Strip Poker: Bad Boys Club Romance #2

by Olivia Thorne

  I wasn’t about to tell Vic that.

  About the grudging fondness, I mean.

  I was more than happy to tell him about the trash-talking.

  “Yes. He said – ”

  “He’s a billionaire,” Vic said, still mildly shocked. “A very busy billionaire.”

  “And your uncles’ firm is his second largest investor.”

  Vic got an Aha look on his face. “Okay, point taken. You talked to Ian. So?”

  “So he said he did the IPO because he wanted to get married.”

  Vic gave me a Come onnnnnn look. “Yeah, but I made it happen.”

  “He said you lent him your private jet. Actually, your uncles’ private jet.”

  Vic burst out with a sort of wounded indignation. “I built a sand castle for him! I spent three hours on that sand castle, dammit!”

  Actually, Ian had mentioned the sand castle. That was the only point he’d sounded truly affectionate about.

  But I just played dumb and looked at Vic like he was crazy.

  “Never mind,” he grumbled. “You had to be there. Plus, I basically introduced him to his wife – ”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Says who?”

  “Ian. I asked.”

  Actually, I hadn’t, but I figured I would gamble.

  It worked. It seemed to really piss him off that I was so chummy with his friend, and that I knew all of Vic’s little half-lies and secrets.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re gonna be a real pain in my ass, aren’t you, Monica?”

  “That’s what I was hired for.”

  “Well, you’re doing a bang-up job so far.”

  Good.

  5

  Vic

  The massive pain in my ass my uncles had hired?

  She was hot.

  Yeah, she had a stick so far up her ass that it’d take a surgeon to get it out, but… hotness covers up a multitude of sins.

  You ever see that TV show New Girl? The one with Zooey Deschanel?

  Stop it. I can feel you judging me.

  Yeah, I like 300 and Reservoir Dogs and Scarface, just like every other dude. But I like New Girl, too.

  So sue me.

  Anyway, Zooey’s best friend is this hot-as-hell model chick named Cece. Tall, brunette, long brown hair with bangs, beautiful eyes, great rack.

  This chick looked just like her. More professional, though, in a skirt and heels that showed off her bangin’ legs, and a tailored jacket that unfortunately covered up too much of her top half.

  When Sal said she was going to be impervious to my charms, I was expecting a dumpy Russian grandma with a wart on her nose.

  This was going to be a lot more fun than I’d anticipated.

  We climbed into the back of the chopper. I put on a headset and handed one to her.

  She looked unsure.

  “You ever been in a helicopter?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Put that on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s about to get loud.”

  “But then you won’t be able to hear me,” she said.

  “Much as I’d like that, it’s a radio headset, so you’ll be able to bug the crap out of me electronically, too.”

  She snatched the headset away with a disgusted look but put it on.

  As the pilot started the engine, Monica opened up the briefcase she had with her and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Her voice came loud and clear over my headset. “So I thought we’d go over your expense statements – ”

  “No, Monica,” I said, and waggled my finger reprovingly. “We’re going to party.”

  “No – ”

  “Yes. I had to sit with my asshole uncles for two hours, so I’m gonna need about five stiff drinks to even deal with the existential horror of that.”

  If she’d been a teenage girl, she would have rolled her eyes at me. “I hardly think talking to your uncles constitutes an existential horror.”

  “They saddled me with you, so close enough. Are you going to report to them that I called them assholes?” I joked.

  “Yes,” she said, not joking at all.

  “Tattletale,” I teased.

  “Executive VP of Operations, actually.”

  How far up IS that stick, Monica?

  “Tattletale’s the job description. You were a goody-goody two-shoes back in school, weren’t you? Hall monitor? Teacher’s pet?”

  She looked at me like I was tiresome beyond belief. “No.”

  “Write that down in your report. Tell them I called you all that, too. Tattletale – hall monitor – ” I wiggled my eyebrows and put my hand on her knee. “…teacher’s pet…”

  She slapped my hand away. HARD.

  Feisty!

  “Asshole,” she snapped.

  “I didn’t call you that,” I said.

  “No, I’m calling you that.”

  I acted offended. “That’s no way to talk to your boss, Monica.”

  “You’re not my boss.”

  “Your coworker, then.”

  “You’re not my coworker.”

  “So you are my babysitter.”

  She sighed in disgust. “It’s looking more and more like it, yes. We should go over your – ”

  I’d been stuck on Cece from New Girl, but suddenly I remembered another TV show I loved.

  “Hey Monica – do you ever get a lot of Friends jokes? You know – Chandler and Joey and all that? ‘Where’s Ross and Rachel?’”

  She had at least one quality in common with my uncles: she looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. “When I was in junior high. Which is where I’m guessing you’re stuck, developmentally.”

  “You don’t get guns like this if you’re stuck developmentally in junior high, Monica,” I said, and flexed one massive bicep. “BAM! Where are we? At the gun show, that’s where.”

  “Or in hell,” she muttered.

  “If we were, you’d hear me sizzlin’, ‘cause I am a grade-A, prime cut slab of man-meat. Feast your eyes, but don’t touch, that costs extra.”

