Nobody's Girl: A Billionaire Romance Novel

by Michelle Love

  “If you ask me, then I’d say he could use some pencils and legal pads. He seems to think a lot. Maybe he could write down some of those things he’s thinking about.” The guard’s meaty hand clasps down on my father’s narrow shoulder. “He has a lot going on inside of him. I look after him. He’s got a lot weighing on him. My heart aches for him sometimes. A look can come over him that’s heartbreaking.”

  “Are you aware of why he’s here?” I ask the tall, muscular man who seems to have a case of empathy for the killer who sits in front of me.

  “I am.” He clears his throat, making me look at him, instead of the shell my father has become. “People do all kinds of crazy things we don’t all understand. This man is your father, you share blood, DNA, and history. You both love the same people. The rivers that connect you two run deep.”

  “You make it sound romantic, a thing it’s not.” I look back at my father who sits, stoically. “I don’t know the man who’s sitting in front of me. He’s not the man I took to the airport that day, a couple of years ago. He’s a stranger to me now.”

  “That man who you knew is still inside of that body. Why not talk to him like you used to? Why not see if you can help him regain who he once was?” The guard steps back a few steps. “Ignore me, young man. Visit with your father.”

  “So, you’re looking nothing like yourself,” I say as I look my father over and see only the slightest resemblance of the man I once knew. The man I trusted. The man who broke me. “And you’re a hell of a lot quieter than you were. I remember when I would come in late, after drinking and chasing women when I was far too young to be doing it. Boy, you’d lay into my ass, shouting, cursing, threatening to take my car away.”

  I stop and wait to see if his expression will change. I want to see if anything changes in him. If the sound of my voice sparks something. If my reminder of how things were plunges his soul so he can tell me why he did what he did. Or maybe tell me he didn’t do anything.

  Darkness is building inside me once more as my father says nothing, and I’m losing my grip. Shaking my head to push the anger back down, I find a lump lodged in my throat.

  He moves a little, and I look at him. His eyes are on me, and a single tear falls down his cheek. I can’t take it anymore. Fury fills me as that tear trails down his wrinkled cheek. How could he do this to me?

  Fighting myself not to jump up and grab the man by his throat and end his useless life, I get up and walk away. I will not allow myself to feel sorry for the man.

  My mother is dead. He won’t let us know what the fuck happened. He isn’t the one I want to feel sorry for. He is to blame. Mom’s death is on his shoulders. That’s it, end of story.

  I make it five steps before I stop. Turning around, I see my father getting up and walking to the guard, a man who looks at me with conviction in his brown eyes.

  He holds my eyes as if by magic. I can’t look away even if I want to. I know it, and he knows it. “Wait.” The guard puts his hand on my father’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk to him anymore, Mr. Jamison?”

  Without turning back to even look at me, one last time, my father shakes his head and walks away from me. The guard turns to go with my dad.

  I’m shaking with all kinds of emotions when I turn to leave. The man I knew is gone. I can’t see him ever coming back, and I don’t know if I can accept him if he does return to normal.

  Walking to the parking lot, I open the door to my Jag, and on the front seat, there’s a brand new box of pencils. Under that is a legal pad of yellow paper. I bought them to jot down notes when I think of things that might be interesting for the new club.

  The only thing on the pad of paper is the sketch I drew of a castle. I leave it on top and take the things back to the prison then leave them with a guard and ask if they could be taken to my father.

  I leave once more, feeling empty and numb. Hating my father and the whole damn world too.

  Nothing makes any sense to me. My parents loved each other. How can a man who loves a woman take her life?

  Will I ever understand it?

  Chapter 9

  Jack

  We weren’t sure if the cuffs were magic or what, but after a month of messing around with them and a few other fun items, Daphne told me she missed her period. We let one more month come around, and when she missed that one too, we headed to the doctor.

  Sure enough, she was pregnant, and we were on top of the world.

  The months moved by like molasses, but finally, a stormy night came, and we welcomed our first child to the world. A son. We named him Grant John Jamison, and he looked a lot like his mother. Dark blue eyes peered up at me when I’d go get him out of his baby crib every morning.

  He and I would spend the mornings together while his momma made breakfast then take a shower while I ate and talked to Grant like he was a man already.

  He’d sit in his high chair, I’d spoon eggs into his waiting mouth. I could make him laugh just by making a silly face. He could make me smile just by seeing his adorable face.

  Daphne and I were happy. Happier than either of us knew was possible. Grant was the missing piece of our family. We both knew that.

  We’d have been happy to have only him. But we kept being blessed with more children. It was funny in a way. Daphne kept getting pregnant until each bedroom had been filled. Then she couldn’t have anymore.

  It’s weird how things happen.

  Grant was the best big brother in the entire world. He was our little man. Looking after the younger kids was like second nature to him. We didn’t have to ask him to do it, he just took it upon himself to help out.

  No one could ask for a better son. Not that I or Daphne would. We were quite happy with every one of our kids.

  Did they all test our patience at one time or another? Of course.

