back home, and the waitlists were ridiculous, so I came here.

Picked up every shift I could find. Waitressing, tutoring, cleaning. Dog walking. Anything.”

I don’t speak. Just let the silence stretch. Because what the fuck am I supposed to say to that?

“He’s the only real family I have,” she says. “My mom is remarried and out of the country, but Billy’s always been mine. My job, my heart, my responsibility.” She looks up then, eyes clear even if the rest of her is unravelling. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

But I do.

More than she knows.

And that— that —is what makes this entire thing feel like it’s turning inside out. Because the girl I thought I could use as leverage? The one I assumed was some spoiled byproduct of Harold Bennett’s corruption?