Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

  “The most incredible thing so far,” I correct her as I shrug out of the wingsuit. Underneath is a Speedo and nothing else. “Wait until later tonight.”

  Her eyes run down my body and widen as they reach the bulge under my suit. She smiles.

  On to the next thrill.

  Sigh.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  2. CASSANDRA

  Every instinct in me is screaming out not to do this.

  I spent years training in the bowels of a faceless building in Langley to resist exactly this kind of situation. I’ve kept my wits through sleep deprivation, pharmaceutical interrogation, physical torture. Every time, I’ve come out the other side, wiped the sweat off my brow and said: “Is that all you’ve got?”

  But this is something else, something much more insidious. It comes to you as a friend, lulling you into a false sense of security. I’m here for you. I won’t hurt you. You love me.

  It doesn’t love me, though.

  Sure, it wants me to give in, to feel the brief surge of pleasure. It doesn’t talk about the crushing shame that follows, the hours of torment as you realize what you’ve done. That you can’t undo it, no matter how hard you try.

  Do I have what it takes to resist this time? They just keep coming at me. I’ve given in every time – does it even matter any more? At this point, do I even want to resist?

  That’s just it: I don’t. God help me, I don’t want to resist.

  Fuck it, I tell myself, plucking the little spoon from the paper cup and sliding it into my eager mouth.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s the best one so far,” I mutter through a mouthful of ginger-spiced carrot-cake ice cream. As I do, flecks of cream fly onto the lace napkin I’m holding under the treat.

  Tricia Clarke folds her arms across her ample chest. “That’s the last of them,” she says. Her strangely masculine voice always sounds odd coming out of her mouth, all full lips and cherry lipstick. You might actually mistake her for a guy if you couldn’t see her Meghan Trainor body.

  “Finally,” I say, placing the napkin on the counter. “I’m going to have to run a marathon to work off all of those, you crazy bitch.”

  Tricia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you should probably call the cops, the way I held that gun to your head. You know I need another set of taste buds when I’m working on new recipes. And if you want to be a partner in this thing, those taste buds, for better or worse, are going to be yours.” She sweeps her hands down her body like a game show hostess showing off a new car. “Besides, this doesn’t just happen, you know.”

  We look sternly into each other’s eyes for a full second before we both lose it.

  God, this feels good. Tricia and I laugh so easily together that it’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other a few months. I’ll never forget it the first time we met at yoga class: she was on the mat in front of me, doing downward dog, and our eyes met through her legs.

  It was just so utterly absurd that we both burst out laughing, like we’re doing now. After class we met up for a glass of wine, and she had me in stitches.

  “What if I’d farted at that exact moment?” she’d asked, wide-eyed. She was totally serious. The look on her face made me howl so hard I actually started to worry that I might wet myself.

  We finally settle down and I take a deep breath to clear my head from the laughter and the sugar overload. Tricia pours us both a coffee and we sit down at a table. It’s early afternoon, just after lunch, so the shop is deserted. Business will pick up in a couple of hours as people drop in for their afternoon fixes of banana splits and root beer floats, but for now, we have Patty’s to ourselves.

  “Why Patty’s?” I ask, savoring the bitterness of the coffee after the sweetness of the ice cream samples. “I mean, I get your name is Patricia, but I’ve never heard you call yourself Patty.”

  “Irony,” she says. “My whole life I wanted to be called Tricia, but everyone – teachers, relatives, strangers – always called me Patty. I finally stopped answering to anything but Tricia when I was a teen. They finally got the message.”

  I can relate. My given name is Cassandra, but I’ve always been Sandra. My father always told me it sounded more dignified and serious than Cassie, and he’s all about being serious.

  Only one person ever called me Cassie, and I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

  “I’ll tell you what: I’m going to put your preferred name on the line of ice cream,” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “How do you feel about Tricialicious?”

  “I like it,” she says. “Then again, if you’re willing to drop millions into this pipe dream, you can call it Sandra’s Snatchtastic Sherbet, for all I care.”

  Another laugh ambush. That’s why I love Tricia so much: she helps me decompress. Around her, it’s easy to forget about what I used to do for a living, if only just for a little while.

  “That might be a little too New Yawk for the masses,” I chuckle. “Remember, we’re going to be shipping ice cream all over the country.”

  “Have you got any details yet?” she asks. “I mean, if anyone can pull it off, it’s you. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known.”

  I nod, ignoring the compliment. I’ve been hearing it all my life, to the point where I don’t even hear it when people point it out. Like my red hair.

  “I’ve got my eye on a factory in the Bronx,” I say. “It’s cheap and can easily be retrofitted. It’ll be tight, but it’ll work. Then we’ll have to figure out supply chain, delivery, yadda yadda.”

  “And all you have to do is come up with a few million dollars in venture capital,” she says, sipping her coffee. “Piece of cake.”

  “That’s going to be the easy part,” I say. “You just worry about the production side of things. We’ll have to make thousands of those little pint containers if we want to take on Ben and Jerry.”