  Grant went through a stage when he was sixteen and had just gotten his driver’s license. I thought he’d been replaced by an alien. The young man had turned into a crazy person.

  Chasing women, drinking, smoking whatever he could find to smoke. Grant was on the fast track to Trouble Town. And I had to figure out a way to get through to him that life wasn’t going to be easy if he took that route.

  A few groundings, along with selling the car I’d given him on his sixteenth birthday, had him staying home more and helping his mother and me with daily chores. It took a few months to get him back on track, but we did it. Together, Daphne and I could accomplish most anything.

  Grant went on to college, graduated at the top of his class with a business degree and got a job with a real estate company, in the marketing department.

  He just kept on succeeding. From that job, he was promoted to the head of marketing, then he was offered a job at another company, one that handled the air.

  It didn’t make sense at all to me at that time. Who owned air?

  But someone did own the air and sold it to companies who used it so we could have cell phones. And there was my oldest son, right at the forefront of all that technology. To say I was proud just doesn’t do it justice.

  Grant was working his ass off, and all that work paid off for him. He moved up and up until he was offered the CEO position at American Cellular, Incorporated. And with that position, he was given stock in the company and quickly became a billionaire.

  The first thing he did was offer to buy his mother and me a new home. We didn’t accept that offer, though. Our home was a part of us. It was the first thing we’d bought together. It was where we brought our babies home to and where we raised them all.

  No, we didn’t want a mansion like the one he’d bought for himself. That was his legacy that came from his hard work. We were damn proud of him but had no want to ride on his shirt tails. That wouldn’t be right, in my opinion. No matter how rich he was, I would always provide for Daphne and myself and our other kids. At least until they were old enough to take care of themselves.

  When we had Grant take us to the airport that day, it was d
ifficult to say goodbye to him. Daphne had a dinner party the night before we left. The other kids were there, Grant couldn’t make it.

  Our original plan was to take a taxi to the airport. But we hadn’t gotten to tell our oldest son goodbye. Daphne called him that morning and asked if he could take a couple of hours to take us. He agreed, and we got to say our goodbyes.

  I knew it would be the last time either of us got to say anything to him. I tried to think of the best things to say to all of our kids. But I just couldn’t think of any last words to say.

  Maybe that’s because somewhere deep inside of me, I knew I’d be coming back home. I knew Daphne so well. Our plan had been to die together, but deep down, I must’ve known she’d never allow that. And she must’ve thought if I was the one to cut her wrist then I’d become a murderer.

  The days came and went, once I got back to Oregon and began serving my life sentence. My oldest son came and saw me only once. I couldn’t tell if it had been a day or a hundred years since I had seen him.

  He looked different, older, sadder, wiser, and he looked like he hated me. I’d take it. I’d accept his hatred. To keep his mother’s secret, I’d take all the hate him, and all of my children might hurl at me.

  For Daphne, I’d do anything. That included accepting the responsibility of her death. She lay in the cemetery near our home, her body at peace and her soul in Heaven. I knew that only because our daughter, Jenny had written to tell me that.

  I knew Daphne was watching over us all. Things must’ve been the way she wanted them to be. Thanks to my confession about cutting her wrist, there’d been no autopsy. A thing that would’ve found the cancer that would’ve taken her life, albeit much more slowly and painfully.

  It was all for the best. I was fine, all alone in the confines of my cell. Our children were fine on their own in the world. Grant was making sure of that. At least I thought he was.

  Grant looked different, but he had to be the man he was when we left him. No one changes that drastically from trauma. Do they?

  Chapter 10

  Grant

  “You have a call on line one, Mr. Jamison,” my secretary tells me over the intercom.

  Pushing my hand through my hair, I sigh as I pick up the phone. “Grant Jamison here.”

  “Hi, Grant, it’s me, Jake.”

  With a huff, I hang the phone up. My brother and sisters can all go to hell for all I care. They all have one thing in common. They all think our mother had more to do with her death than anyone knows about.

  With seeing my father, I know he would’ve talked to me if he was innocent. He and I had been closer than he was to any of my siblings. I have the money to get him a barrage of lawyers and a trial. All he had to do was open his mouth and tell me he was innocent. But he’d kept his mouth shut. And the tear that he’d let fall free told me he’d done it. He killed the woman he loved.

  There is nothing I want to hear from my brother and sisters. They are as dead to me as our mother and father are.

  I have other things to take my mind off my family. Things I can escape to when the nagging thoughts try to fill my head. Thoughts about my younger brother and sisters and how things are going in their lives. Thoughts about my poor mother, wondering if she suffered when she died. Thoughts about my father and if he’ll actually burn in hell for what he’s done to us.

  Recently, my brother and sisters have gotten this idea that we should have our dead mother’s body exhumed and autopsied. Of course none of them can pay for all that, hence why they’re bothering me about it. I see no use in doing that. It’s obvious to everyone how she died, why do even more to her body?

  My eyes go to the phone that’s sitting on top of my mahogany desk top. Jake’s call is bothering me for some reason. Maybe I shouldn’t have hung up on him.