  She looked at me not just like something she’d scraped off her shoe, but specifically stepped in at a dog park. “I’ll be sure not to touch at all, then.”

  “Oh, Monica… we’re going to be good friends.”

  “No we’re not.”

  “Just wait till we get a couple shots of liquor in ya. You’ll see the world in a whole different way.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Ohhh, you’re a ganja girl,” I teased.

  “NO. I’m NOT.”

  “That makes sense.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “Why?”

  “Because you are an uptight bee-yotch, and you’re seriously harshing my buzz.”

  She got all snooty. “Let’s get something clear right now. I report to your uncles, not to you. I take orders from your uncles, not from you. I answer to your uncles – not to you. The only thing you are to me is, currently, an obstacle to doing my job.”

  “Which is what, being a narc?”

  “No – a babysitter.”

  I pointed at her and grinned. “I told you that’s what you were.”

  “And I’m starting to agree with you.”

  The helicopter lifted off from the roof.

  She clutched her armrests nervously.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” I reassured her.

  She made a wry face. “I have a feeling there’s a lot of unpleasant things in this job I’m going to have to get used to.”

  I grinned. “Like my uncles, for instance?”

  Her face immediately went neutral. “Your uncles are fine men.”

  “Riiiiight. Might want to put ‘professional ass-kisser’ in your job title, too.”

  She glared at me but didn’t say anything.

  “Let me tell you something about my uncles,” I said. “They’re a couple of greedy mo-fo’s who use money like puppet strings to control ev
erybody around them. That’s the only thing that warms their shriveled, black hearts.”

  “They’re also my employers,” she said coldly. “You’re not.”

  “Is everything I said going in the report?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be sure to use ‘mo-fo’s,’” I suggested. “They don’t like profanity unless they’re the ones using it.”

  6

  Monica

  I’d never flown in a helicopter before.

  Never been on a yacht before, either.

  And of all the people who have ever lived throughout history, I’m one of the few who has ever flown in a helicopter that landed on a yacht.

  It was insane.

  The yacht itself was gigantic, with its own little mini marina jutting out from the starboard side. There were probably two hundred people partying on deck, zipping down the waterslide attached to the uppermost level, and roaring around on jet skis.

  And when I say ‘two hundred people,’ I mean 180 scantily clad women and a dozen or so photographers snapping pictures.

  When the helicopter started to descend, most people took cover inside the cabins. A few brave souls stuck it out in the pool and braved the choppy waters created by the helicopter’s backwash.

  I knew disembarking was going to be hell on my hair, so I bunched it all up into a ponytail with my hand as a scrunchy –

  “What are you doing?” Vic asked.

  “The helicopter’s going to blow my hair all over the place.”

  He frowned. “Just wait until the blades stop, then.”

  As he spoke, I could hear the rotor and engine cycling down slowly.

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “The helicopter’s staying here?”

  “Yeah, of course – this is the fastest way off the ship.”

  “Why do you need a fast way off the ship?”

  “So I can get off it quickly,” he said, as though explaining it to a two-year-old.

  I was about to say something else, but he yelled out, “Thanks, Dave!” to the pilot, then hung up his headset, opened the door, and stepped outside.

  I quickly did the same.

  By the time I set foot on deck, the party was back in full swing. The DJ blasting out dance songs at deafening levels, half-naked women everywhere, photographers capturing every shaking rump and jiggling breast – not to mention the women were shooting countless selfies.

  Ugh.

  “Why the photographers?” I yelled over the thumping music.

  “For my Instagram,” Vic yelled back. “Gotta get those posts, baby.”

  It was like a Playboy shoot combined with spring break in Daytona, minus the college boys. I wrinkled my nose at the abject objectification going on all around me. Nevertheless, I was curious: “Who are all these women?”

  “Models, actresses, cam girls, social media stars… a bunch of wannabes, basically.”

  “Where do you get them all?”

  “Instagram, Twitter, you name it. They want to be famous, and they know if I tag my pictures with their Instagram handles they’ll pick up 20,000 more followers, so they come party on the boat. Pretty sweet, huh?”

  Disgusting was more like it.

  Vic headed for the nearest bar, which looked like it had been airlifted here directly out of a high-end Beverly Hills club. Behind the bar were not one, but three bartenders – all of them scantily clad women wearing bowties and not much else.

  As he got up to the counter, all the non-working women mobbed him. He laughed and slapped some rear ends, posed for a few selfies, then yelled at the nearest bartender, “Mojito!” He turned back to me. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing. I’m on the clock.”

  “Oh, come on – make that a mojito and a cosmopolitan!” he yelled at the bartender.

  “I told you – ”

  “If you don’t drink something, this is going to feel like a very long partnership.”

  “It’s not a partnership, and I don’t care how long it feels.”

  “That’s what she said,” he snickered.

  Oh God.

  The drinks arrived. Vic picked up his mojito and looked at me expectantly.

  “I don’t drink cosmos,” I said.

  “No?”

  “Not everybody is a fan of Sex And The City and 15-year-old drink fads.”

