Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2)

by Jasinda Wilder

  Me: That was me returning the favor, actually.

  Zoe: So…what’s the bad news? Was he, like, bad at going downtown or something? Micropeen?

  Me: The bad news is that the absolute polar opposite is true. Amazing in every way. I’m still all…gooey from how hard he made me come. And talk about HUNG.

  Zoe: So, what’s the problem then?

  Me: I like him. He’s LIKEABLE. He’s DECENT. Worst of all, he’s INTELLIGENT and INTERESTING.

  Zoe: le shock, le horreur. A good, decent, attractive, likable, intelligent, interesting man is attracted to you and gives you good orgasms. WHATEVER SHALL YOU DO? HOW SHALL YOU COPE, YOU POOR POOR THING?

  Me: I never said he was good. He’s bad…just in all the right ways.

  Zoe: Again. I’m not seeing the problem.

  Me: I don’t know how to…do…that. He told me a personal story about something painful in his life, and he wasn’t self-conscious or weird about it. And even though we’d done sexy stuff together literally moments before, it wasn’t weird or awkward between us. It was touching. THAT’S NOT NORMAL.

  Zoe: Honey. Baby. Dearest, lovely elder sister of mine.

  Me: *EYE ROLL EMOJI*

  Zoe: for those, like, seven people in the universe who aren’t emotionally maladjusted and psychologically traumatized, like you and me, that’s called chemistry, and it’s how you develop a meaningful romantic relationship, establish a marriage, and become a family. Some people might even call it NORMAL. As your qualified mental health professional, I recommend you give it the ol’ college try.

  Me: If *YOU* are my qualified mental health professional, then we’re both super fucked.

  Zoe: possible, possible. But still. Just for funsies, here, Autumn, but WHAT IF you just tried letting yourself catch some feelings and see how it goes? What’s the worst that could happen?

  Me: You did not just ask that fucking question, Zoe Erin Scott.

  Zoe: Oh yes I did, Autumn Eileen Scott. For real, what is the actual worst that could happen?

  Me: Oh, I don’t know. That’s a tough one, but I think I have a couple ideas. How about, for starters, we haven’t even actually fucked yet and I’m already jonesing for him again so if and when we do fuck, it’s going to be the best sex of my life and I’m going to be ruined for sex with anyone else ever again, and he’ll get tired of me and then I’ll never have sex again and my poor sad neglected vag will dry up and fall off from neglect, and I’ll die an ugly sad dried up vagina-less sexless nun, only without the comfort of religious beliefs. Oh, and let’s not forget the heartbreak that would accompany him getting tired of me and dumping me, because I for sure would never recover from that. ALSO, additionally, and to continue: sex with him is so good and the temptation to connect with him so strong, that I could see myself letting us fuck bareback, and then I’d get pregnant for sure, to which I say, see aforementioned heartbreak leading to the complete and total destruction of me as a person.

  Zoe: or

  Me: Or…what?

  Zoe: or not

  Me: oh really. Happily ever after, just like that?

  Zoe: I mean? Lizzy seems pretty damn happily ever after. Just IMHO.

  “Hi, Miss Scott, I think I’ve seen all I need to see,” the client said, coming out of the master bedroom, adjusting his cuffs and tie. “I’ll take it. Email me the paperwork and I’ll get it to you this afternoon, yet."

  Me: GTG.

  To the client, then: “Certainly. I think Lizzy has it all drawn up already, so as soon as I get to the office, I’ll shoot it over to you.”

  He nodded, shot me a two-finger salute, and headed for the door. “Cool, thanks.” He paused halfway out the door. “Oh, and I’d like all the furniture included, so negotiate that for me and have it included in the docs.”

  I smiled at him. “Easy enough. Should I contact you during negotiations?”

  He was back in motion already. “Nah. You’re working for me, right? So just get a decent price for the furniture inclusion. I’m not worried about it. I just don’t have the time to worry about having to furnish the place, and I like the staging.”

  “That’s fair, sir. You should have the paperwork in your inbox in an hour or so.”

  A no-look, over the shoulder wave of acknowledgment as he rounded the corner for the elevator bank.

  I texted Lizzy. He’s rather…brusque.

  Lizzy: LOL yeah. He just knows what he wants and doesn’t have patience for what he calls dithering. I sold him a place a couple years ago, and he was the same way.

  Me: what, he just moves from condo to condo every couple years?

