The Big Billionaire

by Lexi Aurora

  “God, you’re lucky I waited this long to do this.”

  And then his lips are proving the truth of his words, plastering over mine, his tongue continuing the dance, the round and round, the flick and slide, the in and out, the onward rhythm that can’t be stopped—won’t be.

  When Allan picks me up and shoves me onto the table, he rips my pants off all the way so I’m in just my underwear and apron. Allan grabs my chin, speaking right into my face.

  “Turn around.”

  And, the most shocking thing of all, is that I do.

  I turn around and he spanks me, so hard that it resounds around the room, sending the table of tourists into a fit of boisterous applause. At his next ass strike, he grabs my panties and pulls them down. I’m moaning and he’s groaning too, his hands delighting in my bare flesh.

  “Jesus, these curves of yours.”

  My bra is the next to go, flung behind somewhere, gone. I don’t care now. The worst has happened. No longer am I afraid of Allan continuing; now I’m afraid of him stopping.

  He shoves me around again, so my bare back’s on the table and I’m staring up as he engulfs my nipple with his mouth. Oh fuck, does it feel good. As if that wasn’t enough, his hand slides down, giving my other breast a squeeze, then farther down, over my belly, then farther, over my landing strip. Then, his hand’s on my pussy lips, then between them, timing his fingering perfectly to his sucking, in then out, round then round. Now my moans are almost shrieks, and he’s burying his face between my boobs, rocking himself back and forth, motorboating me to ecstasy. When he’s done, he’s gasping, ripping down his own pants, his briefs coming with it. And, just as he presses himself to me, just as I feel how thick and hard he is, just as he shoves himself into me and my whole body explodes into pleasure, he barks.

  We both freeze, then he licks me, barks again. As I stare at him, Popper’s head pops up where his face was. As I scream, I wake up.

  Angel’s in the doorway with a frying pan held high.

  “What the hell?”

  I take one look at Popper’s tongue-wagging face as he stands on my still-clothed body.

  “It was just a dream.”

  Angel lets out a big sigh of relief.

  “I thought it was…” She takes a dubious look at the rusty old frying pan still gripped in her hand, then shakes her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”

  We exchange a glance, then burst out laughing. Angel comes to the edge of my bed and plops down.

  “That must have been some dream—you tossed and turned your whole comforter off.”

  I looked at the fallen, crumpled-up thing on the floor, nodding without saying anything. Nope, that dream is one thing I’m not admitting to—not ever.

  With a heave, I throw myself out of bed.

  “I’m going to go.”

  “What, now?”

  I glance at the clock. It’s only 7 a.m., but I have to get ready and get over there too, after all.

  “Yep—first stop Allan Dane’s office. Dibs on the bathroom.”

  And then I’m in there, having escaped to the shower. In the tall, tiny box, I still manage to revel in the warm droplets and my now certainty. I’m not going to let some twisted erotic dream dissuade me from what I have to do. No, Angel was right. This wasn’t just for myself anymore or even for showing Geno; it was for the people I loved. Angel. Popper. Dad. I owe it to them to at least try, whatever the consequences. Though, as I step out of the shower and stare at my still-flushed face, something tells me that the consequences of what I’m about to do are even more serious than I can imagine.

  Chapter 3

  I’m confident right up until I reach his office building itself. 1200 Main Street. Stopped there, in front of the hundred-foot reflective tower, just looking at it makes my heart feel like it’s falling from the top floor. What in hell was I thinking coming here? Me, with my cute, little cooking app idea—Allan Dane is probably going to laugh me all the way out of this fancy building.

  Still outside, by the doors, in the reflective wall of the building, I glare at my reflection. Me in my try-hard, black pinstripe suit and too-bright red lipstick, just who did I think I was exactly? Martha Stewart?

  I walk in anyway, my hands so tense they feel like they might crack when I touch the revolving door. Ridiculous as this attempt is, I have to try.

  Even now, I can’t get the image out of my head: the snarl-faced nurse shoving the spoon in my dad’s unwilling mouth.

  And that was just one incident. I’ve seen myself how, since I’d been forced to put my dad in there, he’s gone from bad to worse—and he’s now almost completely unresponsive. Yes, Dad isn’t just getting neglected, he’s actually getting mistreated—and the only way I can get him out of there, the only way I can afford to hire a caretaker to help with his illness, is if I can get a break, and an investor for this app. More than that, this app could help people cook themselves, not have to rely on overpriced restaurants for a nice meal. Yes, this app isn’t just about me; I have to at least try.

  I walk across the white marble floors, up to the clear glass elevators. A quick glance at the directory reveals that Allan Dane’s office—AD Enterprises—is on the penthouse floor. Great—I’m afraid of heights and afraid to death of what I’m about to do. A fitting yet terrifying match. The glass box elevator arrives quickly and is nearly empty. Once I get on, it rockets off quickly and smoothly, as if it isn’t ascending what’s apparently forty-seven floors. The farther it rises, the more fearful I feel, my stomach doing flip-flops in the suddenly stuffy-seeming box. All around me, floor after floor falls away, little specks of people flick by, and I ascend to my best chance and worst fear yet.

