Wicked Sunshine
A Rush Enterprises Novel
By Justine Winter
Copyright © 2015 by Justine Winter
All Rights Reserved
Published by Justine Winter
This is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, except for those in the public domain. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers.
Formatted by IndieMobi.
Wicked Sunshine
A Rush Enterprises Novel
Billionaire. Philanthropist. Manwhore.
Grayson Rush is a title sandwich that everyone’s trying to snack on, but when it comes to women he has rules that he’s been implementing for the past eight years of his twenty-seven year-old life.
1. Condoms are sacred.
2. Never hook up with an employee.
3. No double dipping.
He likes his women fresh and their names forgotten, thrown in the bin along with their dignity. He’ll profess to being a deity of sex, that his precious Excalibur is the source of all gratification. And the media will attest to that. Satisfaction is his specialty. Pleasure is his mission.
But like all great heroes of history’s legends, he claims a weakness resonates in his rickety, tattered heart. The premise of more is his Kryptonite. The word alone invokes an instant BD: Boner Destroyer.
Why is it, then, when smart-mouthed, twenty-three year-old Maya Kennedy comes waltzing in his office, pitching her creative designer services, that he’s suddenly eager to rebel against his own foundations?
When his wise younger sister, and best friend conspire against him, he realises that chasing Maya might be just what he needs despite his reservations on romance. Love is a bitch, and her name is Sabrina.
Stepping out of his cob-webbed past, he’s determined to keep the dust from tainting his future.
Can a womanizing Manwhore change his ways, or is Gentleman a title too unattainable?
Wicked Sunshine
A Rush Enterprises Novel
By Justine Winter
For keeping high spirits through the shit storm of late.
This is for you, Mum.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Author's Note
Titles by Justine Winter
About the Author
Chapter One
~ £ ~
Fucking. It’s one of two things I just so happen to be phenomenal at. Doubt me? Then ask the blonde I’ve got bouncing on my cock. Yeah, she’s riding me like she’s desperate to win first place at a rodeo, clinging on for life even as I buck beneath her. She’s loving it, moaning my name as she comes hard. And it gets me off. Every. Single. Time.
What can I say? I’m a man with needs, and when I want something nothing will stop me from taking it. Why?
Because I’m Grayson Rush. Playboy billionaire. Good looking. Well endowed.
I know, it turns you on just thinking about me, doesn’t it? Bow-chicka-wow-wow. Ladies, calm down, there’s plenty of me to go around.
I’m probably making myself look like an arrogant prick, but I find blatant honesty is always the best way to go. I’m talking about what I know, and when you have an endless line of women desperate to try rocking your world, it’s hard not to succumb to the God-like feeling that you’re a fucking sex genius.
Don’t get me wrong, this way of scoring is lame, easy, damn right boring. I miss the chase of a good lay, but you know what? You don’t get to be a billionaire by spending all day running after women. Time is precious, so if I have to concede to shagging the first beauty that offers herself up, then I’m game to take one for the team. For now, it’s the best of both worlds. My dick stays happy and my mind remains focused.
But even as I pump and dump, it never calms the unsettled turmoil inside my weathered heart. It just distracts me long enough to forget for a few minutes. Until my sperm lays across her stomach, highlighting just how fucking orange her skin is, and I’m reminded once more why I always pull out. Why these women are only good enough to have my squirt in their face and not in their overactive vaginas.
I’m a firm believer that condoms are the holiest of blessings which is ironic considering the church abolishes their use. It’s no wonder those religious nutters are full of rage and hatred, they’re missing out on life’s greatest pleasures. Seriously, why deny yourself what’s readily available? If it isn’t supposed to happen, then means to that end wouldn’t exist. Honestly, think about it. Rubbers are God’s gateway to enjoy the animalistic urges of being human without being punished for such a luxury. It’s natural, it’s practically evolution. Man makes what he needs. And trust me, we need wiener wrappers. My soldier is far too precious to be struck down by some lumpy, pus-filled disease.
For future reference, dress up that snake-eyed wanger before you make a date. We don’t send guys into war zones without protection, this is no different.
“You can leave now,” I say to the blonde, grabbing my towel as an indicator. I’m done.
“That’s it?” Her pencilled eyebrows raise comically, it’s taking everything I have not to laugh at the sight. Seriously, why are women doing this? Is it so you can determine your day’s emotions through the pattern of your brows because your face is filled with too much botox? “No snuggles?”
I’m snorting uncontrollably here, it is not sexy. “Darling, if you want snuggles, go find a teddy bear. Our moment has passed.”
I don’t know what it is, but even after I particularly specify that all this will be is great sex, they still try sticking around, expecting more. I’m not a ‘more’ kind of guy. That’s far too complicated for my young age of twenty-seven. I’m too busy making money to play house.
