Tom Billionaire Ch. 05

Cassandra had made an appointment for us to visit Taylor, in the name of Tom Eriksen. I showed them my fake I.D. and after filling out some visitor paperwork, I sat down in the lobby with my right knee bouncing nervously.

Evania put her hand on my knee to calm it. "Everything will be fine."

I cast a baleful gaze on my valet. "How could you possibly know that?"

Giving me an honest look, she shrugged. "It seemed the right thing to say."

I took a deep breath and gave Evania a wan smile. "Thanks for the sentiment, at least."

She nodded and patted my back. A minute later, a pretty young woman in a pastel outfit that was more sundress than uniform came to fetch us. "Mr. Eriksen?"

I stood and turned, quickly glancing at her name tag. "Hello, Patricia."

The girl gawked at me for a second, confusion on her face before recognition set in. Clearly, she knew I was here to see Taylor. And just as clearly, she now knew exactly who I was. For the first time, I was recognized by an outsider as Jonathan Kwong. "Hello... Mr. Eriksen," she stammered, forcing her mouth around the name.

I just sighed in resignation, giving her an expectant look.

"Right..." Patricia turned and gestured to a doorway. "If you'll please follow me? She's expecting you."

Patricia led us down a hallway, and then another. _Promises_ was a treatment center built high on the Santa Monica mountains of Malibu, overlooking the ocean. The building was more mansion than commercial building, a Spanish-style villa meant to feel like a luxury hotel. The floor was made of big, red terracotta tiles. Many of the side walls were painted adobe brick. And the gabled roofs had exposed dark redwood beams.

I found myself glancing left and right as we moved along. I saw one pop singer seated on a couch while a therapist in a white physician's coat talked to her. I also caught sight of a picturesque garden outside, with the glorious blue ocean just beyond.

But soon we came to a closed door. Patricia knocked, and then called out, "Taylor, your guests are here." And then without waiting for an answer, she reached forward and opened the door.

My wife was seated on the sole bed in the private room. She was wearing an all-white dress, which blended with the white linens, all a sharp contrast to the dark frame, oak hardwood floor, and even a dark wicker chest at the foot of the bed. She was silhouetted against the sunlight coming through sliding door, which led out to the patio. And after my eyes adjusted, I realized that she was facing away from us, serenely staring outside.

Evania and I went in, and then Patricia closed the door behind us.

"Taylor?" I asked hesitantly. I hadn't seen my wife in nearly four months. It was the longest we'd been apart since I'd moved to New York. And even though I'd spent the last day or so thinking of almost nothing but what to say to her, I was now completely at a loss for words.

"Hi, Johnny," she replied quietly, still with her back to me. She was intoxicatingly beautiful. The white dress had thin spaghetti straps that highlighted the delicacy of her shoulders and exposed the upper half of her back. If it weren't for the medical bracelet around her left wrist, I would have thought she was dressed for a vacation. Her raven-black hair was cropped short, as usual, letting me drink in the smooth grace of her neck. And her face half-turned to me, so that I could see her profile from sharp jaw to high cheekbone and pointed nose.

At first, we could only see the right side of Taylor's face. She took a deep breath in, then turned around a little further to look at us. And when the rest of her face came into view, the ugly, discolored scar that crossed her cheek from just below her ear and down for part of her jawline was bared to the light for all to see.

Evania gasped and covered her mouth in shock. It wasn't a pretty sight. The scar didn't add character to Taylor's face, and it wasn't subtle. The scar was a visible reminder of the severe damage Taylor had suffered in the accident, and it completely ruined the radiant symmetry of her face. All the money in the world couldn't buy surgical techniques that didn't exist yet. We couldn't fix the scar, and Taylor would never model again. And as I grimly stared at the wicked line that disfigured my wife, the past came flashing back before my eyes.

That fateful day last October, Taylor had panicked over JJ's suddenly worsening rash. So she'd jumped into a limo and had a driver race off for the hospital. It was raining, and driving conditions were not good. Taylor was making things worse by screaming at the poor guy to hurry up. And when the limo hydroplaned off the road and into the tree line, she hadn't been wearing her seatbelt.