  Lizzy: I don’t know this for SURE, but I’m pretty certain it’s not condos he’s shuffling around, but mistresses. He finds a new side piece, buys them a condo to put them up in, gets tired of them, gives them the condo as a consolation prize, and moves on. Rinse and repeat.

  Me: cold AF

  Lizzy: I mean, if you’re a sugar baby mistress type, I guess I could see how it’s a pretty good deal, you know? Like, get all the action with none of the commitment, and score a sweet pad out of the deal.

  Me: I guess I see your point. He’s talking it, wants furniture included, and don’t bother him with the details. I told him I’d send him the paperwork when I got to the office.

  Lizzy: I’m on it. I have it ready, so I’ll just send it to him. We can split the commission, since I did the legwork of finding the condo and you showed it. Fair?

  Me: Eminently. Thank you.

  Lizzy: Are you going to be at the office, soon?

  Me: Locking up and heading out right now.

  I got a thumbs-up to that, and headed down to the parking garage. I still couldn’t believe Seven had just casually tossed me the keys to a quarter-million-dollar supercar. I approached the vehicle, parked in a guest parking spot, and grinned to myself, already excited about putting the top back and taking it up the coast to the office.

  A girl could get used to this.

  NO.

  A girl COULD NOT get used to this. Bad Autumn.

  It was a one-time favor. I would not be accepting exorbitant gifts from Seven. All I wanted from him was orgasms and dick, and maybe a little nonsexual fun. A date, maybe two. Fuck a few times, get him out of my system, and that would be that.

  Ad successful. No babies, no unprotected sex, no attachment or commitment or anything. Just good old-fashioned hooking up.

  That’s all I wanted from him, from anyone, ever.

  Honest.

  I pressed the ignition button, and 720 horsepower snarled to life. The top went back, quick and smooth. I tied my hair up in a tight bun, and then, on a whim, checked the glove box: sure enough, an old, floppy, worn, blue-and-white Dodgers baseball cap was folded in half on top of the folder of manuals and such. I stuffed my bun through the back, tugged the brim low, and backed out of the spot. As I headed up the exit ramp, I spied a Lightning cable and connected my phone, pulled up my feeling-good playlist, which consisted primarily of Lizzo.

  The drive back to Malibu was everything I anticipated. I drove way too fast, blared the music way too loud, got a lot of looks, and felt way too good about myself.

  I parked in the lot behind the office, pulling in beside Teddy, who was sitting in her adorable little Audi convertible, earbuds in, having a…spirited…conversation. She glanced at me, smiled and waved, looked away, and then back in a comical double take.

  “I’ll call you back, Leo.” She tapped her screen to end the call, slid her earbuds out of her ears and put them in the case, put up her top, shut off her engine, exited, and came around the back of my borrowed car.

  “Where’s your BMW, Autumn?” She leaned on the passenger windowsill. “I know this isn’t yours.”

  “What if it is?”

  “I’d ask when you started dealing coke.”

  I snorted. “Fine. It’s not mine, obviously, it’s…um. It’s Seven’s.” I winced, waiting for the squeal.

  “YES!” Teddy turned away fro
m the car, fists raised over her head in victory. “You slept with Seven St. John!”

  I gave a demure shrug. “Not exactly.”

  She turned back to me, frowning. “Then how do you have his Ferrari F8 Tributo Spider?”

  I snickered. “You know exactly what this is?”

  A shrug. “I very briefly, and I do mean briefly, dated a guy who was a Ferrari salesman. And by salesman, I mean fanboy. It’s all he talked about, this model, that model, this amount of horsepower, that trim package, this many hundreds of thousands of dollars. He was obsessed with owning specifically this, and showed me the brochure of the one he wanted at least half a dozen times. So yeah, I know exactly what this is.”

  I laughed. “And you dumped him after the seventh time he showed the brochure for a car he was obsessed with?”

  Teddy bit her lip sheepishly. “No, I dumped him after I gave him oral and he said he didn’t want to return the favor because he didn’t like the taste of fish.”

  I boggled at her. “He did not say that. You’re lying.”

  She cackled, shaking her head. “God, do I wish I was. I can’t even tell you how mad I was. I’m a pretty easygoing girl, you know? Like, in the years you’ve known me, have you ever seen me angry?”

  I shook my head. “No, not once.”

