Hardwired: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance (Tech Titans Book 2)

by Marcella Swann

  I stop moving, looking over at him in shock. Then I laugh. “You can’t stop me. Bassirou, whatever you’re thinking about us, it’s not happening. You’re like a brother to me.” I switch to French because that always means we’re getting real with each other. “You’re my manager, not my father. I’m allowed to live my life, and I’m sorry if you don’t like that.” It feels so good to say the words, even though I have a feeling I’m going to regret them very soon.

  “You’re not leaving.” He’s louder this time and I see his control slipping.

  “I’m leaving. I’ll be back in time for the next show. You have my number if you need to contact me, but I need a few days.”

  “With him?” he snarls, holding his phone screen toward me. On it, I see the one picture I’d taken of Hayden and I that day on the beach. I’d been terrified to leave evidence for this very reason, but I wanted the memory.

  “You went through my phone?” I ask, disgusted.

  “I did, and I know everything.” He’s so pissed I can see he’s shaking. “Are you fucking him, Sabine?” He steps closer to me.

  “No, but if I was, that’s none of your fucking business.” This is out of control. “Let’s go over this again. You. Are. My. Manager.”

  He looks ready to blow, but I don’t give a shit. I’m done letting him rule my life.

  “You are not my father. You are not my boyfriend or husband, and you never will be. Is that clear?” I finish shoving things in my suitcase and close it. When I zip it up, the sound is the only thing I can hear. Bassirou looks like he’s about to have a stroke. His face is a darker shade of crimson and fury is rolling off him like the stink off shit.

  “Now, I’m going to my show. Then I’m leaving.” I’d packed everything I needed to change at the show as well as a bit of makeup. There’s no way in hell I’m going to allow myself to be naked and vulnerable around him now. “Moving forward, we get separate rooms. We only talk when needed, and you can keep conversations to texts and phone calls.”

  The more space between us, the harder it will be for him to control me. Part of me worries about the money he’s got access to, but if I lose money and gain freedom, it seems like a fair trade. I’ll figure out a better way to handle this moving forward, maybe hire an accountant free of his influence. Some middleman that can protect both of us rather than just help him potentially rob me.

  I head for the door, but he grabs my arm. Yanking out of his grasp, I stare up at him.

  “Quelle?” I ask.

  “You would be nothing without me. You’d be fucking barefoot and pregnant living some shithole.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. But now you’re holding me back, not helping me forward.” I’m not going to sugar coat things. I’m through making excuses for him and protecting him. I’m done letting him guilt me into putting up with things I’d never put up with from anyone else.

  “I gave up everything for you.” That’s a hustler’s guilt trip play. I know it but it still stings. His eyes dart back and forth between mine, and I see his fear. I feel a little bad for him, but only a little. And I’m sure as hell not going to let it change anything.

  “And you gained so much from me, too.” That’s something he doesn’t talk about. This lavish life he leads that wouldn’t exist without the music. I’m a part of this, too, damn it, and he’s not going to make me believe otherwise. “Now, I have a show to get to. Au revoir.”

  Suitcase in hand, I head for the door. He roars my name, but I keep going. I don’t even turn to look at him.

  “We’ll see what your life and career are like when you get back.”

  The threat hits me like a bullet, but I keep moving. Head held high, shoulders straight, and every bit of courage I possess wrapped around me like a tattered blanket, I walk out the door. The sound of the door closing behind me is the most satisfying noise I’ve ever heard.

  Liberté. Liberté. The thought dances in my head. “I’m free,” I finally whisper under my breath as I reach the elevator. They’re the sweetest words I’ve ever uttered, and my heart begins to pound in my chest.

  Not only am I free, but I’m going to go on holiday with a man that makes me feel warm, wanted, adored. It feels like an end to an ugly chapter of my life and the beginning of something better than I could have ever imagined.

  Chapter 11

  Hayden

  I’d made several guesses and have been lucky so far. I’d decided to avoid the usual sightseeing stops on our European trip for two. Berlin is beautiful but exploring it with Sabine is nothing short of incredible.