I remembered jumping out of the car after it skidded to a stop at the hospital, not even bothering to close the door behind me. I was off-balance, and I literally ran into some guy in my haste. He didn't fall; we sort of caught each other and stood back up. I then just took off without an apology and heard him yelling something after me, but I didn't bother to turn around. The next month he would sue me for $300,000 for his "injuries" and "unrecoverable emotional distress" or some such bullshit. The news media were only too happy to report on it, never mind all the other shit I was going through by then.

I remembered bursting into the O.R.'s viewing room. They wouldn't let me into the Operating Room myself, but I could see the doctors still at work putting my wife back together. Her broken ribs and fractured left arm would heal. And despite the copious amounts of blood running out of my wife's face, that too would heal... mostly.

JJ, despite being strapped into his carseat, wasn't so lucky. His carseat wasn't meant to take a tree branch coming in at that particular angle. The only positive was that the M.E. assured me my little boy had died instantly on impact.

I remembered Taylor, curled up in a fetal position and sobbing on the linoleum hospital room floor where she'd fallen after being told her infant son hadn't survived.

I remembered standing on the cliffside at the far eastern edge of my property. At the time, I could see everything, but I couldn't *hear* anything. I didn't hear the ocean waves crashing against the beach a hundred yards off. I didn't hear the gulls cawing as they circled on the updrafts of wind hitting the warmer landmass of Long Island. And I didn't hear the anguished wails of my wife as she mourned the loss of her only child.

I remembered staring at the headstone, the first ever such grave marker on my property. It was eerie to see the words "Jonathan Kwong" etched into the stone, and I felt a shadow pass over my heart. The addition of the comma and "Junior" on the end did nothing to ease my trepidation. And it broke my heart to see "October 12" in the birth section and "October 7" in death. JJ hadn't even been able to see his first birthday.

I remembered watching the tiny casket being lowered into the ground. Dirt was piled atop it. Then Taylor had flung herself onto the dirt, bawling until her body simply stopped producing liquid, leaving her to dry sob without the benefit of tears. Finally, Ashlyn stepped forward to pick her best friend up from the ground.

I remembered the following several months. Taylor had taken to wearing black, all day every day, and refused to leave the family compound for any reason. She visited JJ's grave every morning, and came home with fresh tear tracks every time.

She'd blamed herself for causing his death, for every reason imaginable. She stopped eating, getting perilously close to 100 pounds, not good for someone 5'10", no matter how skinny models could be. She wouldn't accept help from anyone, not Ashlyn her best friend, nor Charlotte her loyal aide, nor even me her husband. And then to my absolute horror, Charlotte caught her one day with her wrists taped and a knife poised to finish the deed.

I don't think Taylor would have gone through with it, but it was a scary situation nonetheless.

We talked about therapy, but two days later, Taylor came home all perky and happy and excited, as if a switch had been thrown inside her. She seduced me, telling me she wanted to celebrate being alive and that she wanted to try again, to have a new baby with me. The sex was hot and passionate. And things were looking better.

But her mood swings were getting pretty wild. Cassandra was the first one to figure out Taylor was doing cocaine. We tried to get her to stop, but she lashed out at us like a rebellious teenager. I couldn't bring myself to lock her down, nor have her committed, not even when Ashlyn packed up Joey and got the hell out of there. I simply loved my wife too much. She started going out to more and more parties, facial scar be damned. The paparazzi, of course, absolutely ate up her behavior. And I was forced to see trashy photos of my half-dressed wife published in the tabloids for the whole world to see.

And I remembered almost four months ago, when Taylor didn't come home. She'd been going to three or four parties a week, often coming home still wired. But she always came home.

Not that night. It was after 2am when Cassandra, Charlotte, and I set out to find her. Quick calls pointed me to Giorgio's. And after speeding down the road to Southampton and clearing my way through security, we raced through the open front door and into the house.

It took a while; there were a lot of passed-out bodies everywhere. But I found Taylor in a bedroom. She was naked, strings of cum across her tits and leaking out of her pussy. Her eyes were red and a trickle of blood was running out of her nose. And she stared straight up at the ceiling, completely in a world of her own.

My wife was absolutely delirious, and extremely feverish. Charlotte dressed her as best as she could and we drove straight to a hospital. Taylor had overdosed on the cocaine, and despite assurances for discretion, it was all over the news the next morning.

