Beauty and the Billionaire: The Wedding

by Jessica Clare

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Price? My employer won’t be happy about this dowsing—”

  I’ve about had enough of this peckerhead. I step forward, and the man retreats like I’m gonna raise a fist. “You want Boone Price?” I ask him.

  The suit nods, cringing.

  I shove a thumb at my chest. “I’m Boone fucking Price. And if I wanna fucking dowse for oil, I’m gonna dowse for oil. Understand?”

  The man’s mouth drops open. Then shuts. Then opens again. He eyeballs me, then the rods in my hand, as if he doesn’t quite believe it.

  Hell of a day I’m having.

  ***

  By the time we leave the worksite, I’m in a foul mood. Worse than foul. I should go home and shower the West Texas dust off of me, but I can’t stop thinking about the dickface in the suit and how he was such an ass to me. I don’t know why it’s galling me so much, but I can’t get past it. I’m still pissed about it when I climb into my truck and Clay sits in the passenger seat and starts yammering about the day. He’s in a good mood—of course he is. Ain’t nothing that bothers Clay for long. Me, I’m the one that stresses the fuck out over everything.

  And the lack of respect I’m getting right now? It fucking bothers me.

  I tear down the highway, only half-listening to Clay laugh and tell jokes about what the guys said. About what I did today. I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is Bates. Bates sending his little pencil-dick company man to try to get me set up ‘proper’. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m the one that doesn’t have money.

  Like I’m the one that’s the needy party.

  Fuck that shit. I don’t need anyone.

  By the time we get to the outskirts of the city, Clay’s yawning and mentioning beer. I give my brother a narrow eyed look and a nod, then grab my phone off the dashboard. I dial Bates.

  “I’m on the fourteenth hole and I’ve got an hour of daylight left,” he barks into the phone. “This better be important.”

  “It’s Boone,” I say flatly. “Which golf course?”

  “Golf course?” Clay asks, a groan in his voice. He puts a hand on the brim of his cap. “Shit, bro, I just want to get drunk. Can’t we go to the bar?”

  I ignore him, concentrating on Bates’s aggravated words. I catch Silver Birch and something that sounds like Country Club before he hangs up on me. Fine. I fling my phone at Clay. “Type in Silver Birch Country Club and gimme the address.”

  He sighs. “You’re not gonna rest until you get this out of your system, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine.” A moment later, the phone starts to spit out directions in Homer Simpson’s voice, which amuses my brother enough that he shuts up. I follow the directions and a half-hour later, I pull into the parking lot of the country club, right next to some fancy convertible. Clay whistles at the sight of it. “I’ll stay here. You gonna be long?”

  “Not long.” I climb out of the truck, slam the door behind me, and stalk toward the main clubhouse. The sun’s setting right in my eyes and it’s been a long, hot day, half of it spent in the damn car. I’m covered in dust, my throat’s drier than anything, and I want the drink that Clay’s been bitching about for the past half hour.

  But I also can’t let this go. Not until I get it out of my system. That’s how I am. A dog on a bone, my brothers joke, and they ain’t wrong. Once I get fixated on something, I don’t let up until I’m satisfied. And right now? I sure as shit ain’t satisfied.

  A woman hurries up to me. She’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt with a logo and a pair of khaki pants. The smile on her face is not welcoming in the slightest. “Can I help you find something, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a friend,” I tell her, not stopping.

  She trots after me. “I see. Do you have a membership?”

  “No.”

  “I see. I’m afraid we’re not open to the public.”

  I stop and look over at her. She’s got the bright, fake smile on her face that says sorry, but I’m not leaving you alone. “How much for a membership?”

  Her smile remains tight and fake. “It’s not just the price, sir. We rigorously perform background checks on our club members and ensure that only the most prestigious qualify.” She gestures back behind her, indicating I should leave.

  As in, I ain’t gonna cut it.

  Fuck that. I turn and start walking again. All I need is five minutes to talk to my shithead ‘buddy’, Bates. She can just hold her horses.

