The Billionaire Bad Boys Club (4 page)

On the bright side, she was getting really good at forging Sam Eilert’s signature.

Before her stomach had time to clench, her bedroom door burst open and banged against the wall.

“We’re hungry,” Pete announced, finally in agreement with his brother.

Rebecca sat up and glared at him. Though she was tired and angry, her heart twisted. Pete
looked
hungry. Like his brother, he was skinny as a rail—pale too, with pinchy shadows around his eyes no boy his age should have.

“Sorry,” he said guiltily, though her glower had faded. “Forgot to knock. Charlie ate the last of the cereal yesterday.”

Without their mother to cook for them, cereal and milk had become their go-to meal.

I’m screwing up
, Rebecca thought.
If I’m going to keep them out of foster care, I need to do better
.

“I’ll make breakfast,” she announced, immediately wondering if she could.

Charlie skidded down the hall in his socks and bumped into his brother. He and Pete were blond like her, but not identical. Charlie was a hair taller and had a wider, more anxious mouth. He hung his pointy chin over Pete’s shoulder.

“Pancakes?” he said hopefully.

“Yes,” she said with as much firmness as she could muster. “Whole wheat with syrup.”

Throwing off the covers, she swung out of bed in her Dalmatian-print pajamas. She tried not to think about her mother shopping for them with her. Paula Eilert been sick already. That trip to Macy’s was one of their last outings.

“We don’t have syrup,” Charlie said.

“I’ll make that too,” she declared.

Her tone must not have been as confident as she’d meant. The boys exchanged doubtful glances with each other.

“I
will
,” she said. “Go set the table so I can dress.”

The twins must have found a smidgen of optimism. By the time Rebecca reached the kitchen, they’d put out the plates and silver. Praying she could whip this together before the elementary school bus arrived, Rebecca set to work.

To her relief, pancakes turned out to be a cinch. She’d watched her mother prepare them so often she needed no recipe.

The syrup was trickier. Sugar dissolved in water didn’t taste right at all. Trying to think fast, she chopped and threw some apples in the saucepan. Maybe a pie-filling thing would do. She’d seen her mother make them too. Muttering to herself, she rummaged through the pantry for ingredients that might work. The boys watched her dash around with big eyes, reminding her to flip the pancakes as they fluffed up and browned.

“We don’t
have
to have syrup,” Charlie said, trying to be helpful.

“I’m not giving up,” Rebecca growled, though her apples had gone mushy. Cursing, she strained them out with a slotted spoon. That disaster discarded, she noticed the remaining juice had thickened. It smelled pretty good. Hoping to salvage something, she blew on the spoon and licked. The miracle that hit her taste buds had her gasping with excitement.

Completely opposite to her expectations, her apple syrup was delicious.

Not only that, it had an amazing texture: smooth and rich on her tongue and a zillion times better than store-bought. With a sense that the magic would disappear if she didn’t hurry, she ladled her creation over the boys’ pancakes.

“Eat,” she urged, setting the portions in front of them.

Possibly she was acting crazy. The boys looked at her, then the food, then picked up their forks and started shoveling.

Pete was the first to pause. “Mmm,” he said, a sound she wasn’t certain she’d heard him make before. The noise wasn’t simply pleased; it was shocked. She’d made him pay attention to what he was eating.

“Mmm,” Charlie agreed, nodding emphatically. “This is better than Mom’s, Becca!”

They were seven, so those were all the compliments she was getting . . . unless you counted them literally licking their plates clean.

Delighted by their reactions, she almost forgot to eat herself. When she did, she found her brain ticking through adjustments to make the dish better. She wasn’t even trying, and her mind just did it. She hadn’t known it would. It seemed important. Actually, it seemed epic. Rebecca was okay at lots of things. This suggested there might be something she maybe was great at.

I could learn to really do this
, she thought.

“Five minutes till the bus,” Charlie broke in to say.