After that, I didn't have a choice. I committed Taylor into rehab, choosing _Promises_ based on Ashlyn's recommendation. I lived for exactly one week in Montauk without her. And then unable to deal with it anymore, I'd disappeared to a rehab of my own.

Now I was back. Taylor was still here. I didn't know exactly what I was going to say to her. But I had only a single goal: I wanted for the both of us to go home.

Evania still had her hand over her mouth, covering her gasp of shock at the wicked scar marring my wife's face.

Taylor looked at my valet, a bemused smirk tugging at her lips. She reached up, tracing the crack in her cheek with her own fingertips. And then sighing, she looked straight at me and stated, "I'm not going home with you."

****

"I'm not going home with you."

I felt my heart thudding into the bottom of my stomach when Taylor said those words. I'd felt this feeling once before: after finding out that we would be bankrupt if we couldn't recover the stolen money, when Taylor told me we were done.

Then, her words had only referenced our financial situation. But in my heart, I felt that she was declaring our entire lives would be over. Our relationship would have failed right along with our finances.

Now, I heard the same thing. Taylor wasn't just telling me that she wasn't ready to go back to New York with me. She was telling me she would *never* go back to New York with me. And it absolutely crushed me inside.

"Taylor... please..." I croaked, fighting to the urge to collapse.

She stood abruptly, not looking at me. She stepped around the bed, approaching us. And she extended a hand out to Evania. "Hello, I'm Taylor Brynn."

I felt a further tightening in my gut at her name. Even though she had not legally changed her name with our marriage, keeping the Brynn surname synonymous with her modeling identity, Taylor had always socially introduced herself as "Taylor Brynn Kwong".

Evania didn't notice, collecting herself and standing upright as she shook my wife's hand. "I am Evania Koteas. I have been Mr... Kwong's... valet these past few months." She had paused for a moment, forcing herself to use the unfamiliar Kwong last name.

"Pleased to meet you," Taylor replied warmly, and then glanced at me while still shaking hands. "Your new Cassandra?"

I grimaced, "I wouldn't call her that."

"But it's accurate, isn't it?"

I shrugged and nodded.

Taylor looked back and forth between us, only now dropping her hand. She looked at my valet and then stated softly, "I'm sorry, but would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with my husband?"

"No, of course I would not mind," Evania said quickly. She bowed her head to me to take her leave, and then left through the door to the hallway.

Taylor watched her go, and then raising her chin, she tilted her head toward the sliding door and suggested, "Why don't we take a walk? It's beautiful outside."

She didn't wait for an answer. She walked to the door, slid it open, and went outside. The air was warm, and a little humid, but there was a nice ocean breeze coming up the mountain that swirled the hem of Taylor's white sundress. From my angle behind her, she was magnificently gorgeous, if a little skinny, with no view of the scar that would forever remind her of her tragic past.

I followed immediately. There was a lush green lawn just past the tiled patio, surrounded by vibrant wildflowers and overlooking the ocean. It only took a second to catch up to my wife and instinctively reach out to take her hand. She let me, her fingers momentarily tightening against mine. And then using our handhold as a guide, she led me over to a trail leading off the edge of the lawn and into the garden.

"How have you been, Johnny?" Taylor asked me first.

"I've been... okay."

"Cassandra tells me you've been more than okay."

"I'm dealing. I've missed you."

"Not very much, it seems."

"How can you say that?"

She looked at me, raising her eyebrows. "When did you get back Stateside? A week ago? Two weeks?"

I winced and admitted, "Two."

Taylor tilted her head to the side and arched an eyebrow at me. "Can't have missed me that much if you could wait. Three months, three months and two weeks, what's the difference?"

"It's not like that."

"Doesn't matter," she stated flatly, looking away from me. "You could have come before, but whatever the reasons, you chose not to. It's that simple."

She squeezed my hand and led me further away. The pathway sloped downward at this point, and wooden trestles were dug into the ground to form a sort of stairway. At the bottom was a circular landing with a pretty fountain in the center and curved concrete blocks for benches around the perimeter. All of this had one of the more impressive views of the coastline, and it was to this landing that Taylor was leading me now.

She sat down on one of the concrete block benches, her face turned seaward. I could only see the right side of her face, her scar deliberately kept away from me. I touched her leg, keeping my focus on her. "I'm here now. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

"Like I said: doesn't matter." She waved her hand dismissively.

