The Billionaire's Club Trilogy: Deluxe Box Set

by C. L. Donley

  She shrieked and laughed where his touch was inadvertently tickling her.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” he quietly breathed in her ear. He’d shed his silk pajama bottoms, and his erection was teasing her lower back.

  Damn, he wanted her, she thought. It sent a rush through her that forced her eyes tightly shut.

  Her head flew back, rooting around for his kiss. Her eyes slowly opened as if waking from sleep. He was looking at her.

  “Kiss me,” she panted.

  “No,” he said.

  He was punishing her for her impudence.

  More importantly, if he kissed her, he knew what would happen. Amara’s kiss was a vortex, and he had to be careful where he opened it. He made out with her incessantly, and each time he inadvertently became like a newborn at his mother’s breast, sometimes at the expense of Amara who’d be just as lost and writhing around for his… anything.

  Amara’s tongue slithered out, and he couldn’t resist meeting it. They lapped and pecked, putting off further touching, letting their lips do all of the deliciously tedious work. He engulfed her whole mouth stealing a moan from her throat. Desire was at a low boil in his blood, but he steeled his resolve, and they finished each other off unconventionally, doing their best in between to use the shower as the manufacturer intended. He felt himself getting lazier and lazier about condoms as it was. He knew she wasn’t fertile, because there was an app for that and he was, unapologetically, a weirdo. Still. These things weren’t exact.

  A few hours later the glam squad arrived.

  Amara gained a few instant fans in the makeup crew, which by mid-afternoon had no trouble yelling at her to hold still a few dozen times as though they’d known each other forever.

  Grayson was dressed elegantly yet casual in a blazer with a very small black and white houndstooth print so that it was barely noticeable and just looked grey from afar. His hair was cut with the top kept long and slicked back, highlighted with blond that made his eyes supernaturally blue and expressive.

  James Dean was now the much uglier brother they kept in the basement.

  He looked trendier than she was used to, like every penny of his billions. For the first time in a long time, she was wishing that she could simply be blonde and white and unquestionably suited to him. Was she really going to put herself under all that scrutiny reserved for the deservedly talented and famous? She hadn’t seen herself yet, and she couldn’t judge by his expression as they sat across from each other. Naturally, he was done before her, and he didn’t even bother to look in a mirror. She asked him to take a photo for their carefully crafted Webster pages, but instead of taking a picture he made the team start over.

  “It’s too heavy,” he insisted, referring to the carefully contoured mask of foundation and shimmering ombre effect of her eyelids. She looked beautiful, glamorous even, but to him, she looked like a stranger.

  “This is going to last all day, and it’ll hold up for the cameras,” the lead artist defended.

  “I don’t care about that,” he said. “Just make it look like she’s not trying. At all.”

  “He’s saying I’m a schlub,” Amara quipped. She needed all the help she could get, she thought. Why was he trying to humiliate her?

  “No, he means ‘effortless,’” the artist gleamed as if trying not to give something away.

  After her makeup was corrected, they dressed her in a navy and white striped boatneck midi dress with cropped sleeves. Her locs were arranged in an elaborate off-center bun. The modest jewelry on her neck and wrists glittered.

  “I look like a black Kennedy,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Amy, you were born in the 90’s. Act like it,” he retorted, as they locked arms and made their way to the chauffeured car.

  He had taken to calling her Amy in private, and suddenly the name had gone from a career concession to the sacred omen of his burgeoning feelings for her.

  The sex had already become more and more like lovemaking, where the pet name got its start. She tried not to draw attention to it, lest he feel the need to censure himself.

  The two were unable to keep a low profile at the premiere. Grayson was just one of the financiers, but when they showed up, the flashbulbs went off as though they were one of the stars. Amara’s arm tightly clasped Grayson’s on the blood red carpet, and while he was a bit taken aback as well by their enthusiasm, his composure was miles ahead of hers.

