Win a Filthy Bad Boy: A Bad Boy Romance

by Lacy Carter

  “How did he find out?” Bonnie asked. If it weren't for the shock and bewilderment that left her momentarily speechless, she might have felt leaden, maybe even depressed. The day already sucked and she hadn't even sat down with the editors yet. On the upside, a margarita and tortilla chips with salsa waited for her at home.

  “I don’t know. Water cooler gossip I guess,” Johnny said with a shrug. “You know how it is around here.”

  “Well, how'd he take it?” Bonnie asked.

  “Well—”

  But Johnny was cut off by a loud shout that ripped through the office.

  “JENSEN! GET YOUR ASS IN MY OFFICE NOW!” came the thunderous voice of Al Gibson.

  Bonnie craned her neck to peek over her cubicle wall. She fell back into her chair and stared at Johnny, who wore a worried expression.

  “He's pissed,” Bonnie said. The third degree from Al Gibson—not the best start to her day.

  “You think? Bonnie, seriously. It's like nothing I'd imagine you doing in a million years.”

  “It's something I’ve always wanted,” Bonnie explained.

  “I just didn't think you’d be into that sort of thing. I didn't even know you were a fan.”

  “I'm not a fan, but I think there's a good story...” Bonnie trailed off.

  “I think you just want the luxury of kicking back with a—”

  “JENSEN! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?” Al Gibson’s voice rocked the room like a sonic boom.

  Confused, Bonnie shot to her feet and looked over at Al Gibson, who was sitting impatiently in his office.

  She gave Johnny a final glance. Luxury of kicking back? Then with a deep sigh, she took measured steps towards Al’s office. It occurred to her that Johnny might not have been referring to the Stephanie interview.

  "How come you never get in trouble?" Bonnie whisper-asked as she walked away from Johnny.

  “Must be my looks.” Johnny shrugged and smiled.

  Passing by each cubicle, she noticed every eye was on her. The atmosphere at The Daily Journal was dictated by a mishmash of ambitious personalities. If careless, your ideas would be stolen before you could blink, your article written before you could jot down a letter.

  Bonnie didn't hate her job, but often succumbed to the frustration of being stuck writing sensationalist articles for a tabloid paper, when she'd once dreamed of writing stories that went deeper and explored the many facets of the human condition.

  This put her at odds with her peers who were interested in writing stories that catered to the requirements of The Daily Journal, which were to grab the reader by the jugular, at any cost. This wasn't Bonnie’s dream job; she would have liked to work for Salon, but being in the job for three years, as an intern, then part-time and now full-time, she had to make do with what she had. Some days it worked, and other days it sucked.

  Bonnie reached Al’s office. Its misleadingly calm shallows never dispelled the sense that she was stepping into a storm.

  “Close the door,” Al said.

  Bonnie closed the door and sat opposite the editor-in-chief.

  Even though she believed he came into work neat and tidy, she could never shake the nagging feeling that Al Gibson slept in his clothes. Reinforcing this suspicion was his wrinkled white shirt, which he never seemed to change.

  He sat with his tie loosened, almost flung over his shoulder; the knot looked too tight as if he'd been strangling himself with it. A laptop was opened in front of him. Behind him, the mockups of papers with Al Gibson's name in the headlines were hung and held in place by thumb tacks.

  Al owed his bronze skin to weekly tanning sessions. Where he found the hours, Bonnie never knew. Piercing blue eyes bore into her, and they stood in strong contrast to his tan, like sapphires embedded in earth.

  “Do you mind telling me why I gotta hear the scoop from a crappy online blog post?”

  “What blog post—”

  “It doesn't matter, what matters is—you're finally thinking like a journalist,” he said. “Congratulations. Always knew you were a winner. A perfect story for you. An exponential boost to your career.” He pulled out a cigar and stuck it between his teeth. “I like what you did here, Jensen. You showed initiative —” he peered around Bonnie and shouted out to the entire office “—something those sniveling, miserable excuses for journalists out there lack!”

  “With all due respect, sir. I don’t know what you're talking about,” Bonnie said.

  “I'm talking about the competition, for chrissakes!” Al said, as he spun the laptop around and destroyed Bonnie's world.

  The image on the screen was of a brunette woman walking along the beach in sunglasses and a white bikini. She recognized the large breasts and curvy figure. She also recognized the beach; she had gone there with her sister two years ago.

  The title of the article read:

  PLAIN JANE WINS BIGGER PRIZE THAN NEW YORK LOTTERY! A CRUISE WITH A FILTHY BAD BOY!

