Strip Poker: Bad Boys Club Romance #2

by Olivia Thorne

  STRIP POKER

  A Bad Boys Club Romance 2

  Olivia Thorne

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  Books: www.Olivia-Thorne.com

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  Books By Olivia Thorne

  Bad Boys Club Romances:

  SEX ON THE BEACH

  STRIP POKER

  ALL THAT HE WANTS Volume 1

  ALL THAT HE LOVES Volume 2

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S WEDDING Volume 3

  ROCK ME HARD Part 1

  ROCK ALL NIGHT Part 2

  HARD AS ROCK Part 3

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S KISS Volume One (Parts 1-4)

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S REDEMPTION Part 5

  PASSION AND PRIDE

  1

  Vic

  My name is Vic Cortelian. Maybe you’ve heard of me.

  I’m a multi-millionaire, an international playboy, a professional poker player, and a helluva good-looking guy with the sexiest beard you ever saw.

  But even though I’m a grown-ass man with all of that going for me, my uncles were still lookin’ to rip me a new asshole.

  We were sitting in the boardroom of their venture capital firm in San Francisco – the corner office of the 48th floor penthouse, with floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides of the room. Through the right window you could see the Transamerica Pyramid, with Alcatraz behind it in the bay. On the left, the Golden Gate Bridge looked like a train collector’s miniature toy stretched out across the water.

  It was literally a ten-million-dollar view. Which is what my two uncles paid every year so they could impress the bejeezus out of start-up CEOs who didn’t know any better than to choose their funding based on how good a view the office had.

  Ah, my uncles. Sons of bitches, both of ‘em.

  Frank and Sal Cortelian, my dad’s brothers. Fat Frank and Skinny Sal. They’d clawed their way up over the last thirty years from low-level stockbrokers to become one of the biggest venture capital firms around.

  In case you don’t know, venture capital firms invest in businesses while they’re still in the beginning stages. Ever since the internet, that primarily meant internet companies: Google. Amazon. Facebook. Uber. Twitter. Tumblr. And a bunch of stupid-ass names missing letters or that sounded like they came out of an IKEA catalog. Hooli. Bitl. Zemo. Natrl. Fuckin’ Bippity Boppty Boo.

  My uncles had gotten lucky and invested early in most of the companies I just named – and made a shit-ton of money in the process. But the last couple of years hadn’t been so great. In a tech town where 45 is over the hill, all ‘teh kidz’ wanted cool VC partners in their 30’s, not a couple of old geezers who looked like Jabba the Hutt and Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.

  Luckily for Sal and Frank, they had a secret weapon:

  Me.

  I’m good with people. Something no one has ever accused my uncles of.

  I’m also famous. Well, internet famous. Ten billion followers on Instagram and counting, baby. Anybody over 40 has never heard of me – but if you’re a dude under 25, you know The Beard.

  And if you’re a model/actress/whatever who’s serious about getting famous on social media, you know The Beard, too.

  And when you know The Beard, you’re way more likely to listen to him, especially if he shows up with shot glasses in hand.

  Got a 28 year-old CEO who’s freaking out before the IPO? I’ll settle him down.

  Looking to sign the whiz kid who’s being courted by fifteen other VC firms? Let me party with him – I’ll get his John Hancock on the dotted line.

  Got a bunch of nerds who don’t want you interfering with their precious little ‘let’s save the world for free’ software? I’ll get ‘em laid and loosen ‘em up. Once they start thinking in terms of Wow, 60 grand is, like, 120 REALLY great lap dances, they tend to become more amenable to capitalism.

  I’d like to say I was paid handsomely for all my hard work, but… not really. In dividing up the pizza, my uncles promised me a cut – but they took all the middle part with the cheese and pepperoni, then threw me a few pieces of crust and expected me to be grateful for it.

  Not to say my life sucks. Far from it. I live high on the hog and stick my uncles with the bill.

  For instance, I got a bitchin’ yacht to party on.

  I fly all over the world on Sal and Frank’s private jet.

  I play high-stakes poker and have the time of my life hanging out with celebrities.

  And there’s 20,000 honeys on Instagram who want to come shake their bare asses on my boat ‘cause they know they’ll get a ton of new followers if I mention them by name.

  Life is good.

  Except when I have to talk to my friggin’ uncles.

  2

  At one end of the boardroom table was me, chillin’ with my feet up on the table. At the other end were my uncles, who looked at me like I was something they’d scraped off the bottom of their shoes.

  “What are you wearing?” Uncle Sal sneered.

  I had on camouflage shorts, a black Harley Davidson t-shirt, and Chuck Taylors.

  “My usual,” I said cheerfully.

  I’m a generally cheerful person. After all, my life is pretty great. And even if I don’t like somebody – like my uncles – I’m still cheerful, just to fuck with ‘em.

  Frank picked up a piece of paper from the desk in front of him. Then he proceeded to have a mini heart attack. “You spent two hundred thousand dollars on the yacht last month?!”