  The woman starts making squawking noises and follows me a moment longer. When I won’t stop to acknowledge her, I hear her radioing for security. Like I’m a damn criminal. It’s so fucking ridiculous I can’t even find the words.

  I’ve never been on a golf course before, so I don’t rightly know which way to go. There’s a path and so I start to follow it, and as I do, Bates rolls up in a golf cart, a frown on his face. “What are you doing here, Boone?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Got a few things to say to you.”

  “All right.” He gets out of the cart and turns to look at the men sitting beside him. “I’ll join you boys in the locker room shortly.”

  They give me disgusted looks—ironic considering they’re all wearing pink shirts—and then drive off. Like I’m some sorta cockroach that crawled onto the greens. Fuck them, too.

  Bates pulls at the leather gloves on his hands, a slight frown on his face. He eyes me up and down, from my cap to the dust on my work boots. “Did you just come straight from the site?”

  “I did. Some of us like to work,” I drawl.

  “I’m working,” he protests. “Networking is a very important part of being a good business-owner.” The look he gives me is cool. “It’s something you might want to consider in the future.”

  “You’re giving me tips on how to run a business?” I bark a harsh laugh. “That’s rich, given that you came crawling to me asking for my help because you need a producing well instead of the dry holes you got right now.”

  The look on Bates’s smug face grows alarmed. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses and leans in. “What the hell is this about, Price? Why’d you come storming here?”

  “I came here because your asshole suit showed up on site and I want to know why.”

  He tilts his head and stares at me like I’ve gone crazy. “What do you mean, you want to know why?”

  “Just what I said. I want to know why.”

  Bates sputters. “He’s one of my executives and the overseer of this particular project. He’s there because he’s got my company’s best interests in mind—”

  “Because you think I’m gonna screw you?” I snarl. “You came crawlin’ ta me.” I slam a hand against my chest. “This is a favor I’m doin’ you. Why would you need to be protected from that?”

  “It’s procedure—”

  “Fuck procedure!”

  He casts another horrified look around us. “Keep your voice down, Boone. This is a gentleman’s club.”

  Am I not being gentlemanly enough for him? Too damn bad. I glance around and sure enough, there are several groups of people staring at us, including the employee that tried to stop me from coming in. All of them have shocked looks of distaste on their faces as they gaze in my direction. You’d think I took a dump on the green right in front of them or something. “I’m pissed at you, Bates, because you didn’t trust me and sent that insulting shithead over just to piss me off.”

  He looks concerned, now, reaching out to take my arm and steer me away from the others. I jerk away from him, but head in the direction he’s going, because I want answers. “Insulting? Did he say something to you?”

  “He acted like I was one of the hands. Zero respect for me or the business. Thought dowsing was a shit idea and tried to tell me how to run things.”

  Bates only r
ubs his chin. “I can understand having a difference of opinion, and he’s a corporate guy. Of course he doesn’t understand dowsing.” The look he gives me is a bit condescending. “And as for one of the hands . . . well, look at you, Boone.”

  My brow goes up. “The fuck you say?”

  “Listen to how you act. Talk. Simmons is used to dealing with men in a boardroom. I told him he was going to speak to Mr. Price, the head of Price Brothers Oil, and he was expecting . . .” He shrugs, a gosh-shucks look on his fucking face.

  “A suit?” I ask drily.

  “Something like that, yeah.” He chuckles. “Of course he thought you were one of the hands. You still look and act like one.”

  Do I, now? “I got a hand for you,” I tell him and shove my middle finger in his face. “You want a partnership? Take your fucking hand and shove it up your fucking ass, you cocksucker.”

  The people standing nearby gasp audibly, loud enough for me to hear. It only pisses me off, more. I’m tired of these hoity toity assholes sticking their noses up when I’m around. I’m just as good as them. Hell, I’m fucking better because I can buy all of them. I turn and shoot them all the bird, too.

  “Boone, be reasonable,” Bates begins.

