by Nikki Bella
Table of Contents
Copyright
Thank You
Nikki’s VIP List
Description
Jack
Margot
Untitled
Epilogue: One Year Later
Read Dirty (Bonus Book)
Faking It (Bonus Book)
My upcoming book…
Tame Me Boss (Bonus Book)
Join Nikki’s VIP Club
Daddy’s Virgin Bride
Nikki Bella
Contents
1. Copyright
2. Thank You
3. Nikki’s VIP List
4. Description
5. Jack
6. Margot
7. Jack
8. Margot
9. Jack
10. Margot
11. Jack
Untitled
12. Margot
13. Jack
Untitled
14. Margot
15. Jack
16. Margot
17. Jack
Untitled
18. Margot
Epilogue: One Year Later
Untitled
19. Read Dirty (Bonus Book)
20. Faking It (Bonus Book)
21. My upcoming book…
22. Tame Me Boss (Bonus Book)
23. Join Nikki’s VIP Club
Copyright © 2017 by Nikki Bella
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Thank You
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For your reading pleasure, I have included a few bonus stories right after the main book.
Luv
Nikki
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Love is for fools. Money is more important. It doesn’t keep me warm at night.
I think about her and get hard. I make the wager. It makes me want to fuck her. I want her to walk funny and think about me
I never thought of her that way. I do when I see the recent photos. I can’t help but want to rip her clothes off with my teeth. Ravage her body. Hear her moan my name twisting in the sheets.
I know it’s wrong. I don’t care. I have to have her body. Thrusting between her supple legs will be worth the money.
I was only supposed to save her from herself. Who was I kidding? One look…one taste…one feel of her squeezing my manhood…I was a goner. How could I resist? I found my angel. I was the devil.
One time is never enough. One time is a tease. I want her in the bed…on the floor…in the hot tub…wherever I can feel her legs wrapped around me.
Her father isn’t going to be happy. He’s my best friend. I was thinking about her warm body. I want that youthful enthusiasm escaping her lips. Guilt won’t stop me from having her. I will bang her hole into submission. She won’t think of anyone else.
Jack
When I woke up, I couldn’t remember who I was. I sputtered, glancing around the mangled bedroom, blinking until it all came rushing back. My name: Jack Garrington, top-tier actor, model and billionaire. Why I couldn’t remember: an insane amount of drugs and alcohol, readily imbibed during the Brooklyn penthouse party I’d thrown the night before. (This was also, assuredly, the reason for the mangled bedroom.) Why I didn’t really want to remember my life: it had been general shit in the past few years, since my ex-wife had divorced me and increasingly threatened to take my daughter away permanently, not allowing even a weekend of visitation.
In the crook of my arm, I found a naked woman. Gorgeous, blonde highlights and thin frame. Her lips were lined with red lipstick, which I also found tracing around my chest, my shoulder, my shoulders…and other places. We’d clearly attacked each other in an animalistic way, without the least bit of reserve. In my head, I could wish it hadn’t happened at all. I was disgusted with myself.
Rising up out of the bed, I grabbed a pair of boxers and a white t-shirt from the side dresser and threw them on. Walking through the bedroom, I spotted several alcohol stains, cigarette butts, memories from last night’s party. I made a mental note to call the cleaner as soon as possible, to mop up this mess and make it wholesome again. If not for me, then for Gigi, my daughter.
Trying to combat my roaring hangover, I made a pot of coffee and sipped the dark liquid at the breakfast table. Memories of the raucous night continued to echo in my brain. Having just wrapped a movie, I invited half the cast and crew to the penthouse—gifting them with high-end food and alcohol. I remembered, at one point, standing atop the counter and making a toast to all of them. I’d been blubbering like a madman. “I want to tell you guys. You’re like family now.”
But sitting at the table in the light of the morning, I couldn’t remember a single one of their names.
The girl. She’d been a co-star. One of the cast of characters in the rom com we’d just shot, coming together every day to make semi-witty banter about “New York life” and “online dating.” I remembered kissing her on set, but couldn’t comprehend how we’d hooked up the night before. How had we ended up naked in my bedroom? I had nothing, memory-wise.
She appeared in the doorway moments later, wearing nothing but one of my white t-shirts. Her legs, long and spaghetti-thin, approached me. They glittered in the light of the morning. Reaching for a box of cigarettes on the counter, she drew one out and began to light it.
“Don’t,” I shouted as loud as my aching head could stand. “There’s no smoking in here.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” she laughed. Her voice was high-pitched. It sliced through my brain like a knife.
“Last night was off in a lot of different ways, I’m starting to see.”
She shifted, dropping the long, thin cigarette on the counter and approaching me. She slipped over my thighs, sitting on me backward, and cradling my head. I grew tense at her touch. “You know, I always had a crush on you,” she whispered, biting at the top of my ear and then kissing it with tender lips. “Ever since I was a little girl. I ca not believe I got to sleep beside you in bed.”