"How have you been?" I asked.

Taylor looked at her hands. "It's not easy. Even after all this time, it's not easy. I never took enough blow to get addicted before. But now that I have, it's hell getting _un_-addicted. The withdrawal symptoms are killer."

I grimaced, patting her thigh. "I'm sorry."

Taylor shrugged. "I once made it a full three weeks without taking a hit. Then I couldn't take it any more and just HAD to find a bump. Doctor Abernathy was NOT happy when she found me the next morning."

"How did you?"

She glanced at me before consciously turning her face away again. "How did I get it? Easy. But that's for me to know and you *not* to be able to tell Doctor Abernathy."

"Taylor... isn't the point of all this to help you kick the habit?"

"Of course, but I haven't reached that stage yet. I still need my source in my back pocket, just in case I have to bump again. Maybe when I feel like I don't have to have that fallback, I'll be ready to leave."

"So is that why you said you're not going home with me? Because you haven't completed your rehab just yet?"

Taylor gave me a Cheshire smile. "No, it's more than that."

"What?"

Taylor didn't answer. She just looked away from me, going silent. I started fidgeting inside wanting to press her, but I held myself in check.

At long last, Taylor spoke again. "So Cassandra tells me you have a new girlfriend."

"Cassandra seems to be telling you quite a bit."

"And why shouldn't she?" Taylor now snapped her face to me, her cool blue eyes boring straight into the back of my skull. "She is my friend, probably my closest friend after Ashlyn and Charlotte left. I know that _she_, at least, still loves me."

"No, no, I didn't mean..." I sighed, re-collecting myself. "I'm happy Cassandra has been keeping in touch with you. I has to have been good for you to have someone on the outside keeping you in the loop."

Taylor nodded, once again looking seaward. "Cassandra tells me she's quite pretty. 'Vivienne', is it?"

I just nodded.

Taylor inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly. "So... I guess your new life is complete, huh? You've found yourself a new Cassandra, and you've found yourself a new 'me'. Now all you gotta do is knock up this Vivienne or find yourself a new Ashlyn to do it and *everything* will be perfect, _Tom_."

"Taylor..." I groaned.

She shook her head, "No, I'm serious." She exhaled slowly, then extended her hands and rubbed her palms together rapidly, as if she were trying to build a fire. Then interlacing her fingers together, she brought them up under her chin and glanced over at me. "This time apart has been good for you, Johnny. You look healthy. You've gained some of your weight back. You were starting to look pretty gaunt there a few months ago."

I gestured up and down at Taylor's own skeletal frame. She was still far too thin. "*You* should be talking."

She chuckled at that. "I mean it. You look good. Cassandra tells me you've been traveling. You're getting laid again. Everything is better. Life as Tom Eriksen suits you."

"But it's not real."

"Who decides what's real?"

"I do." I took a deep breath, and remember what Jeff Lee had told me to say. "Taylor, I love you. And I want you with me. Please come home."

She gave me a wan smile and shook her head. "No." And then she went back to staring off at the ocean.

I blinked and then furrowed my eyebrows, frustration building inside me. No explanation, no reasons, just 'no'. I sighed in exasperation and put my hand on her leg. "Taylor, why not?"

She still wouldn't look at me. I saw a hitch in her breathing, and she looked downward between her feet. And then she mumbled something so quietly I couldn't hear it over the wind rustling the bushes around us.

"What did you say?" I asked, leaning forward in an attempt to really look at her.

When Taylor picked her face up again, she turned to fully look at me, scar and all. My eyes darted to it automatically, but I quickly returned to her eyes. And there was an obvious shimmer of moisture there. "I don't want to go home," she repeated, this time in a stronger voice. "I belong here."

"Why?"

"Because this place is for broken people, and I am still broken."

"Then come home and let me fix you!"

"We tried that, remember? Look where it got us? Me, addicted to cocaine. And you, so frazzled that you had to just up and leave."

"Then we try again. And we learn from our mistakes."

Taylor shook her head. "No, Johnny. No. It's better this way. This is my penance. I killed our son, and I stay here. It's more than I deserve, but then I'm too soft to really punish myself. But you? You deserve a new life. You deserve a better life, and a chance to start over."