Charlie lived in fear of missing his ride to school. Sympathetic to the worry—because if anyone needed safe routines it was them—Rebecca handed him a damp washcloth. While he mopped the stickiness from his face, she herded her brothers out of the kitchen and down the entrance hall. On the way, she checked Charlie’s precious non-ripped backpack.

“Everything is here,” she assured him. Apprehension that he’d forget something was a recent tick of his. “All your books and all your supplies.”

More relaxed than his sibling, Pete slung his matching sack over his shoulder. His boniness made her gladder that she’d fed him. When his clear gray eyes met hers, they seemed eerily grown up.

“We’ll remember,” he said before she could start her spiel. “Dad is working in Cincinnati. He called us all last night.”

“Right.” She bent to kiss his head. She kissed Charlie’s too, holding both of them a little longer than usual.

“Bus!” Charlie said in a panic.

“All right,” she surrendered, letting go to open the door for them. “You two have fun today.”

They galloped down the steps without looking back, exactly like they used to with their mom.
Those boys
, her mother would sigh.
They’d run straight off a cliff if it looked fun enough
. Back then, Rebecca’s brothers had seemed like pests. Today she understood her mother’s concern. Pete and Charlie needed someone to be their safety net. Like it or not, she was it.

I
will
do better
, she told herself.

From then on, whatever it took, she’d be a real parent.

CHAPTER THREE

The Night They Met

THE
last four years had been the best of Zane’s life. Finally free of their fathers, he and Trey had gotten into Harvard. Zane’s way was paved by a football scholarship, Trey’s by a special economics prize. Trey might have been more surprised than anyone that he’d won it. His essay on the correlation between macro and micro markets had been submitted by one of his teachers at Franklin High. Though Zane wasn’t stupid, when he’d tried to read the doorstopper of a paper, he’d understood one word in two. The experience taught him an important lesson about his friend.

Trey Hayworth’s smarts were easier for him to downplay than his sexuality.

Zane didn’t hesitate to say
yes
when Trey tentatively suggested they room together off campus. Not only was this convenient for their continuing sexual hookups, but if Zane got lost in his classes, he had a built-in tutor. The arrangement turned out better than either predicted. For four years they worked and played with equal fervor, each one giving the other whatever hand he needed.

No longer a social outcast, in the university’s broader atmosphere Trey blossomed into the king of the eccentrics. His gentleness attracted people . . . and his big brain. He brought his coterie of geeks and Goths to cheer Zane on the gridiron, in return for which Zane made sure every one of them was welcome at jock-thrown parties. Zane discovered his own knack for economics by starting a lucrative bookmaking enterprise. Obviously, he couldn’t make book on Harvard football, but what his scholarship didn’t cover, his sideline did. Even professors placed bets with him, his reputation for always paying off a matter of pride with him.

As far as it was possible for two individuals to rule a place like Harvard, Zane and Trey did. They were a familiar sight strolling Harvard Yard’s leafy paths, generally shoulder to shoulder. They both liked clothes, though not the same styles of them. Zane favored Tom Ford suits while Trey was more Abercrombie and Fitch. Because Trey was Zane’s odds maker, once their extracurricular work took off, they could afford to shop. They didn’t pretend to be privileged; they just naturally looked it. They learned about living well by doing it—
living free
, they called it. From the best place to eat scallops to the best place to ski, they were interested. If they didn’t know, they researched. Before they’d been on campus a month, people mistook them for grad students.

Neither ever went home on breaks, and both were aware they weren’t missed.

Rumors cropped up now and then about the true nature of their friendship, something they chose not to comment on. Girls they enjoyed aplenty, though none of them lasted. By mutual if undiscussed agreement, the only men they slept with were each other. That source of gossip cut off, too many females heaved too many sighs over torrid trysts for anyone to conclude precisely what they were.

That was the way Zane liked it. What he felt for Trey, what he did with Trey, was his business. Well, his business and Trey’s. Somehow they’d never got around to spelling out the rules exactly.

He assured himself that was his preference too.