  Grayson’s assistant Bryan had found them the scariest, most professionally presented human pitbulls that money could buy, so she wasn’t afraid for her safety. When Amara heard her name for the first time, coming from the great blinding bushel of photographers a few meters away, she mouthed “Oh my God” in an exaggerated fashion, somewhat forgetting that they could plainly see her and were intentionally observing her. They found her naivete amusing and murmured laughter at her reaction.

  “Yeah, we know your name, hon,” she heard from the amorphous camera blob.

  The more she heard her name, the more she hid behind Grayson’s right shoulder.

  “You didn’t give her any media training Davis?” one of them anonymously barbed.

  Grayson’s jaw had already become tightly clenched, and he was about to let his agitation show.

  After all these years he could still recognize a bully, no matter their station. Like a shark detecting blood in an ocean, his instincts to devour became acute. Unlike sharks, however, their bloody metallic scent wasn’t a draw— it made him want to vomit.

  “We’ve been busy,” he suddenly heard Amara respond. The crowd chuckled.

  “Doing what?” the blob distantly asked.

  “What?” Amara strained to hear.

  “Doing what?” the blob echoed, more voices this time.

  “Oh,” she nodded. “Having sex,” she made sure to project.

  The camera mob erupted in laughter.

  She looked at Grayson in time to see his now patented look of disapproval mixed with amusement. She shrugged and furrowed her brow with an expressive look of “what, like they don’t know?”

  When they got further down the carpet towards the venue, popular actress Sharon Adams was there, who was short with long red hair and pale green eyes.

  She wasn’t in the movie, perhaps a guest of someone else, but when she saw Amara, she instantly came toward her and held out both her hands for Amara to grab.

  Sharon had been at the Malibu party, and while Amara felt like they hit it off in a Hollywood kind of way, she was surprised yet grateful to be a recipient of such warmth, though she was still wary that it was Hollywood warmth. Whatevs. She wasn’t here to climb ladders; she was technically on the highest fucking rung. At least for the next two weeks. The paparazzi went into a frenzy as they greeted each other.

  “Grayson, what were you thinking bringing a normal person to a premiere?” she joked in Grayson’s direction.

  Okay, so they’ve slept together, Amara thought definitively. Amara noticed that sex had given her some newfound powers of perception she wasn’t sure she wanted.

  “She doesn’t seem to need my help,” he answered drily as they exchanged side kisses.

  “How are you holding up so far?” Sharon asked.

  “Girl, I am rocking this,” Amara exaggerated. Sharon laughed. She even elicited a laugh from Grayson. Except Grayson’s seemed more like a laugh-to-keep-from-crying response.

  They entered through the grand double doors and were seated in a small theatre next to some other unfamous muckety mucks rather than the famous ones, save for the director. She never thought much of the director but had much more sympathy for him and others of his ilk, after she sensed flames of financial and professional pressure that must’ve been lapping his face while the movie played.

  When it was time for dinner, they emptied out of the theater to an auditorium draped in white and red cloth decor, filled with white tables large enough to seat eight, each with elaborate rose centerpieces.

 
Grayson was in no mood to socialize, but apparently to draw more attention to himself, as they accommodated him on the spot setting up a table for two near the low light of the hallway that led to the kitchens. He seemed not to be bothered by the fact that everyone knew he was basically telling them to bugger off, but as he was richer than all of them, and they were in Hollywood, they did their damndest not to let any annoying etiquette violations show.

  Amara’s post-sex perception (PSP?) senses were telling her that she was in the company of other highly paid companions, and they seemed to sense the same about her. She wished she could project the opposite, but obviously, she couldn’t.

  Well, this feels horrible, she inwardly lamented. She tried to console herself with the idea that she was likely the highest paid, and certainly the highest educated. Perhaps in history. But when she did, it was almost as if the need to feel superior had blackened her heart.

  However savvy she’d tried to be with her financial scheme, she’d indeed been naive about the emotional fallout, just as he’d predicted.

  He’d tried to tell you, Amara considered herself with pity.