  “Well, with all the parties I throw, booze is easily fifty grand a month.”

  “I’m talking about the renovations!” he yelled.

  I shrugged. “We needed a new hot tub and some stripper poles on the main deck.”

  “Why the hell do you have a yacht?” Frank wheezed. “I don’t have a yacht, and I’m worth two billion!”

  “It’s part of my brand.”

  Uncle Sal typed on his laptop, and my Instagram account appeared on the massive flat screen TV on the boardroom wall. He scrolled through a half-dozen shots of chicks in itty-bitty bikinis – not to mention some epic wakeboarding and jet skiing pics. All with lots and lots of alcohol.

  “Being a drunk, lecherous fool is your brand?” Sal asked sarcastically.

  “Yes it is. King of Instagram, ten billion followers – ”

  Sal flapped one skeletal hand. “Save the spiel, we’ve heard it a thousand times before.”

  Frank shook his head. “Vic, we’re not seeing a good enough return on all the money we’ve sunk into your so-called ‘brand.’”

  “Guys, I’m telling you, the connections I have are invaluable. Johnny Zhang in Macao? Owns three casinos? He totally wants to do that internet gambling app with me – ”

  “No,” Sal snapped.

  “Come onnnnn – just listen to what he wants to – ”

  “NO.”

  I sighed. “Well, then, from a purely marketing perspective, I’m pure gold. Every dude on the planet wants to be me.”

  “Or they hate you,” Sal pointed out.

  “Or that. But haters gonna hate. And a lot of women want to… well, you know,” I said with a grin.

  “Or they hate you, too.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “You seem to be focusing a lot on the negatives here.”

  “Your expenditures are way over the line, Vic.”

  “No, no, no – they’re right where they need to be.”

  “You’re not bringing anything new to the table.”

  Okay
, that made me mad. I sat up in my chair and pointed angrily. “I brought in the Ian McLaren IPO! That alone was worth 800 million to you guys!”

  Sal snorted. “You didn’t ‘bring in’ anything. We invested in his company during the second round of financing.”

  “Yeah, but I convinced Ian to go through with it! He was gonna bail. You guys woulda been left holding your dicks out on the street if it wasn’t for me.”

  “What did you just say?!” Frank snapped.

  I rolled my eyes. “Excuse me – you would’ve been left holding your stubby little ledgers full of red ink.”

  Sal stared at me with his lizard eyes. “The only reason we continue to allow your shenanigans is because of your father, God rest his soul.”

  ASSHOLE.

  I thought about telling him what I really thought about how he and Frank had treated my father –

  But I stuffed it back down like I always do. Anything I might have said would have been a good way to lose the yacht.

  “We’re reigning you in, Vic,” Frank announced.

  “What does that mean?”

  “We hired someone to be our eyes and ears in your organization,” Sal explained. “To report back to us. To give us a running profit and loss statement, as it were.”

  “Ohhh,” I said. “You mean a babysitter.”

  “Look at it however you like.”

  Alright, I could handle this. I’d party with the dude, get him laid like a rock star, show him the finer side of life – I could win him over to my side, I was sure of it. Not a problem.

  “Where is he?” I asked, faking resignation.

  “She’s up on the roof, waiting at the helicopter.”

  Wait a minute –

  “She?!” I asked.

  Sal gave me a smile reminiscent of a great white shark when it sees an ice floe of baby seals. “Ms. Monica Ames. And she is completely impervious to your meager charms.”

  We’ll see about THAT.

  Then I thought of something.

  “Why, is she a lesbian?” I asked.

  Sal dropped his smile in disgust. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Ah, it didn’t matter. Me and lesbians got along great. We had something huge in common: we were both into lady parts.

  Meanwhile, Frank was off on another tirade. “Why the hell are you flying around in a helicopter, anyway? This is exactly the sort of waste we’re talking about! Why, for the amount of money you’re…”

  He kept on blabbing like the teacher from Charlie Brown – wah wah WAH wuh – but I tuned him out and thought about my babysitter.

  Monica, huh?

  This was gonna be interesting.

  3

  Monica

  I was on the roof of the building next to the helicopter, waiting for my new –

  What would you call him?

  My new charge? Responsibility? Assignment?

  Entitled, whiney rich boy?

  Anyway, I was waiting for him to show up when I got a call on my cell phone. I checked the screen and saw it was Spencer, my oldest brother.

  I answered immediately. “Is everything okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay?” he asked gruffly.

  “Because you never call,” I snapped.

  “You never call me either.”

  “Get to the point, Spence.”

  “Dad’s been asking for you.”

  I felt a sharp pang in my heart when he said it. “Tell him… tell him I’ll be back to see him soon. Tell him I want to, I just can’t right now, I got a new job.”

  “Good. You can start helping the rest of us pay for his expenses.”

  Jerk.

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “When the pay kicks in.”

  “I thought you had the job.”

  “It’s provisional. I’ve got to prove my worth for the first month before they hire me.”

  “Jesus, Monica – what is this, an internship?”