  “Exactly. I don’t get mad. It’s just hard to upset me. Well, that pissed me off royally.”

  “Did you do anything besides dump him posthaste?” I shut the engine off and put the top up, grabbed my purse, and got out. “And by posthaste I mean invent time travel so you can break up with him sooner?”

  She laughed at that. “What? You mean like spend a week and a half finding a guy who owned an F8 Spider and get him to drive me past that guy’s house, slowly, while he was mowing his lawn?”

  I covered my mouth with one hand. “Oh, that’s just mean.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe, but you can’t tell me he didn’t deserve it. I mean, I’m clean, okay? I wash myself. He doesn’t like the taste of fish? Like what the fuck? Who says that to a woman? And what, like I like the way your spunk tastes, you dirty little hobo of a man? I also may or may not have had a crate of pineapples shipped to him. I can’t be certain he understood the insult, though. He wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the tool drawer.”

  I spluttered. “Oh, wow. Teddy, I had no idea you had such a vindictive side.”

  “Only when you manage to make me angry. If you can manage that, then you, sir, have earned my vindictiveness.”

  “I guess that’s fair.”

  She eyed me. “Now, enough about me, what do you mean, you didn’t exactly sleep with Seven St. John?”

  I huffed. “Can I just tell the story to the group all at once, instead of to everyone separately, piecemeal?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I guess.”

  We entered the office together, and found Lizzy, Zoe, and Laurel at their desks. Lizzy saw me, shot to her feet, and was followed by Zoe.

  “How did you get here?” Zoe asked, eyes narrowed. “You were picked up for your date.”

  “And what happened with the date?” Lizzy asked. “How did you go from a date with a billionaire to waking up in Seven St. John’s bed?”

  “Hold on—” I started.

  Laurel joined the circle of piranhas around me. “Seven St. John? That man is sex on a stick.” She came nose-to-nose with me. “Did you or did you not have sexual relations with Seven St. John, three-time heavyweight boxing champion of the world and a permanent favorite in my sexual fantasies?”

  I bit my lip. “I’m not sure I want to answer, now.”

  She turned away, pulling at her high ponytail, tightening it savagely. “You did, I can tell just by looking at you.” She whipped back to me, platinum ponytail flipping over the opposite shoulder. “When Zoe told me he’d DM’d about calling you, I nearly made her give him my number instead. Because by the time he realized I’d pulled a Laban on him, I’d have him wrapped around my little finger.”

  I stared at her. “Pulled a Laban? What the hell does that mean?”

  She sighed in long-suffering patience. “Did you not go to Sunday school? In the Bible, in the book of Genesis, Jacob goes to work for a relative named Laban, agreeing to work for seven years in exchange for his beautiful youngest daughter’s hand in marriage. Seven years go by, and there’s a wedding. But of course in ancient Far East culture, the bride is covered until after the wedding is complete and binding. And what does poor Jacob discover, when he lifts the veil? Laban has tricked him. The woman under the veil is Laban’s older daughter. Jacob is determined to have Rachel as his wife, so he agrees to another seven years of work.”

  “Which part of that story is relevant?” I asked. “And, also, since when are you a Bible scholar?”

  She sighs, waves a hand. “I’m not. But I told you about my next-door neighbor, right? I watch her kid for her sometimes. Well, my neighbor is a Christian, and has Bibles literally everywhere, like in every room, and they’re all different. Well, anyway, one day, after the baby was asleep, I got bored and started reading one of them. It was interesting. If I’m not mistaken, Laban was Jacob’s uncle, which means Jacob was marrying his own cousin. But I guess that wasn’t as weird back then? I don’t know.”

  I laughed. “Oh, Laurel. You are so weird.” I frowned at her. “Again, though, I don’t understand the relevance of a guy who is tricked and ends up working for his uncle for fourteen years in order to marry both of his cousins.”

  She snickered. “I forgot.” She held up a finger. “Wait, I remember. I just meant I’d pull a trick on Seven. Like, he wouldn’t realize he was going out with me and not you until I already had him on my hook.”

  “Your hook?”

  She mimed casting a line and reeling it in. “I’m a fisher of men.” She snorted. “That’s another Bible reference.”

  “Yeah, I got that one,” I said.

  Zoe groaned. “Mom went through a phase where she was sure dragging us to church every Sunday would cure her of her addiction to opiates, crack, and unprotected sex with chlamydia-infected transients.”

