Butt-dialing the Billionaire Read online

  Charley catches up to me. “Come on,” he says.

  I give him a look and keep on.

  “You get the name, and then what? You’re not really going to destroy this poor woman?”

  “Why not?” I say. “My schedule’s clear.”

  “It’s not enough that everyone on the continent hates you? You have to go pick fights with the Americans, too? Listen to yourself, Jaxon. Going after this woman would be despicable!”

  “You don’t have to sell me on it, Charley, I’ve already decided to go.”

  He snorts. “You’re grieving, Jaxon. Petty distractions like this won’t make your grief hurt less.”

  “Considering my grief over this is zero, can you hurt less than zero?” I ask him. “Would a negative number of hurting be the same as pleasure? Anyway, dragging my family’s name through the mud has always been one of my favorite pastimes. I can’t take an axe to Wycliff just yet, but this works.”

  “Think what you’re doing. Can’t you just say, ‘Who cares about this random snarky person? I’m gonna live my own life.’”

  “And the fun in that would be what, exactly?”

  His mouth forms into a grim line.

  Five

  Jada

  * * *

  I’m cowering in my cubicle across from Renata. “What was I thinking!” I say. “Whaaaaat…”

  “Stop it,” Renata says, fixing her polka-dot hairband over her jet-black hair. “No way will Bert get it out of anyone. What happens in the conference room, stays in the conference room.”

  I sink lower in my seat, typing out my email to the factory explaining that it’s going out late and begging them to consider rushing the Target quote. No way will they say yes, but I have to try.

  “It’ll drive him buggy,” Renata says. “It’ll be fun and entertaining to see him fume.”

  “Unless he fires all of us.”

  “You heard Lacey. No way will he know it’s this department.”

  “He’ll suspect,” I say. “It’s very design department to do that.”

  “Or marketing,” she reminds me, and then she cringes. “Except marketing has snitches and we don’t. But hey! Let him suspect. Anyway, you work too hard. It was fun to see your silly side.”

  “My silly side has no place at work, especially now that I’m senior designer. Just watch, though. I’m not taking any more stupid risks. I’m going to be a million percent professional from here on out.”

  “You are professional.”

  What Renata doesn’t realize is that when you’re tiny and blonde, you need to be twice as professional as your coworkers if you want people to take you seriously. “A million percent professional. No more screwing around.”

  “Everyone knows this place would fall apart without you. Most people in your shoes would have taken the job with your friend’s style storefronts. They would’ve left without looking back.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “For a merchandising job like that? Are you kidding? You know, you are supposed to abandon a sinking ship. It’s what they recommend.”

  “I’ll never abandon it,” I say, firing off the email.

  “Bert alert,” Dave mumbles as he walks by.

  I grab his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Lacey’s in the break room.”

  “On it.”

  Lacey’s horrible fatigue drives her to need a late-afternoon nap. The doctors say there’s nothing wrong with her, but we know different, and we work together to give her rest breaks.

  “Here’s the deal,” Bert says, standing up at the front of the room, all angry pink cheeks under his salt-and-pepper crew cut. “We know it was somebody in this department. Each and every one of you will be fired for insubordination if I don’t get the name of the person who did it.”

  I hide my phone under my desk and text Renata.

  Jada: I have to come forward.

  Renata: He’s bluffing.

  He has to be.

  Jada: What if he isn’t?

  Renata: DO NOT.

  * * *

  Shondrella stands. She’s an elegant fifty-something fashion industry veteran with a streak of white down the front of her jet-black hair and connections all over the city. “Can you give us a few more details? I’m not really sure what you’re talking about.”

  Bert eyes her suspiciously. “After the company address, there was an accidental callback where people were heard making fun of Mr. Von Henningsly, yucking it up after the call ended. I assure you, he is not amused. He has personally asked for information.” Bert looks at his watch. “You have precisely one minute to give up a name or I start cleaning house.”

  My heart pounds. I have to do it. I feel Renata’s eyes on me, her famous warning scowl. Don’t you dare—that’s what the scowl says.

  “Was this recorded?” Shondrella asks. “If we could hear the recording, maybe we could ID the voices.”

  Freaking brilliant of Shondrella to try and see if they have a recording.

  “Thirty seconds,” Bert says.

  A text under my desk.

  * * *

  Renata: NOOOOOOOOOOO

  * * *

  I stand. I have to confess.

  Bert frowns at me. “Jada?”

  Lacey strolls up next to me, casually sets her phone down on my desk, and taps a long pink fingernail onto the screen. I glance down to see a text from Bruce in shipping.

  * * *

  Bruce: He’s telling every department he knows it’s them.

  TOTAL BLUFF.

  * * *

  “Jada?” Bert barks.

  I swallow. “Why would we stay after the call and goof off when we had that two-piece to finish?”

  Bert comes up to me. “Is this insubordination? Is that what this is?”

  I straighten up. “Just pointing it out…”

  He stares at my eyes for an uncomfortably long time, and I stare right back, all confused and concerned. Did he know I was about to confess? Sometimes I feel like he has evil psychic abilities. “We’ll keep our ears open,” I chirp.