  I ignore him. I’ve had enough of his shit. I storm away, ignoring the golf course employees that trail after me like I’m going to start attacking people. It’s fucking ridiculous.

  I’ve got half a mind to buy myself a golf course and burn the motherfucker to the ground.

  Hours Later

  “And then,” Clay yells out over the jukebox wailing in the corner. “When the guy pulls out his contracts and shoves ’em in Boone’s face, Boone throws ’em on the ground and pisses all over them!”

  Gage, Knox, and Seth howl with laughter. Clay pounds a fist on the table, throwing his head back and guffawing with the others.

  “Yuk it up,” I say flatly, swigging the last of my beer. I’m still in a foul mood. Something about being insulted by a dick in a suit that thinks he’s better than me? It gets to me, every time. At least Clay’s only got this morning’s story to tell—I’m still smarting over Bates and the whole golf course bullshit. That one, Clay ain’t gonna pry out of me. Let them laugh at the way I put a suit into place. I’m fine with that.

  The Bates shit? I am definitely not fine with.

  “You pulled your dick out and pissed on his papers?” Gage chuckles and raises a hand for me to high-five.

  I only scowl at him. “I was angry.”

  Still am.

  “You know Big Brother here hates it when people don’t take him seriously.” Clay reaches over and tries to grab my cap, but I grab his wrist before he can touch it. That just makes our three younger brothers laugh even harder. Gage smacks the table again, and his beer spills everywhere.

  “I’m glad someone can laugh about today,” I say sourly, staring into my beer. He looks just like one of the hands. Look at you, Boone. Of course he didn’t think you were the boss. My hand tightens on the mug. “Waste of fucking time if you ask me. Land was dry, too. Not a hint of oil.”

  “Zero? That sucks,” Knox says, tossing napkins down on Gage’s spilled beer while Seth flags down a waitress. The trucker bar we’re drinking at is crowded, and all of our drinks are nearly dry. No one’s hovering over us to make sure that the Price Brothers—all billionaires—get cold, fresh drinks.

  Funny how I’m okay with that here, and not out in the field. Maybe because here, we’re all anonymous wallets. Out in the business world, I should be top dog, and instead, everyone fucking acts like I’m some sort of criminal that just waltzed in. Like I don’t belong. I could buy every damn oil rig in West Texas and everyone would still turn their noses up like I’m some sort of idiot. It’s bullshit and I’m damn sick of it.

  I think of that golf course and the jackasses in their pink shirts, giving me horrified looks. Like I dared to show up on their turf.

  Their turf. I could fucking buy their turf and fucking salt it and they’d never grow another blade of grass there again. I could turn it into a fucking pig farm.

  “You’re still pissed,” Gage realizes, sobering.

  “I am.” I drain the last of my lukewarm beer and put the empty glass at the end of the table.

  “I don’t get why it’s such a big deal,” Gage says.

  “Because we’re rich. We’re good with our money. And people that should respect us treat us like we’re fucking ticks on a dog’s ass.”

  Clay just snorts. “Worse n’ that.”

  He’s not helping.

  “So we’re trash,” Gage chimes in. “So what’s the big deal? We might as well own it.” He grins and rips one sleeve off of his t-shirt, then the other. Knox hoots with laughter, clapping him on the shoulder. Clay just rolls his eyes.

  “Because it should matter. We should matter. I want respect.” I think of all the assholes in my life that did me dirty, and it burns in my gut. I’ve worked hard to get to where we’re at today, harder than most men. I want the assholes that sit down with me in boardrooms and out in the field to realize I know what I’m talking about. That I’m not just a dumb roughneck that struck it rich. That I took that money and turned it into an empire in less than two years.

  Maybe that makes me an arrogant prick, but I don’t fucking care. I want people to tremble when they see me. I want those pencil-dicks in suits to quail when I arrive, not turn their noses up at me. I want them to know who’s in charge.

