Odin (Billionaire Titans Book 2) (6 page)

I
had definitely scared her
.

I
like this better
, came her reply to my open invitation.

H
uginn (thought
) and Muninn (memory) were two ravens who belonged to my namesake, Odin the king of Norse mythology. He’d send them out each morning to fly all over the Earth, Odin’s eyes and ears in the world. They’d report back to him each evening with news of the day from all over his kingdom.

We chatted until midday, and her story blew me away. She was born to a teenage mother in Baltimore and never knew her father. Her mother overdosed when Verna, named for a great-grandmother she never knew, was just five years old. Distant relatives in Stamford took her in, but when that situation didn’t pan out, she became a ward of the state.

She bounced from foster home to foster home, never quite finding the perfect fit, and she found solace and security in books. No matter how unsettled and sometimes abusive the real world was to her, she could count on the printed word to provide an escape. She’d often find a library and walk in when the doors opened in the morning and be the last one to leave when the lights were turned out. Her computer acumen came naturally; she had an innate understanding of them from the first time she tapped the keys on a library PC in elementary school.

By middle school, she was poring over technical journals, computer magazines, anything and everything she could get her hands on. The article I’d read about her was accurate, she had less than nothing, and no matter who might offer a full scholarship, she’d never have reliable transportation or spending money without help.

She taught herself web design and bartered her geek skills for groceries, clothes, and having a stylist work on her trademark hairdo; a set of thick dreadlocks that framed a face wise beyond its years. What she couldn’t trade her skills for, she found a way to acquire, whether through legal means or otherwise. It was up to her to provide, from a very early age.

Her green eyes sparkled with mischief, but she rarely smiled and had a difficult time with social interactions most people would consider part of everyday life. She was more at home behind the anonymity and safety, of a keyboard.

I was obsessed with Verna Conway, or Raven, as she preferred to be called. She was resourceful and street smart, having had to do for herself since she was barely out of diapers.

If anyone was a complete more opposite of me, I couldn’t imagine who they might be. Whereas Atlas and I were raised in luxury, with every opportunity, and never spent a moment of our lives wanting for anything, Raven had a very different experience growing up.

We chatted back and forth until midday, when I finally got her to consent to meeting me for dinner that night. I mentioned how much I loved Roselli’s Chop House, a high-end steak house in the city, but also that I wasn’t certain I could get a reservation on such short notice, even with my last name.

She told me not to worry about it, that she could arrange it.

The son of a billionaire couldn’t get a table, but someone who’d been living out of a car two years ago could?

I asked if she needed me to send a car for her, but she declined. Whenever I zigged, she zagged. Rarely had I been at a disadvantage in life, but Verna Conway held all the cards.

The restaurant had a line outside when my driver reached the curb, and I wondered if the whole thing was a wild goose chase; if I’d been set up.

I gave my name at the door, but the hostess, a pretty black girl with shimmering blonde hair, couldn’t find anything, and seemed to almost delight in my absence from her list. Neither did she have a Verna Conway, and when I mentioned the name, she rolled her dark brown eyes at me. I shook my head and gave a sheepish smile, annoyed yet apologizing as I turned to flag down my driver. Three steps toward the curb, it hit me. I returned and asked if she had anything under the name Raven. This elicited a smile, and with a heavy Jamaican accent she apologized for the confusion and asked me to follow her inside.

The maître d’ led me to a private room in a loft overlooking the main dining room, where a waiter appeared with a wagyu beef carpaccio appetizer and a caviar dish. I was suitably impressed, even Titans didn’t usually eat like this.

Raven, however, was nowhere to be found.

I didn’t love caviar, but I had to admit that the stuff I’d been served was top quality. The wagyu beef was nonpareil, and I considered asking for a main course of the stuff, if ever Raven arrived.

My phone was quiet, and I began to go through my mental rolodex to see who I might be able to coax into the city to join me for dinner when the curtains to the room I was in parted and the hostess from downstairs waltzed in.