And if I have a penny for every time I’m getting bitch slapped, even without my billionaire status I’ll be fucking rich. Thinking about it, perhaps I’m a womanizing monster, but it’s what I know, it’s the only way I’m capable of living.
“You sick bastard!” Let’s freeze frame here, shall we? You can see it coming, can’t you? The raise of her hand, the angle of which her palm is going to connect absurdly hard against my cheek. It’s going to sting like a motherfucker as it always does because these women think I’ve done them wrong. Truth is, they don’t listen.
You can think of me as a wounded puppy if it helps get you on my side. You see, I have this problem. I speak my mind without curbing the harshness, but that’s not my fault. The problem lies in how people react to my honesty, they don’t like it. But wouldn’t it be a much better, more simpler world if
everyone spoke what they were thinking instead of saying one thing and meaning another? Seriously, women, I’m looking at you. This game is a head fuck. Don’t expect me to buy you flowers when you tell me you don’t like them, just because you really want me to buy you them so that it seems like an off-the-cuff romantic suggestion. That’s twisted logic. Actually, I’m being really polite here. You’re fucking crazy.
It’s no wonder it seems like us men can never do anything right. You’re telling us all the wrong things. Pay attention, ladies. Revise and revisit this strategy. Men believe what you tell them. Christ, I’m really paying my civic duty today, handing out tips as if they’re free.
Let’s go back to the blonde. She’s given me the best slap she’s capable of, channelling all her silly frustrations into her palm with a whopping smack, and now she’s scurrying around the floor picking up her clothes because she’s suddenly remembered her dignity. Trust me when I say she left it behind a long time ago. She’s the one that threw herself at me in the club. Little slut.
I’m leaving her to scramble around the room without saying goodbye as I head for the shower. She lost the right to my politeness when she decided it’s appropriate to hit me. I step into the burning stream of water, soaping up where the filthy tart left her mark when the slam of my hotel room’s door reverberates into the bathroom.
This is my life.
So, remember. Don’t get pissy at me when I’ve already told you how this hook-up is going to go down. I gave you fair warning. I won’t be buying you flowers.
Don’t judge me. I know you’ll end up in my bed tonight.
Chapter Two
~ £ ~
Business. That’s the other thing I’m remarkable at. Making money is as easy as breathing providing you have the smarts to follow through. Fortunately, I do.
Don’t look at me like that, rolling your eyes with your ‘whatever’ face. It’s true. Spend enough time working on something you want badly enough, and you’ll soon see the benefits of that reward. It’s simple really, providing you don’t get lazy and give up. Still not buying what I’m saying? Okay, challenge accepted. Find a list of the wealthiest people in the world. Go on. I’m waiting. Now tell me, what do they all have in common?
They never quit.
That’s humanity’s biggest weakness, you know. Quitting. Christ, I feel fucking dirty just saying the word. I’m going to be scrubbing for a week to get that negativity washed out of my mouth.
Bleurgh. Mouthwash? Does anyone have some mouthwash?
“Grayson? Yo, Grayson! What the fuck, dude? Are my problems really that boring to you?”
I laugh at Cameron’s bedazzled expression, leaving my headspace to return to his issue. “Deciding which girl you wanna take out on a date is not a problem. There’s no decision, you take them both. A problem would be finding out one of them is married to a seven foot, heavyweight boxer after you’ve fucked her. You see where I’m going with this?”
“I should expect nothing less from you, Rush. How many years have we known each other now? Seven? Eight?”
“Long enough for you to know better.” I reach across the mahogany coffee table for my perfectly chilled beer, enjoying the taste of flawlessly smooth money-making inventions. It’s light, fruity with a hint of oak, and just enough bubbles to awaken the taste buds.
I bet you didn’t peg me for a beer connoisseur, did you? What can I say? As a first year student in university, enjoying the uninhibited awesomeness of getting drunk on crappy, cheap alcohol I saw a gap in the market. Before I know it I’m making millions whilst still working my way through my business degree.
Guess I caught my lucky break, if that’s what you wanna call hard work and determination anyway.
“How was last night’s blonde?” Cam raises a dark, bushy eyebrow.
I snort, aware that he knows my answer. It’s always the same. “Satisfactory.”
His young face lights up as he smirks, finishing his beer. “You know, someday you’ll find a girl that’ll mean more than a pair of open legs.”
“If that day comes, I’ll throw a fucking party. Until then, I’ll reward my hard work with the sea of glistening pussies, dripping for my attention.”
“Because that’ll never get old,” he says sarcastically, shaking his buoyant head of brown hair. “Don’t come crying to me when the Doc decides you need to be neutered. Your dick makes the papers more than your businesses do.”
