by Tara Brent
Copyright 2018 by Tara Brent - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
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Cooper
Chapter 1
The nights always bled together for Easton Cooper.
Sure their hair, eye, lip, and skin color may have been different; some were tall, some were short; some thick, some trim; some funny, some shy; but at the end of the day, rarely did an evening go by when the young CEO of Valkyrie-Cooper Tech didn’t have a new feminine face below (or on top, or next to) his own statuesque body.
This evening’s edition was named… actually, he had no idea what her name was. All he knew was that when he encountered her at Bar Sixty-Five’s Rainbow Room, she approached him with the subtlety of a crash cymbal in a chamber orchestra.
“Oh my God, you can’t be Easton Cooper, can you?” she demanded. He smiled. While he would ordinarily be bothered by having a complete stranger immediately begin to caress his arm, he had every intention of bringing a female companion home that evening, and despite her careless, tipsy first step, she was alluring and available.
So of course, he played along.
“Me? Easton Cooper? Nah. You must have me confused.”
She giggled. “Well, either you’re Easton Cooper, or somebody put Matt Bomer and young Jared Leto into a blender and your fine self popped out.”
He leaned in as if sharing a dark secret. “Well, if I was Easton Cooper,” and if you’re the gold digger I suspect you to be, he thought, “you’d know that my net worth is more than twenty-six hundred times their combined fortunes, right?”
“Well, you can’t buy your way into my panties,” she replied, with a flutter of her eyelashes that confirmed that he could absolutely buy his way into her panties. Though I suppose my chiseled chin doesn’t hurt either, he mused.
“What’s your poison?” he asked.
“So it is you! I knew it! I recognized you from the Helena Trent video!”
Easton felt a twinge of annoyance at this. Three years ago, he began dating singer-turned-TV-actress Helena Trent, a starlet notorious for tabloid drama. But she was hot and famous and the best kind of sorceress in bed, so he ignored the raised eyebrows and grimacing warnings of those around him and went all in. About six months in, the drama kicked up to levels beyond even what he could handle. But, stubborn as always, he hung on until it came to a head when she aggressively and publicly broke up with him during their anniversary dinner, a spectacle that was filmed and already had 2 million views on YouTube before the police managed to bring him to the station. In the end, she was charged with a public disturbance misdemeanor and had to pay damages to Gramercy Tavern after the mess he made, and he was able to walk away without even a misdemeanor charge. But whereas before he was vaguely a household name on account of his fortune and his romantic life, this propelled him into a level of fame he did not anticipate.
It was a bittersweet sore spot that he regularly took advantage of. Fame was as intoxicating to the kinds of women he so often found himself inside as money was, but the humiliation of the ordeal still stung.
But he hid his annoyance and grinned back at her. “And here I was, thinking that you were just well-versed in tech titans.”
“Ew, no, you’re the only hot one,” she said dismissively. “And my poison of choice is whatever you’re about to buy me to show off.”
Easton motioned to the bartender. “Two ‘Above the Law’ cocktails,” he requested. Louis XIII, 100-Year-Old Vintage Absinthe, Angostura Bitters, Peychaud’s Bitters; three hundred and twenty-five dollars for the one cocktail for a combined six-hundred and fifty dollar check. When the bartender passed the two glasses forward, Easton scribbled in a $450 tip, a clean thousand dollars in total.
“Color me impressed!” she said. “Cheers.”
“Don’t be too impressed,” he said. “I once made seven billion in fifteen minutes thanks to a good swing in the stock market.”
“Show-off,” she replied slyly.
Five-thousand dollars and countless cocktails later and they were aggressively making out at the bar, each with their hands between each other’s legs. After dropping as much money in such a short span as he had, it was hard to attempt to convince him that perhaps this setting was not ideal, but eventually, Easton motioned the bartender over and held up the keys to his 2016 Tesla Model X P100D.