  “You’ll keep your ears open, will you?” he says.

  I give him a polite smile. “Yup.”

  “Nobody?” Bert looks around.

  There’s more silence.

  “Last chance.” He settles his gaze on Lacey, who looks like she just woke up. With her two demerits and her health issues, she’s vulnerable, and he knows it. Anybody who helps me out, of course, would be rewarded.

  Lacey shakes her head.

  “What do you think would happen if I sent the recording to a lab for voice analysis? Am I going to find out it was somebody in this department? Am I going to find out that you all know exactly who it is and are refusing to tell?” He strolls across the room, staring as he goes. “You’d best hope not.” He pauses to let that sink in, then he leaves.

  “There is no way he’s got a recording,” somebody mumbles. People agree. No way.

  “Even if he does,” Renata says. “A hundred women work here. He’d voice print us all? Puhlllease.”

  “God, I’m so sorry!” I sink into my seat. “I am going to be all business from now on. So serious!”

  “Dude, it was worth it!” Dave says.

  “Yeah, seeing Bert freak?” Shondrella says. “Priceless.”

  “The family,” Renata says in her Godfather impression. “You come for one of us, you come for us all.”

  “That’s not a thing anybody ever said in The Godfather,” Dave says.

  “Maybe it should’ve been,” Renata says. “Anyway, it’s a thing in our family.”

  Six

  Jaxon

  Four Weeks Later: London

  * * *

  Workers scurry around, packing up my parents’ London residence. Charley’s sprawled out on a priceless couch he’s thinking of taking for one of his residences. Arnold comes in with a large, framed photo.

  “Christie’s,” I say.

  “Jaxon, no!” Charley says. “It’s the first signed print. Iconic Danbery. And look how happy you are!”

  I glower at the photo that fooled the world, taken by a celebrity photog my parents hired at great expense. Mom and Dad and me on a picnic blanket, the three of us smiling out at the world. The richest little richie-rich boy with his doting parents, the splendidly groomed grounds of our Türenbourg castle unfolding in the background.

  Totally fake.

  Arnold comes in with an original oil painting of my parents in their prime.

  “Christie’s,” I say.

  “If nothing else, keep it for your kids,” Charley tries.

  “As if I would inflict the Von Henningsly bullshit on another generation.”

  “Mark my words, you’ll want a family someday.”

  I point. “Christie’s.”

  Charley still believes in the fairy tale. His entire family does, a fact that I witnessed over the many Christmases I spent there. Always laughing and clinging to each other and creating their own traditions. They’d put an old Dolly Parton doll on the top of the tree and then do this whole dance to the song “We are the Champions.” They always watch scary movies on Christmas Day, huddled together. The ridiculous lore and traditions they developed over the years seemed to create this illusion of togetherness that they cling to.

  Who can blame them? You’re born alone and you die alone. It’s not an easy truth to face.

  Charley sighs and leans on a nearby wall, watching Arnold place the portrait to be crated for auction. “Congrats on getting the share prices back up, by the way,” he says. “That pompous speechwriter, though.”

  “Never again,” I say. “Shoot me if I sound like my father ever again.”

  “Will you be selling Wycliff now?”

  “Eventually. I still have to destroy the butt-dialer.”

  “What?” Charley pushes off the wall, straightening up. “I thought you dropped that whole sordid thing.”

  “Of course not. Management hasn’t been able to identify the offender, so I’ll be taking the investigation into my own hands. I’ll take a position there under an assumed identity and find the perpetrator myself.”

  Charley blinks at me, confused. “A position?”

  “A position at the company,” I explain. “As in job. If you want a thing done right, you have to do it yourself, it seems. I’m having Soto arrange it.” Mr. Soto is my business guy. My parents’ guy, Barclay, quit soon after the conference call.

  “That’s madness,” Charley says. “You can’t take a job.”

  “Why not?” I say.

  He stares at me as though he can’t get his mind around the question. “Forget the company. Come out to my villa, Jaxon. You can clear your head there. The sudden loss of both one’s parents is huge, whether you’ll admit it or not.”

  “Soto lined me up with a position already. Office-gopher-slash-delivery assistant. I’ll be undercover.” I grin. “What do you think?”

  “You’re not thinking straight,” Charley says. “You don’t know how an office works. You have no actual skills. You’ve never held a job in your life.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest. “I’ve had a job.”

  “Motorsport is different from a job,” he says.

  “What do you mean? I built a team and showed up at a specific time to do a specific task.”

  People thought I didn’t have the discipline to become a driver for a Formula One team. I was too unruly, too hotheaded, not disciplined enough for the long hours on the track and in the gym, but I proved them wrong.

  “You got booted out for fighting,” Charley reminds me.

  “Gundrun deserved it,” I say.

  “A lot of people deserve it. You go to some office and you’re gonna find a lot of people who deserve to be hit. You might even end up with a boss who deserves to be taken down a peg or two, but guess what? You’ll have to sit there and smile. No brawling allowed. You won’t last a day.”

  “So little faith. When I set my mind on something, I typically do it,” I say.