  Had Bonnie not been seated, she would have collapsed.

  “What the—” she began, then stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “A good move. An outstanding move. We don't even have to pay expenses for this trip—the producers will deal with that. Ha! It's a win-win.” Al looked triumphant.

  “Wait a minute, there is no way I'm going on that show just to write an article. What’s the angle? I've never even watched the show, and I'm sure it's been covered to death. What am I supposed to write about?”

  “Ever heard of a guy called Mr. Steel?”

  “No.”

  “Well that's who you're going to write about. He's your partner on the show.” Al stabbed the unlit cigar into the air, before shoving it back into his mouth.

  “Not a chance,” Bonnie said, folding her arms.

  “Apparently he's quite the looker. Last year he was named the Sexiest Man Alive. And he's not even a celebrity.”

  “What is he then?” Bonnie asked, then mentally cursed herself for even asking.

  “Womanizer, billionaire, an asshole extraordinaire. He’s a male escort. A real bona fide chick magnet, if you don’t mind me saying.” Al Gibson wore an inquisitive expression.

  “Then I'm definitely not doing it,” Bonnie said. She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat.

  What an animal, Bonnie thought. And what kind of name was Mr. Steel? How could any woman stand to be around such an obnoxious, egotistical, insolent-sounding character. Guys like that were totally wrong for her—Chad’s image flashed through her head—and dangerous.

  “Don't bullshit me. You already entered the damn competition… and won.” Al frowned, obviously disappointed at her refusal.

  “A friend entered me in the silly competition without my knowledge,” Bonnie said, twitching as Al’s frown intensified. “I'm going to pull out of the TV Show. It's… it's all so ridiculous.”

  Al sighed. He got to his feet, stretched, and sat back down. Then he pulled a bottle of Vodka from beneath his desk, removed two glasses from his desk drawer, and opened the bottle.

  “No, thank you,” Bonnie said, halting him with a gesture. To see him drinking so early shocked her.

  Seeing the look of shock on her face, he groaned through the cigar wedged between his teeth. Walking over to the wine cooler at the corner of the room, he brought out a bottle of wine. The dark Cabernet he poured matched his black suit. Clearly, he’d misread her expression.

  He downed his drink in a gulp. “Having that thing a stone’s throw away does me wonders.” He pointed to the wine cooler. “Go ahead, have a drink.”

  Reluctantly, Bonnie accepted the drink. She took a tiny sip.

  “You've done amazing work here these past few years. Don't think it's gone unnoticed.” Al leaned in conspiratorially, but he paused. “This isn't common knowledge yet, but Anna is calling it quits after the babies born.”

  Bonnie’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Surprised the hell out of me too,” Al said, pouring himself another d
rink. “I'll give her office and any beats she's covering over to you.”

  “I still don't—”

  “What's that pitch you've wanted ever since you walked in here?” Al Gibson’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

  “The Stephanie Stein story!” Bonnie yelled out, despite herself.

  “Yes-yes, it's yours. If you take this reality TV gig, the Stephanie story gets the green light. How about it?”

  Bonnie ran a hand through her chin length brown hair, while assessing the cost/benefit of taking the job.

  “There's a boatload of of money to be made here, Jensen. The show has got astronomical ratings. It's your chance to rock the world.”

  “But how am I supposed to write it? What angle should I take?” Bonnie asked, she was shocked to even be considering it.

  “I don't care if you gonzo the hell out of the fucker. Throw the kitchen sink in there, just make it as accurate as possible and get me a story.”

  Bonnie pursed her lips, then said, “Okay, I'll do it.”

  Al Gibson lit his cigar. Sitting back in his chair, he stretched and put his hands behind his head.

  “Believe me, Jensen, it's decisions like these that you'll never regret.”

  Chapter Three

  Dean groaned as the brunette dragged her mouth to the tip of his cock, encircled the head with her hot tongue, then stamped it with a kiss.

  “You sexy bitch. Take it. Yeah. Right there.” Dean gave Bobby a high-five. “How's that ass feel?”

  Bobby sunk his fingers into her full butt and pushed the head of his cock deeper. “Fuck, it's tight.”

  Dean reached over for the bottle of lube on the table and passed it to Bobby. The brunette closed her lips around the tip of his cock, and her hot, wet mouth went into action, taking his full length. He lifted his head to the blue sky, felt the heat of the blazing sun on his face and closed his eyes. Threading one hand through her long hair, he aided the rhythmic bobbing of her head. Her happy humming buzzed and carried along the warm air.

