Screwing The Billionaire - A Standalone Alpha Billionaire Romance (New York City Billionaires - Book #1)

by Alexa Davis

  “We are giving him something,” I tell Malcolm.

  “I don’t think a personal interest piece regarding how you’re heading back to water the plants is going to cut it, sir,” he says.

  Me, I don’t say anything. I just tilt my head to one side and raise my brow.

  “Oh my god,” he says, covering his mouth. “Sir, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—”

  “Swallow your heart back into your chest,” I tell him. “Take a breath.”

  His eyes are still about as big as they are wide, but he takes a slow inhale.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “Now, what did you have in mind we should give him?” I ask.

  “He’s been trying to convince me to work out an interview with you, actually,” Malcolm says. “I don’t know. Maybe we could fly him out here so he can see all the progress we’ve made.”

  “Yeah, but the progress isn’t tangible yet,” I tell him. “We’ve worked out permits and turned this hotel into Stingray’s mobile unit, but I don’t think a tour is going to drive home the impression we’ve got everything under control. Call your friend, tell him that I’ll sit down with him for fifteen minutes after I’m back in New York a couple of days.”

  “Great, sir,” Malcolm says. “I’ll call him now.”

  My cell phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and it’s to my ear before the ringtone has a chance to start. “Scipio,” I say.

  There’s no answer.

  I look down at the screen. It wasn’t a call; it was a text message. It’s from Ellie.

  I’ll have to save it for later, though, because the IT guy whose name I don’t think I’ve ever heard is standing in my doorway.

  “Excuse me, sir?” he says. “I know you’re busy, but do you have a minute?”

  “What do you need?” I ask.

  “Well,” he says, “we’ve got the main display up and running the way you wanted, but we’re having some trouble with the phone lines.”

  “The phone lines?” I ask. “You’re having trouble with the phone lines, so you come to the CEO about it?”

  It’s not that I’m mean. I just never get tired of seeing grown men choke on air.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” he says, “but Sandra told me you’d want to have some input.”

  I sigh. “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “The phone lines work and everything, but this place is pretty old, and I think the wiring is starting to go down,” he says. “The electrical seems fine, but we’ve been dropping calls almost as fast as we can make them.”

  “That sounds like a pretty big problem,” I tell him.

  “It is,” he answers.

  I shrug my shoulders and open my palms, so they’re facing up. “Okay,” I say. “What did you want me to do about it?”

  IT Guy says, “If I could just get your go ahead to call someone from the phone company—”

  “Call,” I say. “If there are problems with the phone lines, it makes sense to call someone to get them taken care of. Is there anything else?”

  “Not just yet, sir,” he says. That means “Yes, but I need a valium first.”

  IT Guy leaves, but I wait a few seconds before bringing up my phone again to check my messages. Ellie’s text reads, “Gonna head home for a bit, get some clothes, maybe a shower, possibly some lube. I’m starting to get sore.”

  On a typical day, I like to treat my employees well while also making sure they fear for their jobs at least once a week. Not all my employees, just the ones I bring into my inner circle. I treat them well, but I don’t ever want to appear too human in front of any of them. It hurts my credibility to be seen to have things like empathy or a sense of humor.

  Still, when I get to the end of Ellie’s text, I know they can hear me laughing outside my office. Even if the door were shut, the walls don’t go all the way to the ceiling.

  I cut the laughter short as quickly as possible, but I know someone noticed. It may sound like an exaggeration, but I’d bet anyone what I have in my pockets against what they have in their pockets that laugh bites me in the ass before the end of the day.

  You can’t have any sympathy for these people, or they’ll walk all over you. That’s the joy of being the boss. You get to walk over everyone else.

  For now, at least, it looks like everyone’s holding back, so I just try to keep my mind on work. It’s not long before I start seeing the fallout from my three-second laugh, though.

  Marly comes to my door, saying, “Hey, I gave a call to Claude, and he says he’s going to need something more than you’re heading back to New York. Are there any scraps we can give him, boss?”

  You have to want to see it, but it’s right there at the end: My notification that everything’s going to be twice as hard today.

  “Marly, have a seat,” I tell her. “You know what? Could you close the door first?”

  “Of course,” she says, her face going white.

  She closes the door and takes a seat on the other side of my desk.

  “How bad is it?” I ask as quietly as possible.

  “What were you thinking?” she returns in a whisper. “You know the only clear motivation these people have is the impression you’re the kind of guy who only smiles for pictures.”

  “How bad?” I repeat.

  “Well, Tripp and about six others decided to get pizza and soda for everyone, but they made it pretty clear they were going to take their time with it,” she starts.

  “That’s not so bad,” I say.

  “You don’t get it,” she says. “With one laugh, you went from being the high-powered CEO of one of the most successful startups in the last decade to Nick, the cool boss who lets people go out for pizza. The act itself isn’t the problem. The problem is that we’re on thin ice here, and we need everyone working like their jobs are on the line if we’re going to make a go of this very unpopular move before the board decides to put a penny loafer up your ass on your way out of the company. Are you sure you know what you’re doing here?”