  On some level, she felt a bit ungrateful for complaining about her reasonably successful foray into prostitution. How many of these other women had to climb some sort of seedy ladder to get to where she was now? Yet while these women had likely made their life choice consciously, Amara was waffling, pretending. Grayson picked up on her mood.

  “You seem… melancholy Amara,” he commented, radiating unrelenting, brooding gorgeousness. She couldn’t feel more unworthy. She was glad he made her take off the heavy makeup, it would’ve been like lipstick on a pig.

  “Do you feel the prostitute vibes around us?” she said.

  Grayson slowly broke out into another killer smile.

  “We’ve got to get you some whispering lessons,” he mused.

  “I am a part of their numbers,” she admitted in a low voice as she elegantly skewered another bite of perfectly cooked New York strip.

  “You are,” he replied, failing to mince words. “Does it bother you?”

  Her eyes briefly widened. She didn’t answer; she simply scoffed and continued to eat in silence. She was clearly on the verge of tears. Her perfectly coiffed hair and flawless makeup made her crumbling expression particularly heartbreaking. In an effort to blink away a clinging tear, it instead fell.

  Grayson’s heart was in an unforgiving vice. He wanted to tell her that he would’ve been honored to take her to dinner and a movie without a contract, that her presence had made an otherwise vapid and unbearable event exciting and endearing— almost like a first date, which he wasn’t sure he’d ever really had. But he couldn’t, because this wasn’t a relationship, and he wasn’t entirely sure it would’ve helped in the present circumstances. Because the reality was she had prostituted herself. For him and only him, he was pretty sure. And now she was confronting the consequences of her naive decision. The vice grew unbearable.

  Even he knew that she probably wouldn’t want to hear that she could’ve made it here on her own merits. He instead stuck with what he knew, with the language of the contract.

  “When we get home I’d like to pleasure you until you forget about this unpleasantness,” he attempted to console her.

  He was looking directly at her, she knew, even though she was staring at the inside of her wine glass as she took a drink.

  Like any good prostitute, Amara too had found her drug of choice.

  She put her elbow on the table, her hand on her chin. She discreetly took her shoe off and searched until she found his leg under the table. Grayson’s signature poker face was in place.

  “Mable, Mable,” he said.

  Amara suddenly perked up.

  “My Grandma used to say that! Where are your people from? That’s a very specific regionalism.”

  Grayson sucked his breath audibly through his teeth and gave her a sultry stare. Amara huffed a laugh and slowly shook her head. He was trying to cheer her up, she realized. The gesture itself had worked.

  “Say ‘vernacular,’” he said.

  “You’re completely ridiculous,” she replied.

  “Say it.”

  Amara’s foot ventured further up the leg it found.

  “Vernacular,” she said, tossing her head to one side, exposing her smooth neck.

  He smiled as he looked down at her lips.

  “Use it in a sentence, girl,” he used his bedroom voice that never failed to turn her on, but she couldn’t help bursting out laughing.

  He eyed her carefully as her laughter rang out in the makeshift dining room causing heads to turn, a foreign pain growing in his cheeks from smiling.

  Twelve

  Chapter 12

  By the third week, he was breaking all kinds of cardinal rules. He got dangerously sloppy about the condoms, to the point she would have to remind him and he would act irritated. She started to notice he had a jealous streak, an irrational one. Especially when it came to Dale. He obviously had no intention of letting Amara and Dale cross paths again. An irrational impulse made worse whenever Amara asked after him. Even something as innocent as a “What did he say?” while Grayson casually recalled one of their conversations was enough to unsettle him.

  Jealousy meant he cared, right? She shuttered, a chillingly familiar ring to her words.