I knew this was meant to turn me on. I could feel the curvature of her breasts, rubbing up against my biceps. But instead of moving into it, I shifted away. I shook my head. “No, please.”
She hesitated, her voice growing tart. “You’re really going to turn me away right now? You were the horniest monster in the world last night. Now you won’t look at me?”
I glanced out the window, gazing out over Brooklyn. The June morning had opened up, becoming bright, offering the most serene, blue sky. “I think I saw your clothes near the bedroom door.”
She scoffed, pushing away from me and scurrying toward the bedroom. She dressed herself again in a slinky black dress, stabbing her feet into heels. I sipped my coffee, feeling like the loneliest man on the planet. As she cut across the room to leave, she whirled around a final time. They always did this. They always wanted to say their last words.
“You know, I wasn’t going to tell you about the newspaper article this morning. Didn’t want you to feel too bad,” she said. “But I think you’re going to have a huge shock coming to you.”
I frowned, listening as she slammed the door behind her. The newspaper article? What was she talking about? Aft
er a small hesitation, I got to my feet and hunted for my phone, and then my computer. Both were completely black and dead, the charge cables nowhere to be found. I donned a pair of jeans, and a hat, not bothering to change my shirt. If I could just read the newspaper article, maybe whatever it was could be contained. If I could just know about it.
When I reached the bodega downstairs, I bought a Pepsi, a pack of chips, a thing of licorice. Since we’d wrapped filming the day before, I didn’t have the constant watchdog attitude toward my diet, and wanted to inhale the horror of carbohydrates. Finally, I grabbed a newspaper and paid for it all with cash, tossing a fifty on the countertop and not waiting for the change.
Once upstairs, I spread the newspaper out on the antique dining room table I’d purchased from the dealer in Connecticut. “From the early days of the American Revolution,” he’d said. Now, it was coated in cigarette burns and grime. Back in the Celebrity section, I found the article.
A-LIST ACTOR JACK GARRINGTON THROWS MASSIVE PARTY, GIRL INJURED.
Girl injured? My eyebrows drew low over my eyes. I was sure my heart would bound from my chest. I read on, trying to inhale the information.
The article read: “BROOKLYN—A-list actor and celebrity, Jack Garrington, who was previously involved in a four-year marriage to popular actress Kelsey Bonner, has been a bit of a playboy since their well-publicized breakup. His last night tirade at his Brooklyn penthouse was a rough one, involving several members of the cast of his recent rom com film, which just finished wrapping. One guest, a woman who says she was ‘involved’ with Jack Garrington, says she took a tumble outside the steps of his party afterwards, breaking her ankle and putting her out of the acting game for at least seven weeks, maybe more. Asked if she blames Jack Garrington for her demise, she said, ‘In all honesty, Jack is a completely asshole, who led me down a dark path of drugs and alcohol. I can’t imagine a worst person on the planet’.”
Jesus. It didn’t list who was injured. But it also didn’t pin me as the reason for her injury, per se. The title alone would cause problems for me, though. I knew that already. As the article continued, it listed my many “exploits,” famous women I’d slept with recently, ones who’d stated I’d broken their hearts. Many of these women had understood, from the get-go, that I was uninterested in settling down. That I was more or less living that “playboy lifestyle,” never getting too attached. That my entire life, outside of my acting career, was completely and totally devoted to my daughter.
My daughter was the only important thing on the planet.
After plugging in my phone, it didn’t take long for it to begin to blare with messages from friends. “Hey man, what’s up with this girl who got hurt at your house?” “Which girl was it? Melanie? Man, she really threw you under the bus.” “Wasn’t that the chick who snorted a line of E and then passed out on the couch for a while? She was loaded!” I shook my head, wishing myself as far away as possible.
The call that came five minutes later, however, was the one that chilled me to the bone. It was my ex-wife, Kelsey Bonner. I remember her back when we’d first met, both of us just starting to make our marks in the movie industry. She’d been absolutely adorable, with curly blonde hair, this tight waist, and these enormous breasts. Despite having tons of guys rushing around her all the time, she chose me to sleep with. And then, a few years later, she chose me to marry.
But it hadn’t lasted long. We’d been apart for much of the time, with her taking movies in Los Angeles and me focusing on my television show out in New York. When she’d gotten pregnant, eight years ago, we’d been overjoyed, thinking, perhaps, that this would be the link that would keep us together. But that was never so. And news of her cheating scandals, out in Los Angeles, rang through my ears, sending me immediately into the arms of another. Our four-year-old daughter, Gigi, was caught in the midst of our ugly divorce. I hadn’t been able to stand Kelsey since.
“Well, well.” Kelsey’s voice had changed, grown more insistent in the years since we’d divorced. As always, she was nagging me. “I see you got a girl hurt last night?”