Without bothering to introduce herself, she slid the blonde wig she was wearing off her head, and then pulled the dress she’d been wearing off as well. Beneath it, she had on tight black leather pants and a white tank top. She shook out her braids and sat down, pulling out a pair of glasses from the bag I’d just noticed she was carrying. She produced a black sport coat from the bag and put it on. “Dress code, you know?”

With a broad smile, she reached across the table and extended a hand.

“Raven. Nice to meet you, Odin. By the way, you’re paying for all this, in case that hadn’t occurred to you yet.”

I shook her hand and then leaned back to give her a slow clap. “Well done, Raven. I had no idea. What happened to the Bob Marley accent?”

With that, she went into a startling recital of accents, from French to German to Aussie and then various American dialects. She sprinkled in actual foreign languages as well, Russian, Spanish, and what I guessed was Mandarin.

When she finished, I raised my eyebrows and then made a show of counting the fingers on my right hand. I caught a quizzical look on her face.

“Anybody who can do disguises, accents, languages, computers, and everything else as well as you obviously can is either a criminal mastermind or a super hero. Since I don’t see a cape, I’m checking to make sure you didn’t keep anything when you shook my hand. Who are you?”

I laughed, hoping I hadn’t offended her.

She set about carving the slab of Kobe beef she’d ordered, carefully considering her reply.

“I,” She chewed a bite of her steak, eyes closed in an expression of gastronomical bliss. “Am someone in need of the sort of legal shield that goes with being part of your father’s organization.”

I started to answer, but she raised a hand to quiet me.

“As good as I am, and I think you’d agree, I’m damn good, even I can only stay ahead of the authorities for so long. I can disappear in an empty room, reroute my internet trail to servers on every continent, talk my way in or out of pretty much any situation you can imagine. The Justice Department, however, is a different story. I have some trouble looming, and although I know how they operate; they’ll offer me a job with them in order to avoid prison time, I don’t want to work for the government. I don’t always get along well with others. I want to go to school, have it paid for, and come out the other side with a job waiting for me. Not necessarily with Titan, but with the Firm.”

I savored my lobster while I listened to her pitch. “Which firm are you talking about?” I asked. “And what makes you think I can magically snap my fingers and make whatever legal problems you may have disappear?”

“Oh, Odin, I know you can’t do much of anything, but you’re my connection to the people who can. Your father has influence, which in many ways supersedes wealth, fame, or privilege. He can make a phone call and make the JD forget the name ‘Verna Conway’ ever popped up on their radar. As for which firm I’m talking about, do you mean to tell me you don’t know the name Richard Hunt?”

I was baffled. That name didn’t mean a thing to me. I shrugged and shook my head.

“Well,
that’s
disappointing. I guess maybe I let
your
name distract me. The Odin-Raven connection just seemed too perfect. Maybe I should have given Miles Redbridge a try instead.”

Miles was a year ahead of me at Calhoun, the only son of a loaded British industrialist. I’d never gotten along particularly well with him, but he had an uncle in Parliament and his family was near the top of the food chain when it came to European movers and shakers.

“Miles is a giant douchebag, if I’m being honest,” I replied.

“But one hell of a swimmer, no?” she asked.

Miles and I were teammates on the Calhoun swim and cross country teams. We’d finished 1-2 in both the 100 & 200-yard freestyle events at the All-New England Swim Meet. He’d beaten me in both races and was being touted as a potential British Olympian.

“Touché. That he is. But he’s also a racist asshole who I doubt would be interested in helping you with anything,” I countered.

“You’d be surprised what people are willing to do, given the proper motivation. But he doesn’t suit my purpose anyway. And I prefer to work with people I can respect. Like your father.”

We continued our dinner, trading verbal barbs and comparing notes on hacking, colleges and a myriad of subjects. Whichever direction the conversation turned; she could hold her own. I couldn’t figure out if I’d made a friend, a potential work colleague, if she was a professional networking gold mine, or if our relationship was heading in a romantic direction.

She disabused me of the last notion over dessert.

“So, what’s the deal with Charlize?” she asked.