  “Screw you, Spence. I’m going to be a VP at a venture capital fund, you arrogant son of a bitch.”

  “Careful, you’re talking about your own mother.”

  “She’d agree with me.”

  His voice softened the tiniest bit. I knew he thought that last bit about Mom was funny. Not to mention that maybe, just maybe, he was impressed. “…VP, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pays pretty well?”

  “VERY well.”

  “Good. You can pay us back for covering you.”

  “Drop dead, Spence.”

  “You too, Mon.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Fine.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  It’s always so lovely talking to my oldest brother.

  But I didn’t have any time to dwell on that particular S.O.B, ‘cause here came another one.

  4

  Vic Cortelian walked out of the rooftop stairwell and headed straight for me, a huge grin on his face.

  I kept my face calm, neutral, and reserved.

  I knew my enemy.

  I’d done my homework on him as soon as I got hired. Going through his Instagram account was like wading through a swamp made of alcohol, with frat boys instead of alligators.

  There’s this other account, Rich Kids of Instagram, where all the little trust fund twits post pictures of their $100,000 bar tabs and 15 different colored Porsches they match to their outfits, not to mention inspirational sayings like ‘Funemployed’ and ‘Stop Being Poor.’

  Vic wasn’t that bad, I’d give him that. He didn’t give a damn about clothes, for one thing. He basically wore the same thing day in, day out – camo pants, t-shirts, sneakers. But what he lacked in sartorial taste he made up for in lifestyle extravagance and outright debauchery. If his Instagram was a swamp, there were a lot of Daisy Dukes partying on the bayou who’d lost their shorts and tied-up shirts along the way. And then there were the private jets, and the yacht, and the poker tournaments, and the South Pacific vacations…

  He was still 25 feet away from me when he boomed out in his rumbling bass voice, “Hello, hello, what have we here?”

  I’d heard his voice before in Youtube clips and podcast interviews. I’m glad I had, because otherwise I would have been taken aback by how…

  Alright, I’ll admit it. How sexy it was.

  In fact, other than his piss-poor clothing style, Vic Cortelian was pretty damn hot. He was in rockin’ shape from lifting weights all the time. Broad shoulders, a young Schwarzenegger’s chest, massive biceps, powerful legs. Deeply tanned from all the island partying he did. Soft brown eyes. Dazzling smile. Called himself the Beard for his immaculately styled facial hair.

  I normally date clean-shaven guys, but I gotta admit, there’s just… something about a guy with a full-on beard.

  Not that any of that mattered, since the way he acted was so repulsive. He treated women like pieces of meat – and this was one woman who was not going to stand for that.

  Besides, this was entirely a professional relationship. I was hired to be a pig wrangler – a chauvinist pig wrangler – and that’s exactly what I was going to do: keep him from wallowing in filth. And his uncles’ money.

  I put out my hand as he walked up. “Mr. Cortelian. I’m Monica Ames.”

  “Vic,” he said. His handshake was firm but gentle. “Do I detect a little bit of Jersey girl in that accent of yours?”

  I am from Jersey. Newark, to be precise. “More than a little.”

  “Ah, it’s not so bad,” he said, as though he were consoling me.

  “I didn’t say it was,” I answered, and made sure he could hear the implied Asshole at the end of the sentence.

  He grinned. “So you’re the babysitter.”

  I think you mean ‘pig wrangler.’ “I’m actually the provisional VP of – ”

  He ignored me and started waxing nostalgic. “I totally had a thing for my babysitter when I was ten. She was fourteen, looked like a young Kate Upton �
�� you shoulda seen her.”

  God. It was starting already.

  “I have no interest in seeing her,” I said coldly.

  “Well, that’d be hard even if you did, seeing as we don’t have a time machine,” he said with friendly condescension. “What we do have, Monica, is a party machine. You ready to party?”

  “No.”

  “Your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes.”

  UGH.

  My coldness became an arctic chill. “Your grasp of consent is troubling.”

  He grinned. “No, no – I just gotta get those eyes and the mouth to match up, that’s all.”

  I stared straight at him. “Watch my eyes carefully, then: I’m not here to party.”

  “Monica, Monica,” he clucked, “I am the party. If you’re around me, you’re at the party. So you might as well party. Have fun. Live a little.”

  “I have a job to do.”

  “What, make me miserable?”

  “I’m here to bring your expenditures in line with your actual contributions to the firm.” I couldn’t help but add, “Which are minimal.”

  He played at being offended. “No, no – I have mad skills.”

  “At spending money, yes.”

  Then the bragging started. “Look, I brought in the Ian McLaren IPO – ”

  I cut him off at the knees. “I spoke to Ian McLaren two hours ago.”

  That surprised him. “You spoke to Ian?”

  My conversation with Ian McLaren had been an interesting one. Ian was somewhat grumpy over the phone, with an overall sardonic manner punctuated by flashes of biting wit. But I could tell in the conversation that he had a grudging fondness for Vic, even as he trash-talked him.