The Billionaire and The Virgin

by Bella Love-Wins

  Trevor glances at me from over the top of his book, and I nod. He exaggerates slapping the book shut, which is the signal for the others to get themselves ready.

  I get to my feet. Everything moves quickly from that point on.

  The twelve of us rush toward the build entrance. Before the security guards know what’s happening, Steve threads a thick, heavy duty chain through the handles of the doors, and secures it with a padlock. Trevor moves through the revolving door. He places a wedge opposite to its turning direction to stop it. Jeannie uses the black spray paint to write the word ‘murder’ across the glass in large capital letters.

  The security guards inside fight against the chain and the blocker revolving door, but of course, the doors won’t budge. One of them grabs his radio, which tells me we need to work fast. There must be guards at the other exits. They’ll be here soon enough.

  I give Steve the nod and he pulls out the longer chain, he tucks it in the through the other locked chain at the door, and loops it through each of our waist harnesses. He locks it down tight and I smile. We’re even positioned in the right order so every other person has a placard with our prewritten messaging. The guys at Kinkos will be happy to see he did a good job with these, even if he did think I was nuts when I put in the print order.

  Each poster is also written on a full color background, each with oversized images of the sort of environmental destruction that Alexander Industries has been perpetrating for years. Animals covered in oil. Once-lush forests reduced to paths for pipelines. Sandy beaches studded with massive tar balls. Post-fracking wastelands.

  Pulling the megaphone from my backpack, I clear my throat, and begin to speak. I deliver my fifteen-second soundbite, pause for thirty second, and repeat. An afternoon crowd starts to assemble. Many are carrying gift-wrapped boxes and colorful shopping bags. They probably work in the area and took an extended lunch to do some last minute Christmas shopping. We’re just in time for the crews that get deployed to find content for the six o’clock news.

  “Alexander Industries has been fined hundreds of millions of dollars for their environmentally irresponsible behavior, and they won’t stop. We have a message for this polluting giant. Stop sacrificing the natural landscape and wildlife in the name of greed. Citizens of the planet, help us preserve what we can for our great grandchildren. Give your future generations a Merry Christmas. Stop Alexander Industries!”

  Uniformed security guards come running over to us from both sides of the building.

  One man stops in front of me. “The police are on their way,” he shouts, trying to intimidate me.

  Like I’m supposed to be surprised that they’d call in the cavalry.

  I lift my bullhorn to his face and repeat my spiel. He doesn’t like that too much. He tries to yank the megaphone from my hand. At least three or four dozen people are gathered around now, and more are approaching by the minute. Some cheer, some shout profanity, and others just stand and watch, waiting to see if anything escalates. They are the ones with smartphones raised in the air, capturing the action.

  I didn’t expect this guard to try and pry the megaphone from my hands, but I’m not too disappointed at the optics of this big, ripped man imposing his will on the little, seemingly innocent redhead. The bullhorn falls out of my hands when the guard gets tired of trying and pushes me to the ground out of frustration. My tailbone hits the concrete. My fall brings down the entire group in one cascading wave of human dominoes. I yowl in pain but inside, I’m doing cartwheels. It’s going better than I thought, thanks to Biff the Rent-a-Cop.

  Too bad someone has the police on speed-dial. Either that, or crime in Manhattan is at an all-time low and the men in blue just don’t have anything else to do this afternoon. Four cruisers and a prisoner transport van roll up. The supportive section of the crowd boos as the cops push their way through to us. One man with them—I presume he’s a serviceman and not a cop—quickly uses a pair of bolt cutters to remove the chain on the doors. More booing and jeers erupt.

  Several cops push the onlookers aside, ordering them to disperse. The guy with the bolt cutters begins to work on our chains. An officer reaches down and helps me to my feet. He could have been rougher, but I’m satisfied that we made our point in the eight or nine minutes of airtime we’re given.

  I’m carted off down the steps to the paddy wagon, and almost at the same time, a stretch limousine drives up. For a split second, as the officer motions for me to step up into the back of the van, I’m face to face with him.

  Malcolm Alexander.

  Chapter 3

  Malcolm

  Riley Hampton has no idea who she’s messing with. I look on as the cops help her into the back of the police van. A smile rises up my face. I don’t have to spend a second looking into her file to know this is her first ever arrest. It’s written all over her panicked expression. Reality probably sets in the second they put handcuffs on her wrists and sit her down on the uncomfortable metal bench in the back of that prison transport van.

  The funny part of all this is she made a bad play last night. Her cute little scare tactic only served to prepare me for exactly today’s events. Building security is well staffed, and will be for the foreseeable future. Cameras are documenting everything. We even have the police on standby. So although I was at an afternoon meeting while she and her Columbia U colleagues pulled this stunt, I have no concerns.

  Well, I had no concerns. Past tense.

  Instead of heading inside to my office, I get back into my car and tell the driver to take me home. My phone rings on the drive over. Dear old Dad is slightly miffed by the ordeal. I do my best to reassure him I’m aware of the issue and it’s well in hand.

  “You must not have seen the video,” Dad barks.