  “Pft!” she sneers. “Ben and Jerry can bite me.”

  As we descend into laughter again, the money is foremost in my mind. Tricia probably thinks this is just a pipe dream, but it will be easy to get.

  Easy money always comes with a price, though. And in this case, it’s about as steep as you can get. The question is, am I willing to pay it?

  I have to be. I’ve come too far to back out now.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  3. CARSON

  I’m always amazed at how hard some Europeans have to work to have a good time. I mean, three-quarters of the people on the dance floor look like they’re in the middle of a physics exam instead of gyrating to a thumping techno beat.

  You’re in Milan, for crying out loud. Relax.

  I suppose that’s easy for me to say as I tip the third empty bottle of ’88 Dom Perignon into the silver bucket next to our table, signaling our waitress to bring another. I never see the bills that accumulate on my platinum American Express – they go straight to accountants I’ve never met.

  I’ve burned money like it’s firewood ever since I sold my company three years ago and I still haven’t even made a dent in the principal from the sale.

  I did the math once: assuming I live to the age of ninety – so another sixty years – I’ll have to spend upwards of a hundred grand a day to go through all of it. Of course, the money isn’t just sitting in the bank; it’s invested all over the place, bringing in very respectable returns, so you can probably up that number to $250,000. Sure, it’s easy to spend a quarter-million dollars in one day. Anyone could do it.

  But spending that much every single day for the rest of my natural life? That’s a whole other ball game.

  Our server sashays over with two more bottles of champagne and places them on the table in front of Maks and me. The British girls are busy giggling and watching people on the dance floor.

  The server, a black-haired woman with chestnut eyes and a neck like a swan’s, leans in close to my ear, filling my nose with some exotic floral scent. I assume that’s how she spent some of the $5,000 tip I left for her last night. Her lips tick
le the skin of my earlobe.

  “Compliments of the house,” she says, raising her voice despite the closeness. It’s the only way to be heard over the driving thump of the music. I smile ruefully. I’ve just been comped about $4,000 worth of booze.

  Even when I try to spend it all, I can’t.

  Maksim pours the contents of his bottle into the ladies’ glasses. “You pour your own, big payer,” he says to me.

  “Big spender,” I correct, shaking my head.

  “What is difference?” he says, consternation on his face. “All it means is same thing.”

  I chuckle.

  Sometimes it irks me that he never picks up a check – it’s not like he can’t afford it, his father is a billionaire – but I never actually get mad at the guy.

  One thing about Maksim Orlov: if he’s around, it’s a party. He attracts people like moths to a flame. He’s always got a grin on that swarthy, stubbly face, and he’s always up for a drink, or a concert, or a swim in the ocean, or jumping out of a plane. He probably could have joined me on my wingsuit escapade this afternoon, but he’s also incredibly lazy.

  He’s also got a knack for finding the most beautiful women on the planet. Case in point, our current companions. Joanna is seated to my right, wearing a stunning black evening dress I bought for her this afternoon. At least I think I did. She accepted my credit card happily enough.

  To my left is Georgia, a petite brunette with huge doe eyes, in a tank top and an ivory miniskirt. Emily, another blonde, is all over Maks.

  Joanna leans across me to talk to Georgia. “Pinch me!” she cries.

  “No, you pinch me!” comes the reply. The two giggle like fiends.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  Joanna lays a hand on my thigh, dangerously close to my crotch. “What do you think, silly? We planned this holiday thinking we’d be staying in hostels and eating at tourist traps! Then we met you two and – well, this happened!”

  Georgia leans in to flank me and claims my other thigh. “It’s like a dream!”

  “Well,” I say, “if we’re all dreaming, why aren’t we in bed?”

  Their eyes light up. “We thought you’d never ask!” says Joanna.

  The two of them grab their purses and stand up. Emily and Maks, who are practically sitting on top of each other, look at us with matching grins.

  “Have fun,” Emily coos. “We’re going to stick around a bit.”

  The girls pull me up from my seat as I wave to our companions. We amble toward the door, their arms around my waist, my arms around their shoulders. My head is a little fuzzy from the champagne, but I’m well aware of where tonight is heading.

  The sultry night air hits me as we emerge from the front door into the streets. The girls continue to giggle as we meander our way toward the hotel where Maks and I – and, I suppose, our three new friends – are staying. People mill past in various stages of drunkenness. All of them are young and impossibly beautiful.

  This is Milan, after all.

  “How did you make your money?” Joanna asks as we walk. Her face suddenly turns beet red. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize how crass that would sound! You don’t have to tell us.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “Elevator pitch: I invented a type of software that some people found very valuable, so they paid me a lot of money for it. The end.”

  “You must be really smart,” says Georgia. I think the champagne affected her tiny body a bit more than the rest of us, judging by the way she’s weaving. “I can barely turn a computer on.”

  I lean in close and whisper, “Well, you’re both doing an excellent job of turning me on.”

