Billionaires and Bad Boys: The Complete 7-Book Box Set

by Nikki Chase

  “I’m so going to miss you, Piper,” Carly says, pulling me closer with both hands, resting the beer bottle she’s holding on my back. The bottle is cold, the wetness seeping through the back of my shirt.

  “Oh, you’ll be fine.” I break the hug. “You’ve stayed over at George’s a bunch of times, right? I’m sure you guys will do fine.”

  “I know, but it won’t be the same without you.” She sighs.

  “I’m the one who’s going to miss you more. I’ll be living on my own.”

  “That’s not true. You have McClaw with you.” Carly reaches out one drunk, heavy hand and pets the cat, making him swish his tail from side to side with displeasure.

  “Yeah, he’s not a very good conversationalist, though.” I move Carly’s hand away before McClaw shows her how he got his name in the first place. “Plus, he made it really hard for me to find a new place. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve been able to find new roommates and just move into a room. Instead, I have to get a tiny, unfurnished studio.”

  “Eh, you may be better off living on your own anyway. At least McClaw will be the only asshole you’ll live with.”

  “Yeah.” I pause. “Can you imagine if I ended up moving in with Mark I I’d planned and then found out he’d been cheating on me?”

  “When things are bad, it’s good to remind yourself that it could be worse.” Carly lifts her beer bottle up for a toast.

  “Word.” I pick up my bottle and clink it against hers. “I had no idea how hard it is to find an apartment, though. I was completely unprepared.”

  “Really? It was pretty easy for me to get this one.”

  “Yeah, it was easy for you because you have money.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, money is great. You should get yourself some of that good stuff.”

  I laugh wryly and scratch the soft fur between McClaw’s ears.

  It’s only Carly’s name on the lease for this two-bedroom apartment. She fell in love with the place and rented it on her own. In the first week of the semester, she put up flyers all over the campus, looking for a roommate. I was the lucky person who happened to click with her and became the chosen one.

  Unlike me, Carly gets money transferred into her account from her parents every month. She doesn’t have the same money problems that I do, although we’re both college students.

  To be honest, maybe those landlords have a good reason to not let me move into their properties. The studio I’m going to move into is the cheapest one I could find. Yet I’m not sure I’ll be able to pay the rent on time every month. I guess we’ll see.

  Carly offers to help, of course. But I can’t keep relying on her forever.

  My dad is broke, too, so I can’t ask him for any money. And he lives too far from San Francisco, where my college is, for me to move back in with him.

  My whole life, the man has spent all his money at the liquor store. He did stop for a while, when we had to scrounge up every penny for Mom’s hospital bills. But now that she’s gone, his alcohol habit has only gotten worse.

  “Did you manage to find any work?” Carly asks.

  “Yeah. I got a retail job at the mall, but they’re not giving me many shifts. I may have to get another job, on top of that one.”

  Carly goes quiet before finally saying, “You know you can always come to me for help, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Carly,” I say, smiling.

  I don’t like asking for help from other people; I think that’s a show of weakness. But Carly is my roommate, and she knows I haven’t always managed to pay my rent on time. She has been generous with me and never even said anything about my late payments. A real landlord wouldn’t be as nice.

  While she's trading up to a more luxurious apartment, I’m definitely trading down.

  Maybe it's my own fault.

  Sure, luck has something to do with it, too. I grew up wearing hand-me-downs from my older cousins, while Carly used to get thousands of dollars at the beginning of every school year to update her entire wardrobe.

  But I have a part to play in this, too. While Carly’s getting a sensible finance degree, I’m working toward a music degree.

  Through her dad’s connections, she gets an awesome paid internship position at some investment bank. On the other hand, I go through audition after audition to play “for exposure”—which is just a nicer way to say I’m basically free labor.

  I do get some paid gigs. Still, I bet the bartenders at the joints where my jazz band plays make way more in tips alone than we do in total.

  I also offer guitar and piano lessons, and I make decent money from them.

  When I don’t have anything better to do with my time, sometimes I take my guitar downtown, put my open guitar case on the sidewalk, and just start playing, hoping to collect a few bills, along with the mountain of coins I usually get. This doesn’t earn me much, but it’s a good way to spend a nice, sunny day.

  Maybe it’s this mentality that’s screwing me over. Maybe I should be more mercenary about making a living, instead of holding on to an unrealistic dream. I mean, how many musicians actually make it?

  I don’t know. I’m only twenty-one, so I guess at least I have time to figure things out.

  That’s a long-term problem, though, and I don’t have the luxury to think about that.

  Right now, I should be focusing on bringing in money immediately so I don’t end up on the streets—or worse, back in my family home with Dad.

  Okay, maybe he’s not quite that bad, but that’s not an option either.

  I take another sip of my beer. Carly’s already passed out on the carpet, resting her head on her own arm. Ah, to be loaded and worry-free…

  I pet McClaw, running my fingers from his forehead to his tail. He starts to purr, his orange belly rising up and down with his deep, contented breathing.

  I may be broke, but at least I have good company. Things could be worse.