  I have not, but I’m well versed on the entire back story that’s led Riley Hampton here. I just make a point of not telling Dad that I’ve been intimate with the little hellcat.

  “I’ll take a look when I’m back in the office tomorrow,” I tell him.

  “No. You’ll take a look now. Check your phone. I’ve sent you the clip.”

  “Fine. I’ll check it now,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Listen, son. I’m making Dustin the point person on this one. He’s got the file. He’ll will liaise with legal until they see it through.”

  “Sure thing, Dad,” I agree, intentionally keeping it short because I have something else in mind.

  My father doesn’t realize that I have the file he’s talking about. Riley’s little ploy last night woke me right up, but I put that time to good use by looking up her family’s name in our corporate database and document archives. The paper file is as big as my forearm, and I reviewed every report, law suit and settlement document to get an idea of what I was up against. Nothing in her family file surprises me. Alexander Industries has fucked up a ton of lives over the past hundred or so years. We keep hundreds of millions in a settlement fund for exactly that reason. It’s the way big business works.

  Armed with what I now know about Riley, a longstanding plan I’ve kept hidden for years can now be implemented. It has been parked, waiting to be set in motion long before she and her awesome gang of yuppies made it to our head office. I just need to be sure no one else in Alexander Industries gets too close. Riley needs a taste of her own medicine.

  “Listen out for a call from Dustin,” Dad says just as my call waiting begins to beep.

  “He’s on the other line. Later, Dad.” I click the end call button and accept Dustin’s call. “Yes?”

  “We have a problem,” Dustin says calmly. He’d better be calm. The man is the company’s most senior advisor, and Dad trusts no one more than him. Sure, the Riley squad is a hiccup, and their timing isn’t great, but their little protest is by no means a reason for panic.

  “I heard. Can you give me some time to get a handle on it before the legal team dives in?” I ask.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Gerald and Barnes are already on their way.
”

  “You’ve already sent senior counsel to deal with something this minor?”

  “It’s not minor, Malcolm. Take a look at the video. Do you have it?”

  “Yes, it’s in my phone.”

  “Look at it. I’ll wait. Keep an eye on the posters in particular. It’ll make sense why I sent the legal aces down to the precinct. Did your father get in touch with you?”

  “Yes. Okay, hang on a minute.”

  I press the home button and quickly navigate to Dad’s email with the link to the video clip. Pressing the play button, I watch. It looks pretty tame to me. Even the minor physical assault on Riley by the overzealous security guard can be easily taken care of with a dismissal, an apology and a small settlement. Dad and Dustin’s reason for panic isn’t clear to me until I catch sight of the five or six posters in the frame. I squint and take a closer look.

  Shit. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but these kids have information on two energy companies we own. These entities still use coal, and are supposed to be arm’s length from Alexander Industries. I only found out about this a few months ago, and have been pressing for Dustin to get the board to take steps to divest the two companies before federal regulators find out and stick us with tens of millions in fines.

  I clear my throat. If Riley Hampton has this information, it may explain why she played me last night. Or it could just be a coincidence that whoever put those posters together just happened to lump Alexander Industries in with those energy industry power players. Either way, I understand why there’s cause for concern, but I’m not ready to panic quite yet.

  “I’m back,” I tell Dustin. “I get it. Listen, can you get Gerald and Barnes to hold out for a couple of days?”

  “Why?”

  “I may have a pre-emptive hand to deal before you pull out the big guns.”

  “I’m not sure. Those posters may be a fluke, but when this video hits the national news, my phone will be ringing off the hook from our associates who have silent interests.”

  “Or maybe you and Dad will hear me out the next time I propose we get with the times and start to operate above board.”

  “It’s water under the bridge, son,” Dustin says. “We’re moving in that direction.”

  “Good. So, do I get my forty-eight hours leeway with the demonstrators, or not?”

  “As long as no one makes the connection before that time, you’ve got it. And Malcolm?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t fuck it up any worse than it already is. I don’t want to run damage control on a bigger situation two days from now.”

  I shake my head. If they had listened to me all along, there wouldn’t be an issue to begin with. “Bye, Dustin,” I say before hanging up.

  My plan is still a go. I can’t wait to see Riley’s face in the morning. Oh yes. She and her amateur college rebels are about to spend an entire night in jail before I give them a way out.

  Payback’s a bitch.

  Chapter 4

  Riley

  It only takes a few hours in jail for me to realize I’m not cut out for it. And I’m forced to stay the entire night.

  From the second we get to the precinct, I know something isn’t quite right. I’m immediately separated from the others. No one processes me or does my fingerprints. I don’t even get to speak to a lawyer or make a phone call. Not that I have a lawyer or anyone to call. My parents would kill me if they were to find out I’m going to such drastic lengths to make Alexander Industries pay. They have warned me time and time again to keep my distance. Mom and Dad signed a confidentiality agreement when they settled with the corporate giant as a result of a chemical spill on a stretch of farmland that has been in my family for over a hundred years. Too bad I’ve always been a bit stubborn and pig-headed. Plus I was a minor when they practically signed their lives away with that waiver document.