“Would you like me to call you a cab?” asked the bartender. She found herself simultaneously relieved that these two weren’t going to start actively screwing on the bar, but was somewhat sad to see the highest source of tips she ever served prepare to depart. Then again, it was pretty hot watching them go at it…
“Not necessary. You’re going to drive me home with this lovely lady, and from there, whatever you do is your call.”
She blushed but tried to maintain a cocky facade. “All right hotshot. But what happens when I get to your place?”
He smirked. “That, my dear, is entirely up to you.” He slid the check and took his female companion by the arm, leading her to the bathroom.” Looking over his shoulder, Easton called back, “Just kidding. It’s up to me.” The bartender laughed, moving to clock out.
Tipsy coed in tow, Easton pushed his way past the line, made his way inside, and locked the door behind him. “On your knees,” he said to her, unbuckling his belt. She obliged with glee, finishing the job of undoing his pants with her mouth wide open.
***
The bartender tried to keep her eyes on the road despite relishing the fact that her customers from half an hour earlier were actively having sex immediately behind her. She herself was maybe not as conventionally sexy as the squealing minx in the back seat, but she still found herself exceptionally cute and was rather frustrated that she hadn’t had any “attention” in over a month. “We’re here,” she finally said, pulling into what seemed like some sort of car museum.
“That we are,” said Easton, pushing his onyx hair out of his glaucous eyes. “So, honey,” he said, addressing the lady on his lap, “you have two choices. Order yourself an Uber, or have a threesome.”
“What?” she demanded shocked.
“Yeah, um what?” asked the bartender
“Relax, I promise to make you breakfast in the morning.”
The bartender considered for a moment, then said, “I like my eggs poached.”
“I thought we were going to spend the night together,” pouted lady number 1.
“We did. We just won’t be spending the morning together unless you’re game to join in on our fun. And remember,” he added, smirking, “I always get my way eventually. Why not enjoy the ride?”
She looked slightly frazzled, but then finally smiled and said, “Screw it. YOLO, let’s make this happen!”
Two hours later they were asleep beside him. They had shared two bottles of Armand de Brignac Brut Rose Champagne NV 6 L (Imperial) while showering together, and then he brought them to bed. Gentle, he was not, but passionate in ways that they so desperately needed, and by the time they passed out from sexual exhaustion, both women could safely say that never had they had such a vigorous, complete experience in bed.
***
The bartender woke up the next morning to find a note written for her:
Good morning -
Had to get to work. The other one woke me up early, rambling about needing an Uber, but I
didn’t want to wake you. Sorry for not making breakfast, but there are waffles ready downstairs, and a limo ready to take you wherever you need to go. It’s yours for the day.
-EC
She felt tightness in her chest as one tear apiece welled in each eye, but she blinked them away. It was never not going to be a one-night thing; you weren’t even his only or even first girl of the evening! Even so, she still felt heartbroken as she made her way down to her waffles and rode the limo he provided back home, where she took the longest shower of her life.
But despite feeling crappy about herself, she couldn’t help but grin inwardly. He may not remember her name but he still gave her a hell of a night, and she knew that she would never forget her crazy evening with bad boy billionaire Easton Cooper.
After calling out of work, she slumped on her couch, summoned her kitten and puppy to her lap, and decided to spend the rest of the day binging Netflix and wondering if her friends would ever believe her.
Chapter 2
Easton Cooper rubbed his temples, drained and hungover from last night’s liaison with… whatever her name was from last night. Their names… plural… right. He pressed the intercom. “Nancy?”
His secretary replied, “Yes, Mr. Cooper?”
“I need a triple espresso. Also, tropical citrus Vitamin Water, diluted with Smart Water, over crushed ice.”
“Anything else, your highness?”
Easton smirked. “Not unless you want to enjoy a reprise of our little adventure last March.”
Nancy snorted. “There’s not enough tequila in the world to make me forget that. And trust me, I’ve tried. Definitely, don’t need more PTSD.”