  I swear the smile hasn’t left her face the entire time we’ve been here.

  She spins to face me as the street we’re walking down narrows a bit. “I thought you’d take me to the Bode Museum, or the Theater des Westens,” she says. Her expression is shining bright, and I take in her fitted jeans, her green silk shirt, and her free curls. She’s fucking beautiful.

  “That’s why that wasn’t the plan,” I say.

  “This is beautiful,” she says, stopping and tilting her face back as the artwork on the walls pops in bright colors. All around us, artwork of every style and type leaps off the walls, and she studies the ones that draw her eye.

  The one she stops for is a couple in an embrace, tangled up in red silk. “Are they…?” She asks, giving me a look over her shoulder.

  “Looks like dancing to me,” I say. “Look at their toes. Look at the way her leg is thrown over his. They’re standing up, dancing.” I gesture to the long lines of the woman’s leg. The way her head is resting on his shoulder and the absolute peace on her face makes me sure they’re dancing.

  Sabine nods, then grabs me, resting her head on my shoulder and lifting a leg outside mine. A passerby offers to take a picture, and I hand him my phone. He snaps the image of Sabine trying to recreate the painting in life with me. He gives the phone back, smiling at both of us before moving on.

  Sabine takes the phone out of my hand and studies the image. “Spot on,” she mutters, turning it to show me. The image of us is intimate and a good replica of the painting behind us. Taking the phone, I tuck it into my pocket and lower my lips to hers.

  Her tongue meets mine and I feel the hunger I’ve been fighting blaze to life.

  “Bikes?” She grins up at me, looking almost childlike. “This is Rome. Shouldn’t we be visiting all the tourist places?”

  I smile down at her. She has no idea. I don’t feel the need to impress her. I don’t need to flaunt money or buy her affection. “I did this a few years back and have been itching to do it since,” I say, nodding at the shopkeeper. Handing him the money, we take the bikes and wheel them out of the shop.

  “What if I told you I don’t know how to ride a bike?” she says.

  “Then I’d teach you,” I say, straddling my seat as she does the same with hers. On tiptoes, she walks her bike up next to mine, her head tilted back to look up at me. She looks too delicious to ignore and I press a kiss to her lips.

  “You’re sweeter than you seem,” she whispers against my lips.

  “Don’t tell anyone my secret,” I whisper back.

  She giggles before throwing herself into her bike. As she takes the bike path, she glances over her shoulder at me, her joy shining in her face. All the worry I’d seen in her is gone. The hints of sadness are nowhere to be seen. She seems happy and free. I peddle and catch up with her, loving the soft breeze, the scent of the Tiber river and the mouthwatering scent of little shops scattered about.

  We ride along the path beside the water, and she studies our surroundings. “You continue to surprise me, Monsieur Stallworth,” she says over her shoulder. Together, we explore old bridges, beautiful buildings, and the wide, beautiful blue river.

  When we finally start heading back, there’s a new fire in her eyes. “This has been a wonderful holiday. Just what I needed,” she says softly, her head tilted back as she drinks in the sight of the first stars of twilight.

  I don’t know how to te
ll her she’s just what I’ve needed.

  “Les Calanques de Cassis?” She sounds dumbfounded. Her eyes are shining when she glances at me, and I realize she must be feeling homesick. I’d planned to take her home to Paris, but first I wanted a throwback to our first date on the beach.

  The brilliant white sand gives way to teal water and on both sides of us, natural limestone walls rise and tower overhead. We’d made the hike down and found the place deserted. She’s quick to get out of her clothing and reveals the baiting suit underneath.

  She races down to the water and throws herself in, swimming so gracefully it’s astounding. I follow suit. The water is pleasantly warm and clear, I could see the bottom if I opened my eyes.

  I surface near her and find she’s floating on her back, staring up at the sky.