  See, along with being a lawyer, Marly’s also my mole. More than that, when Jacque and I were just getting the company put together, Marly was also my mentor. It’s a role she hasn’t yet shed, and if I have anything to say about it, she never will.

  “It can’t be—” I start.

  “It wasn’t the laugh,” she says. “The laugh was just permission. I’ve been hearing a lot of people talking about how this whole trip is insane. Nobody knows why you’d want to move the headquarters from Manhattan to wherever we are. I’m pretty sure if they did know, you’d be on your way to the ground with your golden parachute before the end of business. New York can’t wait until next week,” she says. “You have to get back there now and start plugging holes or this whole ship’s going down.”

  “Not today,” I tell her.

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “I have some things to work out here before I can go,” I tell her. “Book me something for tomorrow, and—”

  “What about your jet?” she asks. “Malcolm said you were belt-tightening.”

  “No,” I tell her. “It just doesn’t make a lot of sense to burn all that jet fuel when it’s only taking a couple of people and me. Creating a cleaner environment is all our responsibility.”

  “Yeah, that would have been a lot more believable before you told me to give you the number of my ‘plane guy’ so you’d have something ‘to get from A to B,’ don’t you think?” she asks.

  The problem with Marly is that she never forgets anything. She insists she has a “normal” memory, but I don’t think I’ve gotten away with anything since I met her.

  I tell her, “Yeah, but if I jump right on the corporate jet the day we’re down twelve points—”

  “Nineteen,” she says. “We’ve dropped seven in the last hour.”

  I grit my teeth. “You remember a few years ago when I took that month-long vacation in Denmark?” I ask. “If I recall right, our stock was way up by the time I got back. What’s
the problem this time?”

  “Going to Denmark didn’t make you a liability,” she says. “This time, people care if you’re heading the company because you’ve learned how not to kill a business.”

  “Calm down,” I tell her. “I may pay you for your honesty, but that doesn’t mean you have to grab a shovel.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what that means,” she says. “I’ll get you on a plane in the morning, but you’re going to have to start listening to me, or we’re in some serious trouble, all right?”

  “All right,” I tell her. “Oh, by the way …”

  Marly rolls her eyes. “What?” she asks.

  “Well aren’t you a bowl of grapefruit this morning?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what that means, either,” she says. “Is there anything else? I’ve got to go put out some fires you started.”

  Part of the reason I’ll never fire Marly is if she ever writes a book, my career is over.

  “Get two tickets,” I tell her. “I’m going to ask Ellie to come with me.”

  “Things are going well then?” she asks.

  “You could say that,” I answer.

  Marly sighs and gets to her feet. She says, “Just don’t burn the company and everyone in it for her; promise me.”

  “I’m not looking to burn anything,” I answer. “Do you need a minute to put on your scared face?”

  “Oh please,” Marly says. A moment later, her eyebrows are going up in the middle, and her bottom lip is quivering. Two more seconds pass and there are tears in her eyes.

  “You’re too good at that,” I tell her.

  “I just think about what this company’s going to look like in a year and what can I say? The tears just start flowing,” she whispers. Then, for the first time since she’s closed the door, Marly speaks at her normal volume, saying, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’m so sorry for letting you down, sir.”

  “Wait,” I whisper. “What are you going to tell them this meeting was about.”

  “Something I don’t want to talk about because it’s just so,” her breath catches in the most convincing fake sob I’ve heard from her in a while. I get the point.

  “Go,” I say. “Do.”

  She opens the door, sniffing loudly to draw just enough attention and she’s on her way to put out another fire.

  * * *

  By the time I’m headed back to the room, I’m exhausted. Fortunately, I’m so overflowing with stress I hardly feel it. When I open the door, though, for a moment at least, all that tension fades.

  It seems along with a change of clothes Ellie brought a thin, black, silken robe. She’s sitting with her legs draped over the arm of her chair. Dangling lazily from one hand is what looks like an unlit cigarette until she puts it to her lips and blows out smoke. It’s one of those e-cigarettes that only glows when you’re taking a drag.

  She looks over at me, and with a faint smile, she says, “Back from the office? The chef came by, told me you'd ordered something.”

  “Yeah,” I answer, loosening my tie as I walk further into the room, the door closing behind me. “I thought it’d be fun to get something not on the room service menu for once.”

  “There was something I wanted to ask you,” she says, really committing to the role.

  “What’s that?” I return.

  “The chef,” she says. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked rather familiar. Have I seen his many recipe books at the local shop, perhaps?”

  Without a clue where she’s going with the roleplay, I decide to join in. “Why yes, darling,” I say, affecting just a hint of a British accent. “He’s the young man from the Food Network, I believe.”

  “How terribly bourgeois,” Ellie says, then tosses her head back, cackling.

  I shake my head and chuckle. “You know,” I inform her, “in this scenario, we would be the bourgeois.”

  “I was going for the trophy girlfriend,” she says. “Given what I understand from Naomi’s hours watching celebrity television, I came to the conclusion they’re not particularly sharp as a breed. How’d I do?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “I’m usually so busy with my yacht that I don’t have time for such endeavors.”