“Charlize? Oh, she’s just a friend, nothing serious,” I was being honest, nothing was happening between me and Charlize since that aborted effort to raise her SAT score. I assumed Raven was steering things in that direction to gauge my availability. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Well, introduce me to her, and set up a meeting with your dad, and I’ll owe you one. Or two. You know how resourceful I am; I’d be a good person to have owing you a favor,” Raven suggested, the first genuine smile of the evening crossing her lips.

“I’ll definitely discuss you with my dad. If nothing else, he’ll probably want to sponsor you, send you to college, that sort of thing. As for Charlize… really?”

“Really. She’s just my type,” Raven laughed. “But I doubt I’m hers. Scratch that part. Be my connection to your father and, through him Richard Hunt, and I’ll be there whenever and wherever you need me.”

It was a promise she would keep.

P
iper
and the baby couldn’t be better. I was so proud of her for carrying her precious cargo so well after having to endure the stress of the shooting and, prior to that, the events that occurred in Alaska, a nightmare scenario I’d caught snippets of from Atlas and Piper both.

I gave them both a well-check, which they passed with flying colors, before attending to Odin. I entered his room alone, recalling my dream of the previous night and feeling butterflies as I reached down and took his hand in mine. Butterflies weren’t all I felt, my body went on automatic pilot in his presence, arousal causing my heart to race in my chest and my thighs to tremble as I allowed my mind to wander to the orgasms he’d given me in my dream.

Once my general duties were done, and Odin’s IVs were changed, I sat in the chair next to his bed and began to talk. I felt some guilt over my attraction to him, but at the same time, I felt my husband’s presence in the room with me.

The love I shared with Callum had been deep and rich.

We met as undergrads, his Irish brogue drawing my attention as we jockeyed for position at a campus bar. We’d both arrived with friends, but once we caught each other’s eye our groups were quickly forgotten. We snuck out together, making out in the parking lot like teenagers in a basement at our first kegger.

That first night we walked and walked, going from near campus all the way to Las Vegas Boulevard and from one end of the Strip to the other, never running out of things to talk about.

He was from Cork City, Ireland; a member of the UNLV soccer team. I was from Kingman, AZ; I’d never watched a soccer game in my life.

We got married the weekend after medical school graduation on the beach in Malibu. His parents, brother and two sisters all flew in from Ireland. I had plenty of friends there, but I was an only child and I’d lost both my parents to cancer while in high school. My inspiration for pursuing medicine, I suppose. My surviving grandparents weren’t up for the travel. I had two cousins make the trip, but I loved the fact that Callum’s family was large and close. They welcomed me with open arms and made me feel like I had been an O’Grady from birth.

I sat next to Odin’s bed holding his hand and I broke down. The tears trickled at first, but once the dam was broken, they poured out of my eyes. For weeks after Callum’s passing, all I did was cry. Then I’d go a day without a panic attack. A few days. Then a week. After a while, it would take something like a certain song or line in a movie that was a favorite of ours to bring the memories flooding back and make the tears start falling again.

It had been almost two years since I’d sobbed uncontrollably over him. I wasn’t sure what triggered these tears, but there was a feeling of finality to them. As if the time for mourning was past. Not that I’d ever forget Callum or ever want to, but that he was putting a hand on my shoulder to reassure me that he wanted me to be happy. To find peace. To get up and walk away from his grave and let the sun shine on my face again.

I wiped my tears away and sipped from a bottle of water to help compose myself.

Odin lay peacefully, unmoved by my blubbering. Still, when you have a moment in front of another human being like I’d just had, I think you feel the need to offer some sort of explanation.

“I’m sorry, that was so weird and ugly,” I said. “The last thing you need is me crying.”

I sat and squeezed Odin’s hand, lifting it and pressing the back of it to my cheek. It had been years since I’d recounted the story out loud or had reason to discuss it, even in part with anyone.

But if I’d truly reached a turning point in my life, I had to share, at least this final time, the story of Dr. Callum O’Grady’s passing.

So I started babbling, I’m sure, adding in all sorts of details that nobody would care about, and bringing that awful, tragic day back to life. Odin listened, as Odin was wont to do, but for the first time in our relationship, I worried that I was being selfish. That rather than being therapeutic, my words could be damaging. My job was to heal and uplift, not to crush his spirit. Once I started, however, I couldn’t stop until the tale was told.