  “Glad to be home?” I ask, stretching out on my back. Her hand finds mine and our fingers laced together.

  “Kind of,” she whispers. “I don’t want to go to Paris.”

  I know Paris is her hometown and I’m stunned she doesn’t want to go. “Why not?” I ask gently, studying the stray fluffy white clouds overhead.

  She says nothing as we float at the mercy of the tides. The limestone basin walls stretch toward the skies, their yellowed color sharply contrasting the rooted green plants shooting out of the rocks here and there. The place is incredibly peaceful and quiet.

  Sabine turns and begins to swim toward a spot where there seems to be a ledge. I follow and admire her as she climbs up on the rock. The little plateau is small, a neatly tucked away hiding spot that’s tucked out of sight of the beach and private enough no one could accidentally stumble across us. She turns to me, her arms winding around my shoulders. I notice the tears in her eyes as she pulls me in for a kiss.

  When she lets me go again, I hear the heartbreak in her voice. “My upbringing wasn’t a good one.” She’s speaking barely above a whisper as she sits down on a smooth rock shelf that forms a natural bench.

  “Nothing you could say will change what I feel for you,” I say. My feelings for this woman are as complex as the Internet of Things, and I understand them about as well as the average person understands astrophysics. I want her body, but I’m curious about who she is, what makes her tick, and how she makes me feel every emotion in her voice when she sings. It’s not purely physical – that would get boring. But I’ve got a hunger for her I’ve never experienced before.

  “I grew up in Goutte D’Or—Little Africa.” The pain in her voice is real as she speaks. She pulls her hair back into a frizzy knot on the back of her head and scrubs her face with her hands, refusing to look at me.

  “That’s a tough area.” I know it in theory only but I want her to know I get her drift.

  A little smile tugs at her lips. “It has its good qualities.” She closes her eyes, inhales like she’s experiencing a memory. “The food, Marche Dejean, the open market…” she trails off, lost in her thoughts.

  I can’t help myself. I lean in and kiss her.

  Chapter 12

  Sabine

  We’re in our hotel room and I’m stuck in the past. Stuck on the things I want to open up about but am too scared to share. Sure, he said that nothing I said would change how he feels for me, but it’s eating me up inside.

  I feel physically sick as the memories struggle to overtake me. He seems to know how I’m feeling, and he orders room service for us.

  He comes over and sits beside me on the bed. His hand covers mine, and I think about how amazing these last couple of days have been with him. I’ve laughed, kissed, and loved more than I have in a long time. It’s been fun. Truly fun.

  “I had a rough childhood,” I say, feeling stupid as the words leave my mouth. Of course, I had a rough childhood. Everybody does, right?

  His fingers tighten a little around mine in a gesture that’s more comforting than I can even describe. He says nothing, but I feel his support.

  “My father is an alcoolique … a drunk,” I say, searching for memories of the man. They’re fuzzy, impossible to make out. Like I’m looking at a shadow and not an actual person. “He was not with us. He was a musician in jazz,” I say, chuckling a little. But there’s no humor in it, just carefully disguised pain. “I don’t even remember him.”

  I stare at his hand on mine, unable to meet his gaze with my own.

  “My mother and me that was all,” I say, thinking about the parade of men in her life. None of them were father material. Hell, none of them stuck around. “She had… men. She wanted love.” I don’t know how to say the ugly words. I don’t want to tell the truth. I want to skirt it.

  His other hand comes over to grasp mine, and I enjoy the way his heat sinks into my frozen fingers. I’m so cold I want to climb under a hot shower and not come out. I want to down a bottle of vodka until I feel warmer. I want to be numb.

  “They weren’t good men.” Not one of them. “They hurt my mother.” Not physically, but emotionally. Every single one of them left a mark on her soul. “She wasn’t a drunk. She drank to ease the pain, but she took care of me. She’d get high to numb the pain.” I never asked her why she did it. I should have asked why. All I wanted to do was escape. I felt I had to get away to save myself from becoming her. I should have helped her, but I understand. We all want love. So, I sang from that place of loss and pain and hope. Maybe I sang to help my mother. I always sing for my mother.