“Did you even read the article?” I asked, sighing. “She just fell down some steps. I wasn’t around. Nobody pushed her.”
“Well, you pushed drugs down her throat. That’s for sure,” Kelsey scoffed. “The newspaper says it really clearly. Don’t think I don’t know what kind of house you’re running over there. A brothel, more like. Women coming and going, just when you fancy them. It’s disgusting, Jack. It’s not the type of environment I want Gigi to be a part of.”
I rubbed my fingers over my forehead, irritation fueling me. “You know I’ve never had anyone over when Gigi was here. I wouldn’t do that, Kelsey. Mind reminding me how many men you’ve been engaged to in the past four years? Men you’ve forced Gigi to get to know and then say goodbye to?”
Kelsey just barreled through my insults, having so many more of her own. She clucked her tongue, saying, “You know, I spoke to the custody lawyer. He thinks that full custody, on my end, isn’t necessarily out of reach. Especially in the wake of all these newspaper articles. I mean, your reputation is horrendous, Jack. Why do you push it so much?”
“It’s not like you want full custody, Kelsey,” I spouted. “You only want it because you know how much Gigi means to me. You know that she’s the only person that matters to me in the world. And you want to see me suffer.”
I caught her off guard. She stuttered, knowing I was telling the truth. But as she regrouped, poising to strike, I hung up the phone. My heart was growing blacker with each beat. I needed some kind of release.
Drawing my phone to my ear again, I dialed the familiar number. The school secretary, Janis, answered, recognizing my name. “Jack? I can get Gigi down here right away.”
“That would be great,” I said, falling into myself. “I just wanted to give her details for who’s picking her up at school.”
“You’re always careful about that,” Janis said.
Moments later, I heard her cute little voice on the phone. Gigi, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, who looked far more like my sister than like Kelsey. She scrambled to tell me all she’d been doing the past few days, since she’d gone back to her mom’s, with tales of winning a board game, jumping off the swing, and even getting an A-plus on her spelling test. My heart swelled. I wished everything could be so simple.
Margot
The bar on the corner was the second place I’d applied for a job when I arrived in the city. Dingy-looking, with a long list of cocktails, it had the kind of charm I’d long associated with Brooklyn. The manager, Billy, told me that as long as I could run around quickly, delivering food and drinks, then I’d be fine. I wasn’t required to know the cocktail recipes. The cocktail recipes were for the bartender, Rod, who had a neck tattoo and these glaring eyes that seemed to see right through me. I was terrified of him. But then again, I was terrified of everyone in Brooklyn.
I swept the front floor during the hour before we opened, bringing dead fries out from the corners and into the light for the first time in months. Rod was at his phone constantly, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed tightly together. He’d asked me exactly two questions. “How long have you been here?” and, “Where are you from?” When I’d told him my answers, that I’d come in from Michigan only about ten days before, he’d rolled his eyes and returned to his phone. It was clear he didn’t see any reason for knowing me. Not yet.
I was young and quiet, with a heart-shaped face and a small frame. My hair was long, to the small of my back, and my eyes were large and brooding, making many people think I was filled with secrets. When I’d told my family, back in Michigan, that I’d decided to move to New York City, they’d assumed I would fail within the first month. I’d already failed at several things, at just twenty-three years old. I’d failed at college, dropping out after my third semester. I’d failed at relationships, never even having one that lasted long enough for me to sleep with a man. I’d even failed at being a
good daughter, as I was running as quickly away from my parents as I could. I was determined to make rent (an insane amount of money). I was determined not to starve (although eating often would probably be a struggle). In essence, I was beginning the cruelest time of my life.
The moment the bar opened, several straggling hipsters entered, ordering drinks from me and using terms I didn’t really understand. What did “straight” mean, with regards to whiskey? What was a Manhattan? I wrote down the orders quickly, then delivered them to Rod, who continued to brood over his phone. He made a few drinks, which I then raced out to the tables. But the orders were piling up, making my anxiety blast through the roof.
All around me, people were asking, “Where’s our drinks? Where’s our nachos? Can we get some more beers over here?”
I began to grow exasperated. Unsure, I leaned over the counter and asked, “Hey, Rod? Are you all right over there? Do we need to call Billy for backup?”
Rod didn’t answer. Red-faced, looking near to screaming, he pushed past me. I was flung against the wall, watching as he raced into the alleyway. He was yelling into his phone, clearly in the midst of some kind of relationship dispute. He’d left me at the bar, with a long list of cocktails, and without an understanding of how any of them were made.
Shit.
The hipsters came at me, then. They raced up to the bar, demanding their drinks, blaring at me. “Don’t you know what you’re doing? Aren’t you the bartender?”
I wasn’t. I didn’t know a single thing. I hadn’t had my first drink until just last year, even, and that had been a wine cooler. Young, wide-eyed, lost—I shook my head madly and told them, “Listen, I don’t know how to make any of these drinks.”