It was a November morning, a Thursday, unseasonably warm, even for Las Vegas. I’d just come off a shift and woken up after only a few hours’ sleep to share breakfast with Callum before he left for work. Our beagle, Abner, lay on the floor with his doleful eyes awaiting any bacon that escaped our mouths.

We discussed plans for the weekend; a hike to the top of Mount Charleston with some San Diego-based friends of ours on Saturday and then brunch with them before they departed for home on Sunday afternoon.

Callum asked me if I wanted to meet him for lunch later in the day, but I begged off, knowing I’d be exhausted and in a deep sleep with Abner tucked tightly up against me in bed.

He was a clinical psychologist, with a booming practice, and he’d just taken on two new partners to help handle his caseload. He departed for work with a deep kiss that I refused to break. Between my long hours at the hospital and his own hectic schedule, it had been too long since we’d had any “fun” together, and I did everything I could to tempt him to stay and give me what my body needed. I pressed my body against his as we kissed, making my intentions clear.

“Careful, or I might just cancel my afternoon appointments and come home and have my way with you, Doctor O’Grady,” he smilingly threatened.

“Promise?” I asked, letting the robe I was wearing slip off my shoulder.

He stared at me like a hungry wolf would a defenseless rabbit. I withered under the intensity of his gaze.

“Guaran-fucking-teed. Dr. Osterman can handle my afternoon patients. I’ll bring you lunch, then you’ll be my dessert. Does Varghese Kitchen sound good?”

The mention of my favorite Indian restaurant made my stomach grumble. But even more than the food, I wanted Callum
now
.

I pouted and nodded my head. He took my face in his hands and kissed me powerfully. He looked so handsome in his suit. I hated to see him leave.

I watched him leave the driveway and I caught Abner giving me a glare. He was about the most jealous dog I could imagine. As much as he loved Callum, if Abner could have his way, he’d have been the only man in my life.

Once he was gone, I put the breakfast dishes in the sink and drew a bath, soaking and then shaving my legs so that I’d be completely fresh and ready for the action Callum had promised me.

Abner lay dutifully next to the tub and when I finished, he hopped up into bed, making sure I’d cleaned myself adequately by licking all over my hands and face. We fell asleep together, Abner more comfortable than I, but I didn’t have the heart to move him, since I knew that he’d be spending the afternoon locked out of the bedroom.

I set no alarm, knowing that in a few hours my man would wake me up with the best curry in Las Vegas and then the best sex on the planet. Life couldn’t be better.

At 3:36 that afternoon, I woke up because our dog was barking to be let outside.

I stared at the clock on the nightstand a long while, not comprehending where or when I was, the fog of sleep muddling my brain. I rose from bed to walk to the backdoor, hoping Abner hadn’t made a mess.

I reached for a bottle of juice and took a long swig and then it hit me; Callum should have been home. Hours ago.

I pulled my phone from the purse I’d dropped on the couch when I came home late the night before. It was so filled with text messages and missed calls that it threatened to burst. But none from my husband. Something about hostages; a shooting… none of it made any sense. I dialed Callum and it went to voicemail after the fourth ring.

I dialed up my friend from work, Nicole, not wanting to go back through and listen to the dozen new voice mails I’d received. I had to know what was happening. Nicole had sent me the first texts. She worked with me at the hospital, just across the street and a few doors down from Callum’s office building.

When she answered, it wasn’t with a hello, but with a frantic, breathless barrage of questions. “Clara, oh my God, have you heard from Callum? Is he okay? Are you okay? Have you heard anything at all?”

Fear grabbed me by both shoulders and gave me a good, hard shake.

“Nic, I’ve been asleep. I don’t know what’s happening. Callum isn’t answering his phone.”

“There was a guy at Callum’s building with a gun. A bunch of guns. He was a patient, I think, that’s what they’re saying. He went in there and stated shooting. They think he had bombs, it’s been all over the news, the entire street has been closed for a few hours now. Some people got out; I hadn’t heard Callum’s name or seen him or anything. I’m so, so sorry Clara. They’re still there. The police I mean. SWAT teams and everything. I bet Callum is hiding somewhere, keeping quiet.”