  “Yeah, we’re done with the accents,” she says. “You think you could give a woman some warning before doing something like that?”

  “What, the accent?” I ask.

  She throws the unlit cigarette at me, but it misses its mark. “You’re throwing stuff at me,” I say. “What about the mystery of the unlit cigarette which magically produces smoke, but only in the lungs?”

  “It’s called an e-cigarette, Nicky boy,” she says. “You’d think someone as well informed as you would be up on that sort of thing.”

  “So, you’re a smoker,” I say.

  “No, Naomi is, and I like to steal her e-cigs every once in a while. At first, it had something to do with trying to get her to quit, but it’s devolved a bit,” Ellie explains. “Now, what do you say we dig into this dinner before it gets cold?”

  “You could have started without me,” I tell her. “Also, the whole ‘Nicky boy’ thing?”

  “Not a fan?” she asks.

  “Not especially,” I answer.

  “You’re a bit high-maintenance, aren’t you?” she asks, smirking. “ As far as starting dinner without you, I planned to,” she says. “Luckily for you, though, your timing was perfect. I got your message just after he left, which gave me enough time to get into my lovely robe. Everything should still be warm.”

  “I was hoping Girard would keep you company for a few minutes while I was finishing with work,” I tell her while pulling the dinner trolley toward the foot of the bed.

  Ellie laughs. “Yeah, that wasn’t happening. He came in here and started telling me about the dinner and about how you’d called him yesterday while I was in the shower or something and I think I might have started hyperventilating.”

  “Yeah, that’s not very bourgeois,” I tell her.

  “He wasn’t very impressed,” she says. “I mean, he was nice about it and everything, but I could just tell he wanted to get out of here.”

  I’m a little disappointed I’m not the only one that can elicit that response out of her. To my credit, I did get her to pass out. Girard only managed some light hyperventilation.

  We sit down to dinner, but that tension’s starting to rise in my chest again.

  “Ellie, I’ve been getting a lot of calls from corporate,” I tell her.

  She covers her full mouth, nodding. Once she swallows, she’s saying, “Yeah, I think I’ve overheard more than one of them over the past few days.”

  “Well, it looks like we have some jittery investors and I’m going to have to make a trip back to New York for a little while,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says, nodding. “When do you go?”

  I look at my watch. “I’ve got two tickets for an eight o’clock flight,” he says.

  “Two tickets, huh?” she asks, her face starting to go flush. “It’s probably none of my business, but who’s the second ticket for?”

  “It’s for you, if you want it,” I answer. “I know you have responsibilities around here, even with still being off work, but I’d love it if you’d come. It’s going to be a business trip, so there’s going to be a lot of time where you’re on your own, but I’m sure we could figure out something for you to do in Manhattan. What do you say?”

  “Tomorrow morning?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “I’ll have to talk to Naomi and make sure she’s up for taking care of Max and Sammie by herself a few more days,” she says. “I should probably see if I can get ahold of Troy, too. I haven’t heard anything from him yet, but I can’t imagine it’ll be too much longer before it’s time for me to go back to work.”

  We finish our dinner and Ellie makes her phone calls. As for me, the stress is finally being swallowed by the exhaustion, and I’m lying on the cou
ch, just trying to keep my eyes open.

  “Looks like I’m ready to go,” she says. “You want a drink?”

  “Sure,” I answer, sitting up again. “There are some single-serve shots in the minibar, or we can have something brought up.”

  “Minibar,” she says. Leaning forward to open the minibar, she doesn’t bend her knees, causing the bottom of her robe to come up just enough to give me a partial glimpse of her pussy while she’s picking out drinks for the night.

  She takes her time deciding. I don’t complain.

  “Oh, did I tell you?” I ask. “We finally got the last of the walls up down in the conference room.”

  “Yeah?” she asks, standing up straight again and walking toward me. “Ever fooled around in your office?”

  “The one downstairs?” I ask. “No.”

  Ellie unceremoniously drops three of the bottles she grabbed from the minibar on my lap, saying, “But all the other ones, yes?” She opens one of the bottles she didn’t drop and drinks it down.

  “No,” I tell her. “I’ve never fooled around in any of my offices.”

  “Where are you from, originally, anyway?” she asks. “When I’ve heard the story of Stingray’s ascension in the press, it always starts with you meeting your college roommate.”

  I can feel the blood rushing to my face. “We moved around a lot when I was growing up,” I tell her.

  “Anywhere in particular?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, it was hard to put down any real roots until after I was out of high school,” he says.

  “One of your parents was in the military?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer. I realize I’m being more than a little vague here, but she’s not ready for the whole story. Okay, that’s a copout: I’m not prepared to tell the whole thing.

  Ellie looks over at the clock and says, “Well, if we’re going to trash your office, we should probably continue this conversation downstairs, huh?”

  I shrug and get up, and together we leave the room.

  We’re walking down the hall, occasionally passing one of my employees, though fortunately, everyone we come across seems content with a smile and a wave.

  We get to the office, and I tell Ellie, “We’re going to have to be quiet if we don’t want any company.”