At the moment, contrarily, he wished their association were more defined. Graduation was a week away, their classes finished, their futures twinkling brightly in front of them. Trey had accepted a position at a prestigious economics think tank in DC. Zane had played decently for the Harvard Crimson, but not at a level to turn pro. He was moving to Seattle, having been headhunted by an alum to help start a chain of fitness clubs. The work would be exciting, the responsibility more than most of his peers could boast. Nonetheless, from the moment he’d said
yes
to the CEO, depression had gripped him.

He didn’t want to work for other people. He had his own dreams to chase. The fact that Trey didn’t seem to mind them parting increased his dejection. He actually tried to turn down Zane for dinner, claiming he had a mountain of packing to start on. Zane had to coax him a full five minutes to get him to accept.

“We haven’t tried this place yet,” he said, physically tugging the moving box out of Trey’s hold. “
Boston Eats
gave it a five-fork rating.”

“Fine,” Trey huffed. “But you’re picking up the tab.”

Zane had planned to. He always did when the restaurant was his choice. Grumpy enough to bite more than food, he grabbed the keys to his Mercedes CLK and his portfolio.

“Oh no,” Trey said, attempting to yank the leather case from his hand. “If I have to quit packing, you’re not bringing along work.”

“It’s not work,” Zane snapped, his patience pushed to the limit. “It’s an idea I’ve been meaning to show you.”

That shut Trey up long enough to complete the short drive. Wilde’s Bistro was on Brattle in Harvard Square, housed in a less-than-lovely concrete and glass complex. The atmosphere was so-so, but the food had been drawing raves. Trey’s years of waiting tables in high school had given him an interest in fine dining that Zane enjoyed sharing. They’d made it their tradition to go somewhere nice, just the two of them, once a week.

Zane damn well hated that this might be their last time.

Trey was sloppy chic tonight in tan pants and a navy sweater vest with a rumpled white shirt beneath—tails hanging, naturally. He doffed his sunglasses as they went in, his grin and wink for the very gay maître d’ scoring them a window table. Tonight, that also made Zane grumpy, though—to be fair—he didn’t shy from using his looks to earn a perk or two.

“You boys enjoy yourselves,” their escort cooed, handing them the prix fixe menus. “I’ll send your server right over.”

Annoyed by the special treatment, Zane glowered at the entrees.

“Your face . . .” Trey exclaimed, chuckling. “Why do you get angry if I let some guy think he has a chance with me?”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he insisted. “And you don’t care half as much when I flirt with girls.”

Zane flipped the page back to appetizers. “I don’t care about either.”

Trey sat back and heaved a sigh. His hair flopped over his broad shoulders, the glossy black locks as outrageous as ever. Women went wild for the silky strands—just like they did for the Celtic tat he’d had inked onto his neck. He’d gotten the black-work knot freshman year—to prove his skin was his own, he’d said. Because Zane understood the appeal of that, he’d shut his trap on his objections. Afterwards, he’d admitted the thing was hot, but only to himself. Trey didn’t need to start thinking he knew best about everything.

Clearly, he was thinking that now. “You care,” Trey said quietly.

“What do you want?” Zane asked in exasperation. “Me to hold your hand in public?”

“What I want is for you to feel like you can, to not to care if people get the wrong impression—or the right one, for that matter.”

“I’m not you.”

“You don’t need to be. Just be okay with who you are.”

“Fine,” Zane snapped. “Who I am is still uptight.”

Trey laughed and shook his head. “Point taken,” he surrendered.

Zane’s irritation melted, as susceptible to Trey’s grin as the maitre d’. Trey was an amazing person, and he’d gotten more so in the five years that they’d been friends. Truth be told, he was sexier at twenty-two than he’d been when they were eighteen. He was taller, more filled out in the chest and shoulder. His green-gold eyes held a self-acceptance Zane wasn’t certain he’d ever share. Zane felt compelled to push life into the shape he wanted. Trey seemed content to let it unfold.