  There are those pesky thoughts again. Time to get rid of them. Picking up the phone once more, I made a call that would end them, at least for a while. “Isabel, meet me at home please.”

  “Yes, Master. I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good girl.” I hang up the phone and head out to do something to take my mind away from all that I can’t control.

  Isabel Sanchez is our first hired employee, and I’m the man in charge of training her. The other owners of The Dungeon of Decorum will be taking on the training of the various men and women they hire to become trainers themselves.

  Isabel has something about her that attracted me right from the start. I want to train her myself. She’ll be more than just a trainer though. Young, still in college, and ready to try anything, she’s perfect for the job of managing new memberships.

  She’ll be the first person anyone who comes to the club will interact with. Isabel will need to be highly informed about what kinds of things will happen in the club that’s only months away from opening.

  We already have a bunch of men who want memberships. In order to keep our clientele above average, the yearly dues to join the club are a bit on the outrageous side. But we don’t want to worry about riff raff. Men of great wealth live by another set of rules anyway.

  Consideration seems to be breed into most men with a knack for making money. Most are ready to help others who have money-making ideas by not only investing in the idea but helping the goal see the light of day. And when it comes to stepping on toes, they tend to tread lightly.

  Most of them do, anyway.

  Isabel and I will work out the kinks. She’ll set up auctions where willing women will come to the club so our members can bid on them. For a certain length of time they’ll get a contract, binding the woman to them and the woman will win by getting the majority of the money the man pays for her. It’s a win-win.

  Since we’ll just be starting out, we need a woman other women can talk to about what will be expected of them. Isabel needs to experience the acts, not just read about them.

  I’ve made a room in my home to help educate her. It’s equipped with everything we’ll be supplying in the private rooms at the club. The entire room is a prototype for what we’re doing in the club.

  Coming into my playroom, I find Isabel kneeling near the door. As instructed by me when we first started out, she’s fashioned her hair in one long braid that hangs down her back. Her dark hair shines as she bows her head, waiting for further instruction.

  I’ve given her a leather corset to wear and nothing else. She’s been given reading material that I expect her to add to when making a manual for our new members and submissives.

  She has a lot on her narrow shoulders, but she’s being paid a lot to do it. I’ve told her about the way the BDSM lifestyle is practiced. Love isn’t a part of any of it. We will exchange power, nothing more than that. And honesty is the top priority. Both parties have to be honest, or things won’t work to benefit either party.

  I want Isabel to be the best sub in the whole club. I want her to be what other women strive to be. It’s going to take extensive training to make that happen. And she said she’s ready to learn.

  Walking past her, I take in the smell of leather that hangs in the air. “Get up, Sub.”

  She rises but keeps her deep brown eyes down. “Yes, Master.”

  “Good girl.” I take her by the chin to make her look at me. “We will start with the rack.” I point to the wooden device where her head and hands will be locked between pieces of wood. She will have to bend over to put them in there, then it’ll be locked so she can’t escape.

  Walking over to the rack, Isabel waits for me to put her in the medieval device. Pulling the top bar up, I gesture for her to position her head and hands accordingly. One sigh comes out of her as she looks at it then at me. “And the safeword is red?”

  I give her one curt nod. “It is.”

  Closing her eyes, she bends over, and I lay the wooden bar over her head and hands, trapping them, then I tick the lock shut on the end of the two pieces. “Comfy?” I joke with her.

  “Not one bit,” she replies. “But I don’t think it�
��s supposed to be.”

  “No, it’s not.” I walk around behind her and grab her ass with both hands. “And you’re very exposed to anything I want to do with this fine ass you have. I could spank you, flog you, paddle you, or simply fuck you.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” she asks then laughs a bit. “Sorry, I’m not taking this very seriously, am I?”

  “I think you and I can have a bit of fun with it. As long as you learn and are able to relay information about this type of thing is what’s important. You aren’t my actual sub.”

  “Are you going to get one?” she asks, making me wonder if I will.

  “There’s going to be a bevy of beauties strolling through the club, why would I settle into a one on one with anyone?” I cock my head to the side as I look at her round ass, trying to decide what I want to do with it.

  I’ve never had an ass just waiting there for me to do anything I want to it. It’s odd, really. I can literally do anything at all to her. She’s helpless to stop me. And we are in my home, not at the club where there would be people to hear her scream.

  It suddenly occurs to me that she’s put herself at great risk. “I should bring this up, since it came to my mind, Isabel. You shouldn’t do this with anyone, outside the safety of the club. It’s dangerous, you know?”

  Her voice is sweet, reverent, sincere, “Thank you, Master for looking out for my wellbeing, it’s appreciated.”

  Walking over to the table with the assortment of devices on it, I pick up the paddle. I haven’t had much practice at this sort of thing, I’m in the learning stage. But so far what I have done, does it for me. It takes away all thoughts of anything other than what I’m doing.

  I walk back to her and smack her on the left butt cheek with the paddle. It makes a thudding sound and I notice she didn’t flinch at all. “Did that hurt?”

  “Not really. Hit me harder.”

  I gave her another smack, a bit harder and she yelps. “That one smarted, didn’t it?”