  Early the next morning, an officer comes to my cell and tells me to accompany him. Relief washes over me. I follow him out through a different hallway. This corridor takes me directly past a large detention room with a glass window that spans almost one wall, from the ceiling down to about waist height. I stop short. My eleven co-conspirators are all in there, wrists handcuffed, with their arms secured to a long metal bar extending along the length of the table. They all look up as I stop. Crap. This is not two-way mirrored glass. I raise my handcuffed wrists in solidarity. None of them smile. The stares they give me send a chill up my spine.

  Why am I not with them? How long have they been in this room? What have they been told? And where is this officer taking me?

  The cop mumbles for me to keep walking. He leads me to the end of the hall.

  “Back against the wall,” he orders.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask, stepping back until I feel the cool concrete against my prison jumpsuit.

  “These are your things,” the officer informs me as he hands over a large property seizure bag. It has my clothes, backpack, bullhorn, phone, and shoes. Everything that was on my person during the protest—except there’s also one of the posters that one of my colleagues was carrying.

  “Am I being released?”

  He removed my handcuffs and points to a door. “No more questions. Get in there. Change into your street clothes, unless you want to join your friends in the holding room.”

  I want to tell him he’s not following police procedure, but my gut tells me to do what he says. There’s more to it. I won’t find out more if I resist. I nod and step into the room. After spending the night in this orange monstrosity they call prison wear, I can’t get changed fast enough. I stuff everything else into my backpack, throw on my shoes and winter coat, and return to the hallway.

  He takes me through two sets of double doors. The second door opens to a vehicle bay and a ramp to the outside world. I’m so confused, and I’m scared shitless, but I of all people should know not to expect the typical or the everyday. I just poked an insanely powerful corporate bully. Depending on what they think about it, they may shut me up, pay me off, or put me in a corner.

  The officer grips my shoulders firmly. “I’d prefer to keep the handcuffs on, so try not to do anything stupid. Understood?”

  I nod, and he keeps his hand on me as we head over to an unmarked police car. He puts me in the back seat, goes around to the driver side, and within minutes, we’re heading north on Fifth Avenue. My stomach sinks when he parks in front of the same freaking clubhouse where I let Malcolm Alexander have his way with me. Or vice versa.

  The officer opens my door. “Come with me.”

  This police officer should be grateful I’m not in a mouthy mood today. I’ve been itching to rattle off all the ways he’s broken procedure. He can easily be dismissed for bringing me here, maybe even charged. And I still haven’t been fingerprinted. My curiosity is getting the best of me, so I follow him inside and to the doors of a room on the main floor.

  I can’t wait to see who’s on the other side of these doors.

  I’m pretty positive I know who it is, and when I’m led inside, I’m not even remotely afraid anymore.

  The problem is, Malcolm looks just as confident. He sits there, wearing a white button down shirt and dark slacks, relaxing on a plush red couch in a room that looks more like a man-cave than an office. One wall is covered with a giant floor-to-ceiling TV screen. Another has a fireplace, and straight ahead, there’s a fully stocked bar behind the pool table in the center of the room.

  Malcolm should be nervous, anxious, ready to threaten me, or bargain with me, or convince me to sell my soul. Instead, he’s lounging.

  I’m not too sure what to think anymore.

  Chapter 5

  Malcolm

  Riley walks in. I want to kick myself, because it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, and the sight of her knocks the wind out of me. I do my best not to let my jaw hit the floor at this woman’s stunning face. Did I even notice her light brown eyes while she gave me the best head in ages? Pr
obably not, but I pay close attention to them now.

  She steps in past the doors and removes the winter jacket and bulky sweater she had on in the video. She’s in skin-fitting jeans that remind me of the way her long legs wrapped around my waist. The tiny white tank top shows off her delicate, porcelain skin, hugging her full, perky breasts the way they filled my hands. Her tiny waist is on display, and already all I want to do is grab a hold of that very spot and fuck her into a coma. My dick agrees with a slight throb as it expands to fill the space behind my zipper. Yes, it’s best to stay seated until this semi goes down.

  I wonder if she realizes the position she has put herself into as she stands there looking sexier than the last time she was here at the clubhouse. I can’t help but smile. What we did two nights ago will pale in comparison to what she’s in for today. And tonight. And tomorrow morning. By the time I’m done with Riley, she may not be able to walk right, and hopefully, our mutual problems will be solved.

  “Good morning, Miss Hampton,” I greet her. That’s the nicest, kindest, tamest thing she’s going to hear from me for the next thirty or so hours.

  “Why am I here?” she answers me with a question framed in a rough, hard-ass tone of voice as if she’s done time. Maybe that’s from her one night in jail.

  “So you want to get right down to brass tacks, is that it?”

  “Just let me know what the hell you want so I can tell you to go fuck yourself. After that, I’ll be on my way.”

  I point to the armchair close to the fireplace. “Have a seat, sexy.”

  I get my first insight into the effect I must also have on her. Her breath seems to catch in her throat from my invitation.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand,” Riley mumbles in a throaty voice that almost reaches into my pants and strokes my dick.