  They flash each other a look that promises me I’m in for a night of delight.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  4. CARSON

  “I am thinking I need to go to England,” Maksim muses as he stirs his Bloody Mary. He takes a long swallow and lays back down on the Gulfstream’s leather sofa.

  “Yeah?” I say from my seat. Unlike Maks, I like something a little more substantial than vodka for breakfast, so I’m tucking into a platter from the jet’s pantry. “Why is that?”

  “They know how to drink like Russians,” he sighs. “Emily drank me over the table last night. Even at hotel.”

  I resist the urge to correct him and focus on my eggs instead. Coincidentally, they’re done in the English style, creamy and loaded with butter, so even reheated they’re delicious. The sausage on the side is greasy and savory and exactly what I need to kill last night’s hangover.

  Matthias will probably kick my ass in the gym when he finds out about it, but it’s worth it. I wash it down with fresh-brewed black coffee and look out the window at the summer sky. We’re flying into the past: New York is six hours behind Milan, so even though the flight is eight hours long, we’ll arrive only two hours after we left.

  Not that time has a lot of meaning for people like Maks and me. It’s one of the many perks of not having to work for a living. It’s also what’s responsible – I think – for the sense of disconnection that’s dogged me over the past several months. The feeling that I’m untethered from the rest of the world.

  Maks gives me a quizzical look. “Something wrong, tovarishch?” he asks, using the Russian word for friend.

  I put down my cutlery on my empty plate and push the tray aside. What could possibly be wrong? I think. I’ve got everything anyone could ever want.

  Don’t I?

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “I just—Maks, don’t you ever get… I don’t know. Bored?”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Let go of my leg you are pulling on, Carson. Did you not take those two beautiful women to your bed last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do we not right now fly from Milan on your own jet back to New York City, the greatest city on the world?”

  I run a hand through my hair and sigh. What am I talking about? When he puts it that way, how the hell can I believe I’m bored? Millions of men would trade places with me in a second. I can literally do anything I want, whenever I want, and, in a lot of cases, to whomever I want.

  Maks finishes his drink and gets up to make another. I swear, the man has the constitution of a horse. He tilts the bottle in my direction and raises his eyebrows. I wave it off.

  “Is it work you are looking for?” he asks. “Maybe you want to be boss again. Yes?”

  “Hell, no,” I say. “I never miss the work. Software development wasn’t a career for me, it was just the means to an end.”

  “What is this means, your end?”

  I smile. Even when he doesn’t try, he’s hilarious.

  “Sorry, I meant that I got into that field for the money. I didn’t enjoy it. After my father died, I realized that I didn’t want to be like him, to have my fate decided by other people.”

  “Your papa was soldier, yes?”

  “Yeah. We moved around all the time when I was a kid, from one base to another, as ordered. I didn’t want that kind of life. I always knew I was smart, and I wasn’t learning anything in college that I didn’t already know, so I dropped out and started Black Sword.”

  “I have told you before, that is the awesomest name, my friend.”

  “I know, I know. I went with a hacking defense system because I knew there was a huge gap in the market for it, not because it was particularly interesting. It took about six years to get it fully functional, but the second it was up and running, buyers were breaking down my door. And I guess three billion and change isn’t bad for a few years work. Plus stock options.”

  “And so why you are bored here?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m searching for a new challenge. Building my company was probably the last time I really used my mind properly, you know. After I got rich, I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish, and none of them had anything to do with my brain. First off was getting that six-pack I always wanted.”

  Maks spreads his arms wide. “Mission is accomplished,�
� he says. “If I was the gay man, I would be up on you, like Snoopy Dog sings.”

  “Snoop Dogg. And yes, thanks to Matthias and a lot of hard work. Once I had the new physique in place, all I could think of was making up for lost time with the ladies. I guess I’ve gone a little overboard in that department.”

  That’s the understatement of the century.

  When I discovered that women were starting to notice me, I made it my mission to seduce everyone I met who would have ignored me in high school. All the former cheerleaders, all the society types. What amazed me was how easy it all was. It’s like someone handed me the cheat codes to life and women.

  “After awhile,” I continue, “I got so used to women falling for me that I started flirting without even thinking, and they started throwing themselves at me. Last night was a perfect example. They were lovely girls, but it was a foregone conclusion that I was taking at least one of them to bed. And, let’s be blunt, it’s not like I was going to be discussing chaos theory or the Fibonacci integer sequence with them afterwards.”

  There was only one girl I ever really talked with, and I haven’t seen her in twelve years. I try not to think about her.

  I don’t succeed, but I try.

  Maks sits back in the sofa and stares out the window beside my head for several long moments. He seems to be debating something with himself, and I wonder if I’m going crazy. Looking to Maksim Orlov for life advice is like looking to a monk for sex advice.

  He’s totally unequipped to answer.

  “So if I am listening right,” he says, “you want something that will make you use your head and your khuy.” He uses the Russian word for – well, little head. As usual, he has absolutely no subtlety, but he’s hit the nail on the khuy.

  “I guess you could say that,” I chuckle. “Don’t ask me how to put those two things together, because I don’t know.”