  At the top floor, the elevator lets out a melodious ding and its doors slide open, revealing an airy oasis of more white and one smiling receptionist. Even she matches, with white-blonde hair, light blue eyes, and an almost-blinding smile that stretches into its full form at the sight of me.

  Tentatively, I make me way up to the massive marble “AD”-labeled desk.

  “Hello, I’m—”

  “Here about the business proposition, correct?”

  Her smile stretches even wider, and I nod. She sweeps her manicured nails over to the left.

  “Last door down the hallway. Mr. Dane has been expecting you.”

  The hallway is short, because, as I soon see, Allan Dane’s office is huge. His door is parted, and as soon as I knock on it, his voice flows through it.

  “Come on in.”

  At the sight of me, he smiles. Somehow, he looks even more handsome than yesterday, and with that cocky half smile of his, I’d swear he knew about my humiliating dream last night too.

  “Please, take a seat.”

  He gestures me to a pair of white leather armchairs near his desk. As I take a seat in one, instead of staying behind his desk, he comes over and sits down on the other.

  I inhale deeply. The air here is cleaner, clearer here, almost as if…

  My gaze upward reveals it: the spread of plants, hanging, snaking around the ceiling pillars from one end of the massive room to the other. A ceiling of plants and a back wall of windows—the whole place is beautifully airy, intimidatingly well-done.

  As I’m entranced by his office, Allan’s alert eyes flick over my body, apparently entranced by me.

  I cross my legs, then switch my leg cross. The app, my business proposition, is what I should mention first, but instead, without thinking, I blurt out, “How did you know?”

  Allan cocks a dark brow.

  “Know what?”

  “That I’d come today. That I’d come at all.”

  A slight smile.

  “I’d like to think that I’m a good read of people.”

  “But yesterday I was more set against coming than I was of coming.”

  Allan shrugs, puts one arm on his armrest, then the other.

  “There’s not many people who can turn down a good opportunity.”

  I put
my arm on the armrest, then freeze, and forbid the other arm from following suit.

  “I don’t know if this is a good opportunity—or a good idea, even. You haven’t even heard my project.”

  A smile flickers over Allan’s face as he nods.

  “You’re right, of course, I haven’t. But the other day I did see, despite your obvious fatigue, that you were driven, which is something I like. It’s hard to find these days, people who really believe in something.”

  Before I can respond, he continues. “And, of course you may be entirely right; this may not be a good idea at all. I’m sure you’ve heard of my less-than-stellar reputation, and lately in particular I’ve been especially… active.”

  It’s strange. As he says the words, his expressionless face almost looks sad.

  “You don’t seem as bad as I’ve heard. And you’ve certainly been polite so far.”

  At my words, Allan shakes his dark head, smiles an ironic half smile.

  “Oh, just give me time…”

  His gaze slides to me, and he chuckles. I feel my heart falling. Maybe this was a mistake, a big, humiliating, horrible mistake. After a minute, he falls silent, shaking his head again.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just…” He lets out another amused chuckle. “I’ve been chatting you up as if we’re old friends, and all this time I never got your name.”

  In spite of myself, I find laughter tumbling out of my lips too.

  “It’s Eva. Eva Lynn.”

  Grinning, he takes my outstretched hand with both his big hands. His handshake is gentle, cool.

  “Allan Dane, as you already know. For better or worse.”

  Leaning back in his armchair, he lets out an approving noise as his eyes slide over my body once again.

  “Yes, Eva, that getup of yours is certainly something. How about you tell me about yourself, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  Fighting the blush making its way onto my face, I inhale, then exhale.

  “As you can probably guess, my project has to do with cooking. A cooking app, in fact. It’s—”

  “Stop right there.”

  My legs tense up so much it feels like they’re fused into one limb of tension.

  Allan Dane waves his hand, shaking his head with a shrug.

  “I said tell me about you, not your project. First I want to know about the creator, then the creation.”

  At my blank look, he continues. “I want to know about you, Eva Lynn. Your hopes, your dreams, everything about you and more.”

  I manage a nervous laugh.

  “Everything’s a whole lot.”

  Allan Dane cocks his head at me.

  “Try me.”

  So, I do.

  “I have a degree from the Institute of Culinary Education, born and raised in New York City. I live with my roommate and best friend, Angel, and our dog, Popper. I… My favorite color is purple.”

  Allan Dane nods at me to go on, still apparently unsatisfied. So, I talk on, finding myself babbling before long, about my work, about Geno. “I’ve worked at Picklebucket for three years now, cooking and teaching cooking classes under Geno. He means well, but as time goes on and my cooking skills improve, he’s becoming more and more possessive. I’ve never been good at working for other people, but this app isn’t about that—about finally being my own boss. It’s about helping people—making fine dining more accessible to all, and helping my people, Angel, Popper, my dad. I know it sounds silly, and it won’t in any way affect your investment, but you asked to know about me, so I’m telling you. If it were just up to me, I wouldn’t be here; I think getting you to back me is a long shot at best, and a humiliating disaster at worst. I’m doing this for my family, my friends, and whoever could benefit from this app, which I think’s a lot. It works by having the user enter a list of ingredients in their home, and then generates a—”

  “Excellent.”