  “An office worker? People aren’t stupid, Jaxon…”

  “I’m not going there to work. I’ll socialize with people until I get my answer.”

  “And what if somebody recognizes you? Your picture is everywhere. Americans have tabloids too, you know.”

  “I’m not the sort of person that American tabloids track. American tabloids are all movie stars and British royals, not minor continental celebs. They probably think the Grand Prix is a bike race.”

  “Formula One racing is growing in popularity over there.”

  “Well, they weren’t paying attention ten years ago,” I say. “I’m a historical figure. I’m Herbert Plumer.”

  “People still share the clip of the fight.”

  “They’re not looking at my face, they’re looking at a brilliant and well-deserved left hook.”

  “You lived in Manhattan on and off. You still know people.”

  “I haven’t been back since I was twelve. You’re not talking me out of this.”

  “New York is an international city. You can’t tell me it’s not international. Get one person who’s spent any time in Monte Carlo nightclubs, and you’ll have a pack of paparazzi on your ass.”

  This gets me thinking. The next time Arnold comes by, I instruct him to send for somebody who can change my looks.

  “Not what I was imagining,” Charley drawls unhappily.

  A theatrical costumer named Bev shows up a few hours later. She suggests a new haircut with a center part.

  “I want a disguise, not a new style, I’m an American who works at a wage job.” I search American hair fashions, and soon find myself on a website called Sav-R-Mart fashion fails. “Here we go. This.” I point at a picture. “Give me this.”

  “No, Jaxon!” Charley says.

  “This is not a current hairstyle,” she says nervously. “Gelled spikes with frosted tips hasn’t been popular since the nineties.”

  “Perfect. You’ll give me the hair. I want those tinted rectangular glasses and the short-sleeved shirt, too. What is this shirt? Men actually wear this?”

  Arnold’s back with another heirloom I don’t want. He peers at the screen. “Is it a Hawaiian shirt?”

  Bev looks, too. “No. Hawaiian shirts have flowers. I would call this a 1990s party boy shirt.”

  I take a closer look. It’s a neon-blue button up shirt with lots of pink and yellow triangles and squiggly lines on it.

  “Get me some shirts like that.”

  Staff is dispatched to shops. I take a seat and instruct Bev to begin.

  With trembling hands, she drapes a cape over my shoulders and then pauses, looking upset.

  “What is it?” I demand.

  “Bleaching the ends of your hair, Mr. Henningsly…I don’t recommend it.”

  “All the better. Do it,” I say.

  “I just want you to know, I am advising against it.”

  “Are we going to start anytime this century?”

  An hour later, the hairstyle is complete. Bev steps back, looking uncertain. “I’m sorry, this is what you asked for,” she says.

  Charley is just laughing. “Help! I’m having NSYNC flashbacks!”

  Bev hands me a mirror. I look like a different person—almost. “I love it.”

  Bev grins, surprised.

  “It’s not enough, though. You make up people for the theater. Do you have fake scars or something to try on?”

  “Can I suggest you try on a different bizarre and disturbing obsession?” Charley says.

  “We can give you something more.” Bev roots around in her cases, sounding braver now. “A disguise has two parts—what you cover and what you offer up as a distraction. This might be a little extreme, but if you truly don’t want to be recognized, you have to give them something else to look at.” She extracts a black thing the diameter of a pencil eraser and affixes it to my cheek. “There we go. It’s a stage mole, designed to be seen from the audience.” She steps back. “It’s a lot.”

  Charley is just shaking his head. “It’s too much!”

  “But it does draw the eye and give his face a different character.”

  “It’s not realistic at all!” Charley says. “Nobody has a mole like that!”

  “You’re right—nobody has a mole like that. It’s a stage mole. It’s not designed to be realistic, but people will accept it,” Bev says. “People are a lot more focused on themselves and schooling their own reactions than you might realize. And if they focus on the mole, it’ll be to make stories to explain it.”

  “Like why he didn’t remove it,” Charley says. “Most people would remove it.”

  I hold up the mirror. It’s huge and extreme, but I find I like it. “I wouldn’t remove it,” I growl.

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Charley says. “You’d give it a name and put it up for knighthood.”

  The rest of the accessories have been delivered by now, and I try on the whole ensemble—the glasses from two decades ago, the obnoxiously bright shirt. I fluff up the hairstyle that everybody seems to hate.

  “Yet somehow these things aren’t ruining your looks,” Charley complains. “They should ruin your looks more.”

  “I don’t give a shit about my look. I don’t want to be bothered, that’s all. Let’s give it a spin.” I grab my phone and head downstairs, girding myself as I usually do when I go outside, ready for people to get in my face or try to get a quote or a picture. Or if I’m in a hat and sunglasses, for people to recognize it as a disguise and try to penetrate it with varying degrees of success.

  I walk the block without being noticed. Some people stare at my mole and then look away. Some glance over me briefly and carry on. I don’t know if it’s the hair or the glasses or the shirt or the mole, or maybe it’s the whole thing, but people are avoiding my eyes. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

  It’s as if…I’m invisible.

  I stroll around the block, reveling in it.