  Raphael

  Things have been getting worse and worse today.

  First, I realize my watch, which was a gift from my parents, is broken. So now I have to go to the store from where they originally bought it.

  Then, on the way there, I hear my phone ringing. Of course I haven’t connected the phone to the car audio system, so I can’t pick it up while driving.

  When I reach the mall, I check my phone, only to see that I have a missed call from my property manager. The one I’ve been trying to reach for two weeks.

  Honestly, I’m ready to fucking fire her. What kind of a professional gets a call, every single day, for two weeks from a client and never calls back? Now she finally calls, and she doesn’t even leave a message.

  I take a deep, frustrated breath as I open the car door and tap the call-back button. Holding the phone up to my ear, I hear the dial tone, then the familiar voicemail message.

  “Hi, this is Teresa from Diamond Property Management. I can’t pick up right now, but leave your name and number, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  Bullshit, I curse quietly. I’ve heard that same message fifty times over the past two weeks.

  I end the call, then redial. Dial tone, then…

  “Hello,” Teresa says at the other end of the call.

  “Teresa. I’ve been trying to call you for two weeks now.”

  “Hi Raphael, I’m so sorry. My husband is ill. I’m actually waiting for him right now at the hospital while he’s in surgery.”

  I was ready to tear her apart, but I can’t kick someone when she’s down.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Do you know what’s happening with the rent? I haven’t been getting the deposits in my account.”

  “Yeah, I spoke with the tenant. She says she’s going to pay both the rent for April and May on May first.”

  I take a deep calming breath. This is not acceptable, but I feel too bad for Teresa to get angry.

  “So she’s going to miss this month’s payment altogether?” I ask, pushing my frustration d
own.

  “Yes, unfortunately. She said she’ll get paid on the last day of April and she’ll deposit the money the very next day.”

  “Look, I know you’re going through some difficult times, but you should’ve at least let me know so I could start the eviction process.”

  “I’m sorry, Raphael. I don’t know what to tell you. I know I’ve been unavailable. Honestly, though, the tenant is doing her best. She’s determined to make that payment.”

  “I’m sure she is,” I say, itching to say it sarcastically, but I don’t hate her enough to give her grief. “Listen, Teresa, I’ll go there and talk to her myself. You just worry about your husband. If you hear anything from the tenant, please tell her to call me directly.”

  “Okay, I will. Thank you, Raphael.”

  “No problem.” I hang up.

  I should fire her. I feel bad for Teresa, but she’s not doing her job. I also feel bad for the tenant, but I’m not a charity. Having people feel bad for you shouldn’t be an income-producing life skill.

  I walk into the jewelry store. There’s no way to miss it because of the bright white lighting. There are glass display cases along the walls, and another group of display cases arranged into a rectangular counter at the center of the store.

  I approach the counter. Immediately, a middle-aged woman gives me a smile and comes over. She’s wearing an all-black outfit, like all the other sales associates do.

  “Mr. Holt, it’s been a while since I last saw you,” she says.

  I don’t remember her name, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a good chance she has never told me her name anyway.

  I used to come here a lot on my mom’s shopping trips, so that’s probably why she remembers me. My mom has always been a big spender, and this is one of her favorite stores.

  “Yeah, I’ve been busy,” I say, returning her smile.

  Busy being in prison, I think to myself. Oh, and helping people escape modern slavery. There’s that, too.

  “I see. How can I help you today?”

  “My watch is broken and I’m wondering if you could fix it.”

  “Let me take it to the back so our horologist can have a look at it.”

  “Sorry, your what?”

  “Horologist. The person who fixes watches.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Can’t fault someone who works at a store like this to use pretentious words, I guess.

  I fish the watch out of my jeans pocket and put it on the counter. After giving me another smile, the lady disappears into the back of the store.

  “Rafe?” A familiar voice calls my name.

  I glance back over my shoulder and see a woman who looks impossibly good for a sixty-year-old. As usual, her appearance is impeccable, with her big hair and her perfect make-up. She's just wearing a basic black dress and minimal jewelry, but anyone can tell her stuff is expensive.

  “How often do you actually come here, Mom?” I ask.

  “Oh, Rafe.” She ignores my question as she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a hug. Her floral perfume fills my nostrils, the familiar scent bringing back happy memories. I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “Mom, I see you all the time. There’s no need to get dramatic here.”

  She lets go of me and steps back. She studies me from head to toe, then scrunches her nose at my jeans and black shirt. “You’d look better in some decent clothes,” she says. She snaps her fingers. “Oh, I know. There’s this store, where your dad gets his suits from. Let’s get something for you after this.”

  “I love you, Mom, but I’d rather stab myself than go shopping with you. Besides, I have enough suits that I wear to work. I don’t need to wear them all the time.”

  She laughs, showing off the perfect rows of pearly teeth in her mouth. “What are you doing here? I thought you hate the mall.”

  “I do. I just need to get something fixed, the watch that you and Dad gave me.” I pause, wondering for a moment if I should ask the question. “Hey, uh, has Dad said anything to you about letting me handle the meeting next week?”