“Whatever you say, sweet stuff,” laughed Easton. The chuckle made his head throb, so he abruptly stopped, groaning instead. What were their names again?
The morning went on as usual. The drinks helped, sort of, not really, and soon it was almost lunch. I’ll step out early today, he thought, but then the intercom buzzed. “Nancy?” he said, “whatever it is, put it off, I’m going to take lunch.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that sir,” she replied, “I have strict orders to make sure you take this meeting.”
“What? I’m your boss! Who are you taking orders from?”
Nancy sighed, and then read aloud: “‘Nancy, next Wednesday I have a noon appointment that I cannot afford to miss. Do not under any circumstances allow me to deviate from that since this buyout is more important than whatever sex-fueled hangover I may be experiencing. ~EC.’ So,” she continued, “unless somebody with your initials hacked your email to get me to keep you to take this meeting, I suppose that I take my orders from you, sir!”
Easton scowled at the pleased mockery in her voice, but then said, “Fine, send him in.”
“Sorry?” replied Nancy, confused.
“Send him in!” repeated Easton, getting annoyed. God damn, I wish I could fire her… too bad she has enough dirt on me to bury me six feet under.
“Oh,” replied Nancy slowly. “OH! Oh, I see, yeah, not a problem.”
Why does she sound so chipper? Frustrated and abandoning the pretense of dealing with his still-lingering hangover with an even remotely healthy approach, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk to take a swig of Yamazaki Limited Edition whiskey 1952. Hardly enough to make him tipsy or even buzzed, but (even if just through placebo) he hoped it would ease his aggravation and over-charged nerves. He didn’t let the world see it, but as the youngest CEO in VC’s history, he often felt more than overwhelmed.
This particular deal meant a lot to him. Gaea’s Grocer’s had the potential to not only bring in hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue, but if successful, would open the door for VC to acquire a range of businesses extending far beyond technology. Right now, he was a king, but GG’s could potentially pave the way for him to become an emperor.
As he closed the somewhat pricey bottle of scotch and placed it back in the bottom drawer, the door to his office opened.
The woman who stepped inside defied adjectives. She lingered somewhere between striking and exquisite, with a gleam in her eyes suggesting that she knew the punchline of some joke the rest of the world was oblivious to. Her skin was a warm honey-mahogany tone, her eyes a smoky chestnut, her lips a soft rosé-burgundy, and her curly hair the color of licorice. Her outfit was professional yet undeniably sexy. Easton immediately recognized the dress as Vivienne Westwood, albeit with quite a lower cut than usual.
Easton found himself so enchanted that he almost forgot he had a meeting. Peeling his eyes from her cleavage to her face (not entirely challenging given how gorgeous her eyes and lips were), he cleared his throat. “Hello Miss,” he shrouded his eagerness in smugness, then walked around his desk to greet her. “Easton Cooper. I’m sorry; I thought I would be meeting your boss today. I was hoping to close this deal. Not that I mind having you here, of course,” he added quickly, not wanting to insult this latest prospect. “I just was wondering where Mr. MacTaggart was.”
She cocked her head to the side with a mischievous spark in her gaze, and replied, “Mr. MacTaggart? Well, he’s in the Pacific Ocean somewhere. Or at least that’s where we sprinkled his ashes when he died fifteen years ago. Why you’d want a meeting with a deceased insurance salesman, though, is quite beyond me.”
Easton blinked, flustered by both the content and delivery of her reply. “I’m sorry, I--”
She extended her hand. “Alexandra MacTaggart,” she said, stressing the “-dra” at the end of her name, “Founder and CEO of Gaea’s Grocer’s.” She grinned slyly. “I am your 12:00, correct?”
Alex MacTaggart, he thought to himself, miserably. I didn’t do my research… shit! Not good game, Easton, not good game. He realized he was staring too long and quickly extended his hand. What is wrong with me? “I’m so sorry; I didn’t do my due diligence. I certainly never meant to offend.” Despite himself, he scanned her up and down again. He wondered if her dress selection—dark blue with a leafy texture, professional yet sexy, coordinating perfectly with the light velvet blazer that adorned her arms—was her way of testing him. It was as if she was daring him to view her as someone other than a fellow professional.