  “So you know Sex And The City?” he asked happily. Too happily, if you ask me.

  “I know of it.”

  “You’re totally a Miranda,” he informed me.

  I AM NOT! I wanted to yell.

  I didn’t know much about the show, but I sure as hell knew I didn’t want to be compared to the non-hot hardass of the four.

  It was like he could read my mind. “I’m not sayin’ you’re not hot – I mean, you’re hot – ”

  EW.

  If Vic Cortelian was telling me I was hot, then suddenly I was okay with being a Miranda.

  “You’re just, y’know,” he continued, “career-driven with a stick up your ass, that’s all.”

  “How the hell do you know Sex And The City?” I asked, then taunted him, “What, do you sit around and watch it while you’re getting mani-pedis?”

  “Now that’s a good idea,” he said with a grin. “We should totally do that!”

  “NO.”

  He pointed at the pink concoction. “You gonna drink that or what?”

  “I don’t drink fruity pink crap.”

  “Ah, a true Jersey girl. Your loss,” he said as he handed the drink off to a topless reveler stumbling by.

  “Are you even thinking of the liability issues?” I asked him.

  “Of what?”

  “All this drunkenness out on open water?”

  He waved off my objections. “Eh, they sign waivers. And we got insurance. And life guards.”

  I shook my head. “You better not be supplying any drugs to these people.”

  “I’m not.”

  “There better not be any drugs, period.”

  “There aren’t, except the occasional joint. Alcohol is the weapon of choice around here.”

  “Vic – ” I warned.

  He suddenly got very serious. “Trust me, okay? I lost a good friend to an OD years ago. I don’t allow any of that shit at my parties. They get blacklisted if they bring it in – and nobody wants to get blacklisted from my parties.”

  He seemed sincere, so I let it drop.

  “So what do you think?” he asked after a sip of his mojito.

  I looked around. “Tawdry, vulgar, lewd, lascivious – ”

  “See, that’s my job description.” He pointed at my suit. “You’re going to get hot in that outfit.”

  I was already sweating a little, but I wasn’t about to admit that. “I don’t care.”

  “We got a box of pasties and thongs somewhere, if you want. We have to buy ‘em in bulk – ”

  “Fuck off,” I snarled.

  He laughed. “I believe I will!”

  He grabbed the nearest blonde and threw her squealing and laughing over his shoulder as effortlessly as if she were a rag doll.

  Although I was disgusted, I also couldn’t help but think, DAMN he’s strong.

  “Hey you,” Vic shouted over his shoulder, since her rear end was right next to his face. “This lady right here wants to make sure I have proper consent, so – you wanna go in the back and bump uglies?”

  “Hell yeah!” she squealed in an incredibly annoying high-pitched voice.

  “Sounds like consent to me! See ya, Monica!” Vic said as he turned around and walked away.

  I stood there and watched him disappear into the main cabin. I felt angry, annoyed, disgusted – and, though I didn’t understand it or even want to admit it… maybe the tiniest bit…

  …jealous?

  EW.

  NO.

  Not in this world possible.

  I looked around at the sea of naked flesh around me, bumping and gyrating in an alcoholic haze, and wondered, What the hell did I get m
yself into?

  I turned around and looked at the bar. One of the bartenders looked over and raised her eyebrow like, Well?

  If I was going to have to deal with all this crap… then fuck it.

  “Gimme a bourbon on the rocks,” I ordered, then added, “Best you’ve got.”

  If Vic Cortelian was going to drive me to drink, at least it would be the good stuff.

  7

  Vic

  Back in the master bedroom, I was having a little problem.

  One I’ve never, EVER had before, swear to God.

  …I couldn’t get hard.

  (I swear, it’s never happened before. Seriously. NEVER.)

  I was still dressed. The chick wasn’t, but I was.

  She was hot, there was no denying that… and she was incredibly enthusiastic. She was manhandling the front of my shorts like a pro as we made out.

  But I wasn’t getting hard.

  I just… I wasn’t into it.

  I’d basically only brought her back here to piss off Monica.

  Monica…

  Even as I went through the motions with the blonde, my thoughts strayed to Monica… to that skirt she was wearing… those killer legs… her bangs… those full lips… that tough-as-nails scowl…

  Suddenly the Guy Downstairs sprang to life, rarin’ to go.

  What the fuck?!

  “There we go,” the blonde chick giggled. “I was starting to worry you weren’t that into me.”

  “Oh, I’m into you,” I sorta lied, and we started making out again.

  As soon as I stopped thinking of Monica, though – near-instant deflation. Ramrod to quarter-chub in five seconds flat.

  WHAT THE FUCK?!

  The blonde was almost as confused as I was. “What’s wrong?”

  “I… uh… I’m not sure…”

  The chick put on a little pouty face. “Don’t you like me?”

  As much as any other drunk model. “What’s not to like?”

  She smiled and giggled again, then started tugging my shorts down. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

  I couldn’t tell you why, but something just seemed… not right. I was seriously uncomfortable for some strange reason.

  I pulled the blonde’s hands away gently. “Uh – wait – what’s your name?”