  “Oh, you know I don’t meddle in how your father runs his business, dear. You should just ask him when you see him at the office,” she says. “But maybe Diana can help you. She’s here, and Aunt May, too. They should be coming in here any… Oh, there they are!” Mom’s eyes focus on a spot behind me as she lifts her hands up to wave. “May, Diana, look who I bumped into!”

  I turn around and brace myself for Aunt May’s big hug. True enough, she grabs me and squeezes me with her thick arms. Her daughter, Diana, waves at me from behind her.

  “What are you doing here?” Diana asks as our moms shift their attention from me to the jewelry, pointing at the shiny things in the glass display cases.

  “Everyone seems to like asking me that question today.”

  “Well, you never want to come with us to the mall. We need someone to carry the heavy stuff sometimes, you know,” Diana says with a big grin.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly why I’m never coming here with you guys.”

  Diana is about my age, but she’s way ahead of me in life. She holds a high position at the bank our dads co-founded, and she’s already married, with two kids.

  Prison has definitely interfered with my life plans. I remember when Diana was doing her internship under my lead, and now she’s responsible for some of our most profitable branches.

  “Hey, has Uncle Robert said anything about my request?” I ask. My father and Uncle Robert built Holt Bank together, and they still make all major decisions together.

  “Oh, you mean to get transferred into the management team and lead the meeting next week?” Diana pauses. When I nod, she says, “I don’t know, Rafe. I know how hard you’ve been trying, but…” She trails off and looks up to think. Inhaling deeply, she says, “You know, I think the problem is they don’t trust you yet.”

  I groan. “It has been years since I got out of prison, Diana.”

  “I know,” she says. “But they want to be sure you won’t mess things up before they give you that kind of responsibility. Remember what happened last time?”

  “Yeah.” I admit that my imprisonment has not impressed the shareholders. “But ‘last time’ was a long time ago. I’m a different person now.”

  “I guess they want to see you stick to one thing for a longer time and prove that you won’t quit,” she says. “The more you ask for things to be changed, the less inclined they will be to say yes.”

  “Hey, I’m not a quitter. I always finish what I start.”

  “Yeah, but you keep asking for transfers from one department to another. It just doesn’t make you seem super stable, you know?”

  “It’s only because the work is not stimulating enough. I want more responsibility. Failing that, I want to try different things to keep it interesting,” I say. “Besides, knowing how the different departments work will help me one day when they finally let me do some real work.”

  “Like I said, they’re concerned about your stability, mostly. I mean, you can’t even keep a girlfriend.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I protest.

  That kind of comment would be considered discrimination in a normal workplace; I could go straight to HR with a legitimate complaint. Coming from a cousin, though, nobody would take me seriously, even though the result is the same: workplace discrimination.

  “Well….” Diana hesitates before finally saying, “One of your girlfriends was the one who got you into trouble, right?”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t think that’s a fair assessment of my skills and abilities.”

  “You want a fair assessment, you go apply for a job somewhere else. We both know they’ll throw away your resume as soon as they find out you’re an ex-con,” Diana says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t mince her words. “Our dads, they’re old-fashioned, you know. They like family values, stability, that kind of stuff.”

  Harsh words, but I can’t exactly argue with anyt
hing she has said so far. She’s right. Maybe I should change my tack.

  “How would they know anything about my dating habits, when they never ask me anything about it?” I frown, annoyed that my own family would judge me like this.

  Diana shrugs. “Maybe they're still suffering the trauma from the graphic stories you told them about your college years.”

  Despite my growing irritation, I grin.

  I used to be a little more, shall we say, open about what I get up to at night. I liked telling my family all about the wild keg parties I went to, and what happened upstairs in the dark bedrooms between horny, hot-blooded students.

  These days, I try to be more careful with my words. Obviously it's a bad idea to give them more reason to think I’m irresponsible.

  “Well, things are different now,” I say, the lie sliding easily out of my mouth. “I take things a lot more seriously these days.”

  “Really?” Diana tilts her head as the corners of her lips curl up.

  “Yeah.” I watch as my cousin gets more and more interested.

  “What are we talking about here? Like, are you seeing someone in particular?”

  “What else could I mean?” I answer, trying to sound cryptic, when I'm actually racking my brain to come up with a good story.

  “Is it serious?” Diana's smile spreads across her cheeks.

  “Yeah. That's what I’ve been trying to say.”

  Her eyes widen. “Do you actually have a serious girlfriend?”

  I may have stumbled upon a goldmine here. This may be my key to redemption. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I may be able to get back into my family's good graces.

  So I decide to go all in.

  “I do. She's perfect. I don't even remember anymore why I spent so much of my time and energy chasing tail. It's so much better to be in a relationship.”

  “Oh, wow. It's that serious, huh?” Diana breaks out into a full-on grin. She's really eating it up. “How long have you been seeing her?”

  Shit. I haven't thought that far. What's the appropriate amount of time for a relationship to be considered serious?