“All press is good press if it means people know my name,” I shrug, knowing that’s always been the way. Even if I spent a fortune in media marketing, deliberately showcasing all the good I do, the press will find a way to sully my good intentions. That’s the uncontrollable price of fortune and fame. A picture can concoct a million stories. And like I’ve already clarified, the truth is never desired.
They like my bad boy billionaire status.
“So, what’s the latest venture of Rush Enterprises? Should I be worried?” He stretches his tall, muscled frame in my sizeable armchair, resting his hands behind his head.
“Are you ever?” I scorn, checking the fridge for my chef-prepared snacks. What? I’m not lazy. It’s smart to disperse jobs better suited to others. It gives me more time to spend on the stuff that’s going to make me money. I’m not just a well-toned body radiating sex appeal, you know. My brain is rather large and highly functional, if you know what I mean.
Oh, there goes the sound of panties falling.
“No, just curious. Whose pleasure are you planning on creating this time?”
I take the kebab sticks out of the fridge, my mouth salivates with appreciation. “I have a few ideas,” I say around a mouthful of tender breast. Dirty bastard, I mean chicken.
“I’ve already accomplished alcohol, clubs, hotels, gyms. I think it’s time I tackle readers.”
“You’re shitting me? You’re gonna start a publishing house?” Cam sputters as he chokes on his meat.
“Why not? I’ve analysed the market, the industry is at an all-time high. It’s all semantics, and it keeps within the Rush Enterprises motto. Can’t go wrong with hard facts and logic.”
“How far along are you?”
“About six weeks. I’ve been busy renovating one of the empty floors at Rush Tower whilst I’ve been waiting for paperwork to be accepted, approved, and registered. You know, the boring parts of business.” I finish the last kebab stick, setting the empty plate down as I rest my feet up on my expensively comfortable cream couch.
“What part of the business am I involved in this time?” he asks, knowing he’s been a part of every set-up of mine. As my only best friend from our days at Uni - yeah I know, bring out the violins, I’m a poor friend-acquirer. Wealth can be blamed for that. Everyone wants a slice of my big, bulging, bank account. Anyway, he’s the one constant that’ll give me honesty over what works, and what doesn’t. He’s an asset I can never afford to lose.
And that’s about as mushy as I can go in this bromance before my balls drop off entirely.
For purposes of employment I guess you can call him a consultant. He kind of floats between all of my businesses doing whatever I ask of him. Between his keen eye and intelligence I know I can trust him. He’s not about to let my company sink to the ground like so many others would love to do. Oh, the brutality of businessmen.
“I’ll need you with me for all the interviews of each position. We both know how much I can be swayed by a pretty face.”
“It’s not the face that distracts you, Rush. It’s the bouncing tits when you get them to laugh.”
I snigger, knowing there isn’t much Cameron doesn’t know about me. He sees everything, despite how cleverly concealed I try to be.
“Can’t fault it when it benefits us both,” I smirk. My intentions are a bit of harmless fun, I swear.
Come on, who doesn’t enjoy a boobie show? Bounce, bounce, baby . Nun-nun-nun-ga nungas.
“Until a sexual harassment suit lands on your desk and threatens to take down your entire
empire.”
“That’s what I have you for,” I grin, watching him stand to leave.
“Only because you’re paying me,” he jokes, walking away. “Have fun tonight.”
~ £ ~
“People have reasons for why they behave the way they do. Childhood problems. Mistakes. Heartbreak. We all evolve with one intention; to protect ourselves. Sometimes, nothing matters more than self-preservation, because without that, who are we?” I pause, glancing at the well-dressed seated audience.
“Oftentimes the hardest part about this process is to ask for help, to understand that it’s okay to seek another’s advice to guide us through the tumultuous task of overcoming our memories, fears, and finding our true selves.
“It’s easy for me to stand here tonight and preach the simplistic road for recovery through logistics. If our issues were based on logic alone we’d be the best problem-solvers in the world. Nothing would refrain us. It’s our feelings, the big, messy, rip-a-hole-in-your-chest emotions that clouds the clarity, harbours our search for freedom, and anchors the weight holding us down.”
I take a breath, remaining focused on the multitude of cameras pointing my way. “This is where the Rush To Me Foundation comes in. Nobody deserves to be bullied, and victims shouldn’t have to remain quiet. It’s time we spoke up. It’s about time you were heard. Thank you.”
I stay standing at the podium, dressed in one of my finest, navy, three-piece suits as the paparazzi assault my eyes with their trigger-happy flashes. By the time they’re done capturing the perfection of my smoulder, I’m blinded, and having to walk into the crowd of congratulators as if my vision hasn’t been impaired astronomically. I’m literally seeing stars where people’s heads should be.
“Well done, cupcake. That was a moving speech.” I cringe inside, my guts churn with the threat of vomit over my mother’s overused sickly term of endearment.
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