  Now Allan Dane is standing, and I’m reeling.

  “That’s… it?”

  “I know everything I need to.”

  Chapter 4

  He offers me a hand, which I accept, searching his face warily. He only nods, walks over to his office door. Pausing there, he shoots me an impatient look.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Where?”

  Another soft smile, a light chuckle.

  “I like what I’m hearing. There’s just one more thing I need to do to find out if I’m going to go through with the investment.”

  “Which is…”

  Allan offers me his suited arm, which I accept.

  “Why don’t you join me and we’ll find out?”

  It turns out “joining him” entails going through a door in the hallway I didn’t even notice, onto a fire escape outside that leads to the roof. Once I see what’s waiting for us on the gravelly surface, I’m even more confused than before.

  “A helicopter. You need to ride in a helicopter to figure out whether my idea’s worth pursuing.”

  Another one of his infuriating laughs.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  At my murderous glare, Allan lifts up both hands.

  “Whoa, whoa. I was joking, Eva.”

  I say nothing and turn to go. Clearly, I was right about Allan Dane—this is all a joke to him, a funny little distraction from his real work, whatever it is.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “I don’t know what this is to you, but I’m not in the mood to be messed with. You can go on your helicopter and you can go to hell.”

  As I storm off, a strong grip on my arm stops me.

  “Whoa, whoa, Eva. Hang on there.”

  I only struggle for a few seconds before falling still, although I don’t turn to face him.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because we’re riding in that helicopter to a resort with some people who are going to help me make my decision.”

  I feel my tensed-up shoulders sag, and I turn to face him.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  He shrugs, grins his irreverent grin.

  “I like surprises.”

  I pause for half a minute, enjoying what looks like worry passing over his handsome face before, finally, I nod.

  “Okay.”

  He grins.

  “Okay?”

  “Yep, let’s go.”

  So, I take his arm and he leads me up to the helicopter. The interior is more whiteness incarnate, all gleaming leather and blanched-out hardwood.

  We sit down and I take in the beautiful furniture. Following my gaze, Allan snickers.

  “I know, I know. You’re thinking I really like white, aren’t you?”

  With a grin, I nod again.

  “It’s not just that, though. I like transparency, clarity, cleanliness.”

  And it’s funny, this man sitting across from me, lord of the tabloids, king of shady starlets—as he says this, he looks like he’s actually dead serious. He and I both go quiet. It’s not because the whirr of the helicopter blades is too loud, or even because there’s nothing more to say now. It’s because of the view from the window, the sprawling metropolis that’s New York City, all being reduced to one mottled landscape of gray. We are both speechless before its immensity. I find myself wondering which speck Angel is on right now, working her boring-ass waitressing gig at Ivana’s, which speck Dad’s on, sitting in his favorite chair in the recreation room.

  “It never gets old, you know.”

  I glance to Allan. He has a chip bag extended to me, but even as I accept it, he doesn’t look at me.

  “The views like this, the way everything shrinks and expands. The way distance makes everything so orderly and coherent. It’s funny, lots of things I never thought would get old, I’m tired of before long—wild nights, shopping sprees, beautiful women—it all starts to whir together all too fast. But views like this, quiet walks in nature—I could do those for weeks and never get tired of them.”

  Before I can respond, he’s talkin
g some more.

  “I know, stop the press, Allan Dane likes long walks in nature, but it’s true.”

  I giggle.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  His gaze out the window grows sad.

  “That kind of story wouldn’t make it to the front page, anyway. Wouldn’t make it to any pages, really. People, myself included, we’re naturally drawn to the blowups, the disasters.”

  My gaze follows his to the hazy outline of the city that’s growing hazier.

  “Yep, nothing like a good meltdown to distract us for a few seconds.”

  Allan shifts his gaze to me.

  “Speaking of, what would you say if I told you that we were going to reach our destination in five minutes?”

  “Then I’d ask why you gave me this Lay’s bag, and when you were planning on having me eat them.”

  His gaze flicking to the unopened bag, Allan groans.

  “Why do I always do this?”

  His casual question I find strangely upsetting, yet refreshing. I was starting to feel like we were sharing a moment, like I was special. I’d almost forgotten that sitting beside me was Allan Dane, who’d probably had fifty or so women sitting in my exact seat before me, all listening to his tortured soliloquy and privy to his chip generosity.

  Taking it back, Allan tucks the small thing into his interior coat pocket so that the upper part of his jacket is sticking out ridiculously. Turning to me, he assumes a serious expression.

  “Looking good, eh?”

  Catching my eye, we crack up together.

  “Just who exactly are we going to see at this resort?”

  With a tap on the side of his nose, Allan winks.

  “Remember what I said about surprises?”

  I hold his gaze, refusing to let mine grow as merry as his.

  “What if I told you that I hated surprises?”

  “Why?”

  “They never end up good. Not for me, anyway.”

  Images flash through my head: my mom’s casket; the day after my birthday; my dad’s fall and the stranger who got back up; Angel showing up at my door years ago, sobbing, her clothes all ripped and covered in blood… No, surprises had never done me any good.