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Chapter Eighteen
Baxter
I smile down at the text on my phone from Jax. Game on. I saunter into the bar he sent me the address of and find my way to a back corner. It’s pretty dark and crowded already, so I don’t have any concerns about being seen until I’m good and ready. When the waitress comes, I order a scotch on the rocks. And then I wait.
It takes about half an hour, but Jax soon enters with Tilly. She’s dressed to the nines, ridiculously so, and it’s hard for me not to snort into my drink. This is going to be too easy.
I have to say, she’s exactly what I expected. Although I’d heard of her - I think every elite boarding school student our age in the country had - I’d never actually laid eyes on her before this point. Still, if someone had asked me to pick her out of a lineup based on reputation alone, I could have done it with my eyes closed. She’s fake: Fake nails, tan, hair, lashes, breasts, lips, and cheeks. Blonde from a bottle, too thin, overly made up, highly strung, past her prime, trying a little too hard. She looks a decade older than she really is, but with a savage hardness to her eyes. Not one to be messed with. Or so she’d like others to think.
My favourite kind of prey.
I sit back and enjoy the show as Jax leads her to a table not too far from me and orders a bottle of champagne. It’s such a cliché, but of course Tilly laps it up. Women like her live for extravagant displays of wealth. Hence why I’m wearing ridiculous designer labels tonight that her greedy eyes won’t fail to notice.
She laughs at something Jax has said, leaning forward seductively to place a hand on his arm, and to flash her cleavage at him too, of course. Her flirting technique is not subtle. She laughs too loud, too often, and is constantly flipping her hair. Or attempting to; with the amount of hairspray she has lacquered on, it barely moves. It’s a wonder that she hasn’t given herself a crick in the neck attempting to toss it over her shoulder. Did no one ever point out that mane tossing is incredibly horse-like? I shudder at the thought of having to sleep with this plastic wannabe Barbie doll.
I have to remind myself that the end-game is worth it.
I give them another half hour or so, before I’m so bored I can’t stand it any longer. I rise to my feet and walk slowly past their table, faking a double-take when Jax’s surprised voice calls out “Bax? Is that you?”
I spin on my heels to face his table and give an almighty grin. I fucking hate smiling. I think the first time I genuinely smiled was that summer on the island with Raven, and she asked me if I’d cracked my face or hurt myself. Genuine emotion isn’t something I often show. Or even feel, for that matter.
“Jaxon? Jaxon Jackson?”
“The one and only!”
Jaxon rises to his feet and we do this weird fist-bump-back-slap move that idiots our age like to do. A quick surreptitious glance at Tilly shows she’s seriously pissed off that she’s not the centre of attention.
“How are you?” I ask, feigning actually giving a shit.
“Really well!” Jax goes on to gush about some bullshit business deal he’s working on, dropping figures and profit margins and exotic locales. I assume it’s bullshit anyway. I don’t really care to get to know him well enough to find out. What we’re doing here doesn’t make us friends; we’re allies at best. United on a common mission to destroy the girl who hurt the person we care about most in the world.
I nod along for a while, wondering how long Tilly is going to stand being snubbed and ignored for, when she clears her throat loudly.
“Jaxon, baby,” she whines with a sugary sweetness that’s more artificial than sweetner, “your friend was leaving and you’re holding him up.”
That seemed surprisingly tactful for her.
“Oh gosh, Tilly, you’re so right!” Jax exclaims. “Sorry Bax, I should let you go…”
“Not before you introduce me to your delectable friend here,” I croon, giving Tilly my full attention, acting like, now I’ve seen her, I can’t bring myself to take my eyes off her. She barely spares me a glance and clicks her tongue in annoyance at my attention. I bite back a smile of amusement.
“How rude of me, Bax this is my…dear friend Tilly,”
“Date,” she clarifies with force.
“My date. And Tilly, this is Baxter…Baxter Branson.”
The effect is instantaneous: her jaw drops; she blinks in disbelief; her eyes scan my designer clothes and my custom-made Italian leather shoes before lighting up, and then she sits up straight, pushes out her breasts and smiles at me like she’s pure sunshine itself.
“Mr Branson, Sir, what an honour it is to meet you,” she gushes, thrusting a hand into my face for me to shake. I clasp it gently and bring it to my lips to kiss. She preens, lapping it up.
“Please, call me Baxter. Mr Branson is my grandfather,” I pretend to shudder at the thought of being confused with him, but everyone at the table knows that I am the sole heir to the four billion pound Branson fortune, so it’s all an act.
“Oh, Baxter,” she giggles lightly, “you’re practically a celebrity in your own right!”
“Ah, you’re too kind, Tilly - is it okay to call you Tilly?” she nods and I continue, “But I think perhaps I’m more infamous, than famous. Much to Grandfather’s chagrin.”
I barely manage to hold back my amused smile as Tilly devours me with her greedy eyes. It’s funny - in a completely non-humorous way - how she barely spared me a glance as I approached them, but now she’s practically drooling, pound signs in her eyes, once Jax ‘dropped’ my name. He won’t have missed it either; he’s far too sharp for that. Like me, he’s seen more than his fair share of gold diggers in his time, although fucking with them was always my favourite pastime, not his.