“For you to offend me would require me to consider your opinion valuable, Mr. Cooper,” she replied, her grin unfaltering. “There is nothing about my name that suggests I am anything other than yet another trust fund white boy who inherited Daddy’s fortune to continue… how do you put it? Creating jobs? Adorable. But given that I am the complete opposite of that, I allow the ambiguity to keep me on an even playing field while conducting business. You’re not the first pale-male to make such an assumption and you will hardly be the last.” She walked passed him and sat in the chair before his desk, leaving him standing there.
Easton Cooper was never rattled, least of all in front of a pretty woman. And since the Helena Trent breakup video went viral three years ago, he vowed never to allow himself to be humiliated… again, least of all by a pretty woman.
He was pissed.
He took a breath. This deal matters more than your immediate ego. He sat down, electing to take a conciliatory tone. “You’re right. Again, I apologize.” He inwardly seethed as the apology left his mouth, but maintained his (hopefully) charming composure. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Let’s,” she replied pleasantly.
“In fact,” he said slowly, carelessly allowing flirtation to enter his voice. “I was considering taking lunch soon, would you care to join me?”
Alex’s grin finally ceded to an eye-roll. “Mr. Cooper I’m neither your secretary nor a tabloid-obsessed gold-digger, and I am certainly not a singer-turned-TV star. Your fancy suits and old-money charm won’t work on me, and while I can smell the price-tag of the whiskey on your breath—expensive enough to earn a place between your lips but not so pricey as to store in your desk drawer—it does little to impress me. You may be able to buy and sell the company I’ve spent my whole life building, but you
can’t buy or sell me.”
“Right, because I never have business lunches with male colleagues,” Easton snapped back. He tried to calm himself down, forcing a fake smile onto his face. “And if you think the Yakazaki on my breath is pricey, someday you should try the Tullibardine I keep by my bedside. But enough bullshit. You want to deal here and now, then I’m game. Let’s do this. Because you’re right: I can buy and sell your little grocery store. But not unless you’re down to play.” He slid a notecard across the desk, along with a fountain pen. “Name your price.”
Alex stood up gingerly. “I think we’ve conducted enough business today. Gaea’s Grocer doesn’t need a tech firm to parent it, no matter how many silver pieces you may offer.” She leaned forward, deliberately giving him an eyeful of her voluptuous cleavage. “I know your type, Easton Cooper. Bad boy billionaire, with a master of the universe complex. I thought I could have a proper business deal with you. I hoped that your reputation was just gossip rag fodder. But even now you’re more interested in staring at my tits than you are at closing a deal that will propel Valkyrie into a new era. And on that note, enjoy the view,” she said, shaking slightly so they would swing before his face, “because that’s the most you’ll ever see of me.” She straightened up, turned on her heels and left.
Easton was shell-shocked. But just as she clasped around the doorknob, he shouted, “Wait!” She paused and turned, one eyebrow cocked. “You’re right. I’ve been a mess today and I’ve been unprofessional. That’s not how I normally am. Come sit, let’s make this deal!”
She opened her mouth, her countenance flushed with aggravation, but then she softened. “You one crazy rich boy, Easton Cooper,” she said, shaking her head. “Tell you what. You prove to me that you’re worth my time, and maybe you’ll get it. Oh, and pro-tip? If you don’t treat someone like they are worth your time, you’re nowhere near accomplishing that goal.” The grin from earlier returned. “Go take the rest of the day off. Buy yourself a new plane and fly to Africa with your buddies Don and Eric to kill the last surviving male of some rare elephant and make yourself an ivory butt plug if it makes you happy. But the next time our paths cross, I’d better have a very different Easton Cooper standing before me.”