  I notice my hands are shaking between his. I’ve never opened up like this to anyone. I’d even kept Bassirou on the other side of the walls around my heart. This has always been my misery to bear.

  I learned from my mother to internalize pain. To numb it with liquor, with weed. I tried so hard to get away from her, but I still became her. I became her with Bassirou.

  “I was always singing.” I smile a little, thinking about the little bit of light in my otherwise dark existence as a child. Singing was my solace. It became my way out. It was my freedom.

  “I hear that in your voice,” he says quietly. “It’s an incredible thing, your voice.”

  It’s the first thing he’s said and I peek up at him, expecting him to have a judgmental look on his face. I expect him to be thinking the worst of me. I don’t expect the warmth and acceptance I see shining in his eyes.

  “Is it?” I ask awkwardly, trying to laugh off how weird I feel to have shared so much.

  He nods. “It’s one of the things that drew me to you. Music is my passion and jazz especially, but I wanted to know how you made me feel.”

  It’s a huge compliment. I’ve wanted to share myself with people. Maybe not the story of me, not the ugly, horrid bits, but I’ve wanted people to understand. Music helped me do that.

  “That was hard.” He’s studying me.

  I nod, swallowing hard. “I don’t like to tell these stories.”

  He grins. “Nope, you deflect with humor. Bad humor.”

  I laugh. “What does the sign on the outside of an out-of-business brothel say?”

  His eyes search my face. My heart starts to pound a little.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Beat it. We’re closed,” I tell him in French. He looks at me lost, shaking his head slightly. I tell him in English. I toss my head back and laugh, loving the feeling of it.

  He chuckles. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  I shrug. “Heard ‘em over the years, remembered them. Want to hear another?”

  “Hit me,” he says.

  “Why was the guitar teacher arrested?” I study his face, watching him think my words over before giving up.

  “Why?”

  “For fingering a minor.”

  “Topical,” he murmurs as I laugh. It feels good to just be me with this guy. “I remember one from when I was a kid,” he says and I pay close attention.

  “Why does Santa have such a big sack?”

  “Easy,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He only comes once a year.” My gaze drops. I wonder why he’s been holding back. Aft
er that explosive exchange, we’d had the night of my performance a while back, I’d expected more hands-on time with him. But he’s been respectful.

  He nods. “You got me.”

  Feeling the misery of the talk and his need to keep his hands to himself, I get up and head toward my bag. “I met up with a local today,” I say, grabbing the baggie of weed from my suitcase where I’d tucked it earlier so the cleaning people wouldn’t come across it.

  Dangling it from two fingers, I shake it at him. “What’s the difference between a drug dealer and a hooker?” I ask.

  He’s studying me closely and I don’t bother waiting for him to ask this time before answering. “A hooker can wash her crack and resell it.”

  I can’t hide behind humor forever. All the ugly thoughts that we stirred up are circling like sharks in my brain, and I need to silence them.

  “Join me?” I ask. “I’m going to smoke, then take a bath. You’re welcome to join on the first part, but not the second part,” I say, laughing at the thought of us both in the tub together. That would get awkward, even in the garden style tub. It’s not designed for two people.

  He swallows hard, then nods.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, ready to just turn my brain off and forget the pain of the day. I’m ready to let it go and just not deal with it for the rest of the night. Tomorrow, it’ll be better, and I’ll know that talking about things doesn’t make me feel better.

  “Perfect,” I say, pulling out the paper to roll a joint and silently cursing my trembling fingers.

  Chapter 13

  Hayden

  She comes out of the bathroom, all wrapped up in a big, fluffy towel, her hair piled up on her head. Her skin is shining and beautiful and she looks refreshed and incredible.

  I step toward her, loving how her pulse jumps at the base of her throat. Touching her chin, I lift her face an inch and lower my lips to hers.