  I leveled a look at Zoe. “Hey, it did work. For a while. That was the longest she was clean, I think, actually.”

  “Only because she was screwing the lead deacon. And she wasn’t clean—she was pilfering painkillers he’d been prescribed for back pain, but she couldn’t steal enough without being caught to get actually strung out all the way.” Zoe waved a hand. “That’s all beside the point. I want to know about Seven.”

  I sighed. “Where’s Kat? I’m not telling the story more than once.”

  “Showing a property in Santa Monica. She should be back any minute, though. She said she was done showing it half an hour ago.”

  And at that exact moment, as if summoned, Kat strode through the door. “Whose Ferrari is that, and can I drive it?”

  Everyone turned to look at me. I just held my hands palms up. “What? I didn’t have my car, so Seven let me borrow his.”

  Kat stopped in the act of reapplying her makeup. “Seven? He called you?”

  “Everyone is here,” Zoe said. “Spill the tea.”

  I sat at my desk, put my purse in a drawer, and gave my audience a moment’s pause, purely for dramatic effect. “So, I was given a date rape drug in my drink by Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire, and Seven showed up, rescued me, brought me back to his place, and let me crash alone on his bed. I woke up alone, fully dressed except my shoes, in a strange bed in a strange room, and when I went out to look around, wham, holy shit, there was Seven walking through his front door, in nothing but a pair of shorts, sweaty and shirtless and fucking sexy as hell. He made me the most amazing latte I’ve ever had in my life, and the most amazing omelet I’ve ever had in my life. Followed by at least one if not two or three of the most amazing orgasms I’ve ever had in my life—while I sat on his chest with my legs over his shoulders, while he was standing up. Which was equal parts exhilarating, terrifying, and incredible. I then
returned the favor, was interrupted by Lizzy calling me to show a condo, and then finished the, errr, job.” I sat prim, proper, ignored the stares and spluttered questions. “He then revealed that he had a whole wardrobe of luxury, designer women’s clothes in very nearly my exact size, which he’d bought for an ex who broke his heart. I’m wearing those clothes now. He lent me his Ferrari, he’s taking me lingerie shopping to replace the panties he very literally ripped off of me, and at some point, an actual picnic date because I’ve never been on one.” I smiled at them all in turn. “There. Tea spilled.”

  “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Lizzy said, holding her hands up to stall me. “Charles Barrington the Third, billionaire CEO and heir of Barrington Consolidated Industries, drugged your drink?”

  I sighed. “I think so, and so does Seven.”

  “That’s weird, that someone like that would resort to that. He could snap his fingers and simply by virtue of his wealth alone have a whole herd of women ready to do whatever he wanted. Why would he want to or need to drug you?”

  “Was he pushy? Like, acting like he expected sex after the date?” Zoe asked.

  “I mean, not really. He was very…god, arrogant isn’t even the right word. Nor is entitled. I think he’s literally never been told no, never been denied anything, ever. He’s just absolutely sure he’s the actual, literal center of the universe, that everyone in it exists purely to be at his service, and that’s he’s in charge of everyone and everything. He’s fucking insufferable, is what he is. Nice enough, on the date itself, and he’s an absolute master of meaningless small talk and chitchat. He can talk for hours and never say a word.”

  Zoe held my gaze. “I am absolutely not questioning you, but…what makes you—and Seven—think this guy drugged your drink?”

  I fiddled with a pen. Zoe, and only Zoe, knew precisely how painful of a subject rape was for me, and why. Which was most definitely not something I was prepared to talk about, even with Lizzy and the others.

  “After what happened last week on the date with Seven, where I drank too much, I was super careful with Charles. I had a total of two glasses of wine over the course of a two-hour dinner, with a lot of sparkling water in between. And no, I didn’t leave him alone with my drink, I went to the bathroom before they arrived. He’d ordered for me, without so much as wondering much less asking me what I like or want. I was irritated, so I went to the bathroom to gather my nerves.” It was hard to remember much past that. “I sipped it. Like, tiny little baby bird sips. One, it was a sweet white, so, yuck. And two, I didn’t want to drink with him anymore. I wanted to go home. I was playing along, trying to get him to talk about business, namely the houses he’d told me he was looking at. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have gone out with him in the first place. Not after he called me but his assistant was on the phone, and especially not after he gave me that bullshit list of rules for going out with him.”