  “It’s all image, brother,” Seth says, returning with the waitress. She’s pretty, with brassy blonde hair and tits that are overflowing her too-tight shirt. She smiles at me but I just nudge my glass in her direction. Ain’t got time for waitresses. Those don’t get a man respect, especially not this one. We come to this bar regularly and I’ve seen her sneak into the back with more than one trucker. If she wants a good time, she ain’t getting it from me.

  “You’re one to talk,” Clay calls out, and mockingly runs his hands through his hair. “Oh, look at me, I’m Seth and I’m using product.”

  Our entire table bursts into laughter, and I even crack a smile. Seth comes around the edge of the table and puts Clay in a headlock, smirking. Clay just grabs at Seth’s shirt and tries to haul our littlest brother over his shoulder before he gets choked out.

  The waitress ignores our roughhousing and switches the beers out. She casts me one last heated look before giving up and returning to the bar.

  “I’m right, though,” Seth says to me, even though Clay’s got the flat of one hand in his face. “It’s image. S’all fuckin’ image, bro. Why do you think those dumbasses wear suits everywhere?”

  I shrug, but I’m pondering his words. He ain’t wrong. “I’m not cutting my beard.”

  “No one’s saying you gotta cut your beard, Boone,” Knox comments, taking a swig of his beer and then swapping it with Seth’s full glass. “Just, you know. Class it up.”

  I grunt. “I don’t even know how.” I am who I am, and if the world doesn’t like it, they can suck my dick.

  “Get yourself a big house.”

  “I got a house.” Well. Sorta. I got a trailer. But I also don’t have a family and I work a lot, so a house isn’t big on the priority list. But maybe Knox is right.

  “Get a bigger one. Big car. A classy lady.” Gage wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Spend some of that money you hold onto so tightly.”

  “You mean like you?” I drawl. Gage loves to live the good life. He takes his buddies on vacations, buys them cars, and has an endless cycle of new female friends in his life. Maybe he’s right, though. It ain’t me, but . . . maybe I need to change. Maybe I need to start throwing my money around if I want people to respect me instead of look at me like I’m some dumbass hillbilly.

  “Nah, my lady friends aren’t quite to the caliber you need,” Gage replies. He picks up the advertisement card at
the end of our table and holds it out. “Like this one, here. She looks like a classy broad.”

  I take the advertisement from him and study it. We come in here every weekend, usually after a long drive out from Odessa, and I’ve never once noticed the pamphlets they litter the ends of the tables with. This one’s bland and boring, for the most part. It’s a picture of three men and a slender, pale blonde standing at their side. Three Jacks Real Estate. San Antonio’s Premiere Living Experts. The guys in suits don’t interest me, but the woman does. She’s wearing a cream colored suit with a tapered skirt, and it makes her legs look fucking amazing. She’s tiny, but those legs look like they go on for miles. I like a girl with long legs, so they can wrap around me when I fuck her.

  I’m a simple man.

  The rest of her’s pretty nice, if a little preppy and stiff. Her tits are decent sized, which means small enough to not be fake. Her hair’s a soft, smooth gold pulled back into a ponytail, and her face is real dainty with a pointy little chin and big eyes. She’s wearing a strand of pearls at her neck, and no other jewelry. She’s not flashy, but from top to bottom? She looks classy.

  And I wonder what she’d look like with her mouth on my dick, my hand on that ponytail of hers.

  Like I said, I’m a simple man.

  I study the picture for a while longer, then glance over at Knox. “You know these people?”

  He shakes his head and carefully switches his half-empty glass with Gage’s full one when Gage is eyeing a piece of tail by the bar. Knox is a sneaky bastard, but that’s par for the course. “Saw the flyers, that’s all. But she looks like a lady to me.”

  I gaze at the picture, scratching at my jaw. That she does. From the lines of her elegant skirted suit to the smooth fall of her hair—even to them small tits—she screams class. And while I usually don’t have time to pursue a woman—business is the only relationship I’m in—I have to admit she appeals to my animal instincts. Maybe it’s that sweet, gentle smile on her face or the perfection of her appearance. Maybe it’s those legs. Either way, I picture her in my bed, rumpled from a good round of fucking . . . and I’m interested.