I hung up and dialed Callum’s number again. After four rings, his voice. “This is Dr. Callum O’Grady; sorry I’ve missed your call. Please leave a message.” Then a beep.

Then nothing.

I dialed again and again, ignoring Nicole on the call waiting.

I let Abner in and he climbed onto my lap as I sat cross-legged on the floor. He licked my face tenderly; not with his usual enthusiasm, but softly.

Nicole pounded on my front door until I let her in, and we drove together to the Desert Springs Medical Complex. A few blocks away, we parked in a Wendy’s parking lot and walked the rest of the way until somebody in a uniform stopped us. I explained who I was, that my husband’s practice was on the third floor of the tower, and the officer looked at me grimly.

“Follow me,” he instructed, and we were taken to a makeshift command center in the gas station parking lot behind my husband’s building.

A sergeant met with me, a gruff older man with blue eyes and skin long ago cracked and made leather by the desert sun.

“We have an active shooter situation, Ma’am. I have men inside the building, but that’s all I can say right now. I have a list here of people who made it out, and you’re welcome to look at it, but I have an even longer list of people unaccounted for. Several people have been taken to MULV.”

I looked at Nicole, but I knew that if Callum had arrived there, that she’d know about it. She shook her head solemnly.

“There’s nothing else I can say right now, Ma’am,” the sergeant offered.

“But you’re looking for him, for my husband, right? Can’t you just go in and find him? He might be hurt! Please!” I was frantic.

“We’re doing all we can. I want to send all of my people back home to their families at the end of all this, and we’re working as safely as we can to ensure a good outcome for everyone.”

“Good outcome?” I was incredulous. “My husband could be in there bleeding to death or with a gun to his head? Some maniac is in there with bombs and guns and you want a ‘good outcome’? Fuck you! You aren’t helping! I need my husband!” I pounded on the sergeant’s barrel chest, and he let me. Nicole embraced me, and together we collapsed to the gravel underfoot. I wept bitterly. The sergeant returned his focus to his radios and his paperwork.

All I wanted to was to run inside the building. If I could save my husband, great. If I couldn’t, then hopefully the man with the guns would shoot me, too.

Without Callum, I had nothing.

* * *

I
’d sat
in the kitchen of a stone farmhouse in the province of Munster, County Cork, southwest Ireland when I received the call. After Callum’s funeral, I was invited by the O’Grady’s to stay and heal.

His aunt and uncle, Maggie and Seamus, had a big house and bigger hearts, and told me I could remain indefinitely.

It took the better part of two days for me to receive final confirmation that Callum had been killed, but details were scant. Bombs in the building made the going slow for the police, even with help from the FBI.

The outpouring of grief from his family, his classmates, people he’d met through soccer, work colleagues, friends from Ireland and the States and beyond, was overwhelming. Nicole watched my house for me after she returned to Las Vegas from Ireland, and she told me that the cards and letters continued, unabated, for weeks. My social media accounts were flooded.

I was lost.

My phone rang one day, Sergeant Hutton, the man I’d encountered at the scene and screamed at in my desperation. He told me he had news from the medical examiner and from his own investigation that I’d want to hear.

I apologized profusely for my actions the day of the tragedy, but Sergeant Hutton instead offered an apology of his own, telling me he was sorry that I’d had to wait like I did and that he wished he could have done something to prevent the entire tragedy.

Marvin Fenske, a retired electrician, had lost his son Nathan, a veteran with PTSD, to suicide. Unsatisfied with what the VA was doing to help, Marvin had paid out of his own pocket for Nathan to see a doctor in Callum’s building, on the fifth floor of the tower. After three visits, Nathan’s demons won out, and he hanged himself from a tree in the backyard of his childhood home.

When Marvin went to see the doctor who had been treating his son to look for answers, he was rebuffed by a receptionist, told he’d need an appointment, that the doctor was “a very busy and important man.”