Page 48 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I headed out with a rush of anger at Charlie for not keeping tabs on his little sister. Not that a person could—she was fifteen by then and fairly wild.

And indeed drunk as a skunk in the next town, grinning at me from a bench next to a couple in their fifties. She looked surprised when I walked up. “Hugo! What are you doing here?”

“You had these people DM me.”

I thanked them, and from our brief exchange, I gathered that Stella begged them to use their phone, but she couldn’t remember any phone numbers, so she’d gone for a Twitter DM. How or why it got to me, who knows. Did she point out the wrong name?

They headed off into the night.

“I thought Charlie was coming.”

“He’s with Jeanette.” I hoisted her up and tried to help her walk. Eventually, I resorted to carrying her. “What the fuck are you doing out here all alone?”

“Hugo,” she replied, gazing at me like I was Prince Charming.

“You’re wasted,” I growled, getting her to the car as fast as possible.

From what I could glean, she’d been out with some boy who got her drunk and had been pressuring her into something she didn’t want to do. It wasn’t like her to be so drunk. Whatever she had, it was something strong. Not quite roofie strong, but grain alcohol strong?

Probably.

“Don’t tell my parents. I’ll be grounded forever.” And then, in a loud, boozy stage whisper that I knew all too well, she said, “They won’t understand, what with the switching at birth.”

That was a running joke between us—that we were switched at birth, because her family is so studious, and she seemed to think my parents were fun and extroverted. I suppose they looked like that from the outside.

“I won’t tell your folks if you tell me his name,” I said.

“S’under control,” she’d said defiantly.

Some people are boastful drunks or weepy drunks or funny drunks; Stella turned out to be the kind of drunk who tried to act hypercompetent. Like everything was under control.

“Just some miscommunication,” she’d added.

For all her flightiness and disorganization, she always had a deep sense of loyalty—even, apparently, to the jackass who’d gotten her drunk and left her to fend for herself when things didn’t go his way.

I got that name eventually.

And I carried her into the house, settled her onto the threadbare living room couch, and then pounded on Charlie’s door. He and Jeanette wandered out, half-dressed, and they sprang into action when they saw how drunk Stella was.

And I drove off.

She and I never talked about it. I sometimes wondered whether she forgot about it.

I didn’t.

My memory of that night is one of her soft skin, her extreme vulnerability, and murder in my heart.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Stella

I heavemyself up from my desk and the pile of gummy worm wrappers, the remains of a very unwise round of stress-eating, and head out.

It’s ten to two. People wince at me as I pass. Some look solemn. It’s like I’m going to an execution.

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you call him Mr. Roboto again,” Tinley says as I pass.

I grin.

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