  She’d discovered the true extent of it the hard way, at a dinner party Dale was throwing at his house in South San Francisco. It was more of a very relaxed business dinner with the guest of honor being the Bel Hafiz, the founder of MeTV. Another young 30 something billionaire who’d revolutionized the world nine years ago with his ambitious side project. They all used to work together at Magellan before it became the search engine conglomerate it is today. They were discussing the prospect of merging in some way, trying to predict the technological trends for the next decade. It was also partially a blind date for Hafiz, set up by Dale’s own new matchmaking girlfriend Avery.

  Amara was surprised to see that Dale had a Spanish style hacienda for a home. She thought for sure he’d have some space-age minimalist cube out in the desert somewhere. But instead it was in the middle of a lush green wood that masked the sight of the nearby beach, but not the sound. It had beautiful blinding white stucco columns and a dark reddish brown clay roof. The vast courtyard seemed somehow quaint. Staircases decorated with colorful hand-painted tiles led to various villas that lined the courtyard’s border. Indoors it had every modernity, and when they retreated to the courtyard in the evening, it was like being transported.

  “How are you coping with celebrity, Amara,” Dale began, somewhat facetious.

  “Seeing as how I’ve been cooped up at the Davis compound for three weeks I’d say pretty well.”

  “The story’s going to outlive the relationship, I’m afraid,” Grayson ruthlessly assessed.

  Both Dale and Bel went rigid, but Amara just lobbed Grayson in the arm as if she had no intentions of being temporary.

  “I think I’ve been hit harder by puppies,” he said dryly.

  “And I have no doubt you made a puppy feel like it needed to hit you,” Amara said just as dry. The company laughed.

  “How long have you been growing yours?” Bel asked Amara.

  Both Amara and Bel had their hair in locs. Bel’s were thicker but his hair more fine. They lay like majestic vines down to the middle of his back when they were pulled back and secured. Bel was Middle Eastern, but he looked to Amara as though he was African American but very light-skinned. He was handsome with stunning grey eyes.

  “Eleven years,” she answered.

  “They’re beautiful,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she continued. “The beginning stage was…rough. But my best friend Mya is a black hair magician.”

  “These two gave me so much shit when I started mine,” Bel admitted.

  Amara gave Dale and Grayson each disapproving looks.

  “In all fairness, he was growing weed on our balcony at
the time,” Dale defended himself.

  Amara laughed.

  “Hey, that was my inspiration for MeTV so who’s laughing now,” Bel boasted.

  “You know, I applied for a job at MeTV as soon as I graduated, and I did not get a callback,” Amara volunteered, pretending to be offended.

  “Just whoring yourself out to Silicon Valley, weren’t you Amara?” Grayson suddenly piped up with a scoff. Dale’s smiling expression froze as he just stared at him across the table.

  “Basically,” Amara replied, laughing off his remark. “I didn’t know what I was going to do, I just knew something exciting was happening and I thought maybe if I get in on the ground floor, someone would let me be a part of it.”

  “MeTV had an IPO five years ago, Amy. I would hardly call that the ground floor,” he needlessly corrected.

  “Well I agree, asshole,” Amara continued, turning slightly to Grayson’s direction, “but in terms of public consciousness it was still very new, and the application process is a whole hell of a lot different now than it was then.”

  Amara turned back to the table. Bel was laughing and so was his blind date, after almost doing a spit take. Grayson was sipping a drink when Amara turned back to look at him, and their eyes met. Judging by their energy, they either resented each other or were about to have sex on the table right there in front of everyone. Perhaps both. Grayson had a familiar haze of desire in his eyes but was otherwise poker-faced as he chomped on a piece of ice.

  “Davis, you gotta keep this one, bro,” said Bel.

  “He’s gonna run her off,” Dale tried to keep his tone light.

  Amara ripped herself from his gaze and turned it back to the table.

  “Takes a lot to run me off,” Amara assured him.

  “One million to be exact. After taxes,” Grayson remarked.

  Amara didn’t look in his direction.

  The conversation suffered a contextual hiccup and then continued. Amara focused her attention on her wine glass, twirling the stem so that the burgundy sloshed up the sides. She caught Dale’s sympathetic gaze.