  Chad was in San Francisco for business so he rented a $10,000-a-night AirBNB for a few nights. He brought his two best friends and business partners, Dean and Bobby, along with him.

  Feeling the warm rays of the sun beating down on his face, Dean sniffed hard, shivering at the sensation of her soft tongue teasing the tip of his cock.

  He heard the lube bottle click open; glancing down he watched Bobby tip the bottle so that a wet stream slowly tunneled its way down her crack. Bobby gently massaged it into her rim. Her ass swayed enticingly.

  “You wanna get fucked, freak?” Bobby asked.

  Dean peered down at the end of his cock to check her response. The brunette wasn't even paying attention; her eyes were trained to the corner of the balcony.

  Frustrated, Dean slid his hands beneath her and felt the tightened nubs of her erect nipples. She was clearly into it, but she couldn't help staring at him. Him—as in the guy on the couch with his legs splayed. She caught Dean staring down at her and winked. Dean huffed, steadied her head, and thrusted his shaft down her throat. Bobby proceeded to move in-and-out of her, causing her to pant and moan.

  Dean tensed—he caught her again. Her eyes veered away from his cock. They gazed in the direction of the couch. To the enormous bulge in a pair of boxers.

  Picking up the pace to distract the restless brunette’s gaze, which constantly darted to the half-naked guy who wasn't even in the action, Dean clamped his forefinger and thumb on her nipples: tugged, pulled, twisted, trying to draw her attention back to him.

  Apparently, it had the reverse effect. Pulling her mouth away from his cock, she looked up and asked, “How about asking Mr. Steel join us?”

  She turned to look at “Mr. Steel” who was sprawled out on the couch, in his boxers, wearing sunglasses and talking on his cell. Dean found that Mr. Steel, a.k.a Chad DeMarco, was a problem whenever they picked up girls. They always wanted Mr. Steel.

  Chad was too engrossed in his phone conversation to notice the threesome had stopped.

  “Look Liv—” Dean began.

  “Hey, my name is not Liv, it’s Anya,” she said, prying her eyes away from Chad.

  “Yeah, right, I meant to say Anya,” Dean said. “Look, Anya, I don't think you quite get it. You can't just get with Chad DeMarco.”

  “Aww, why not?” she asked, pouting, as she straightened up. Bobby must have slipped out of her ass, as he cursed and stepped back.

  “Do you know how long the waiting list for Chad is?” Had he known she was a Chad groupie beforehand, he would’ve ditched her on the spot. As long as Chad was around, he never stood a chance.

  Just twenty-five years old, Chad had always been popular with women, but ever since signing up with the Love ‘em Escort agency, his reputation had spread like wildfire. He transformed into someone else entirely, Mr. Steel, a pandemic of cock-blocking for any other guy trying to get laid.

  He brought countless women pleasure beyond their wildest fantasies and the whole experience was free. The only cost was time, the waiting list was so long that most women tried throwing money at him, little good that did as Chad was a billionaire. However, for a large fee they could be moved up the list.

  Dean made a concerted effort to go to the most low-key bars and off the grid parties, just to find a girl who wasn't taken in by the Mr. Steel phenomenon. Yes, it involved going to extreme lengths: never introducing his girlfriends to Chad, hooking up with the girls hurt by Chad’s playboy antics, telling girls that Chad only had professional relations with women, that if they wanted to get with him, they'd have to join the waiting list.

  Yet all his efforts were doomed to bitter failure.

  “You're telling me that he’s not into casual sex?” Anya asked, while grabbing clothes.

  “He doesn't fuck for fun,” Dean said, unable to hide his frustration. “Well, it's been a slice, time to put on your dancing shoes.”

  “Don't worry,” she said, “I'm going.”

  “Hey, I was just getting my stride,” said Bobby, as he scowled at Dean. “Thanks-a-fucking lot.”

  “Forget it, man. She couldn't stop eye-fucking Casanova over there,” Dean said, indicating Chad with his head.

  Anya appeared tentative as she approached Chad. Handing him her number, she took the opportunity to squeeze his chiseled arm. “Call me,” she mouthed.

  Chad took the number and winked.

  “DeMarco cock blocks again,” Bobby said, putting on his boxers with a sigh.

  Dean spun to face Chad. “Hey, I know you can't help being who you are, but do you gotta be an asshole?”

  Chad held up a finger, indicating Dean to hold on a minute.

  “Maybe we should cool things off a little…” Chad spoke on the phone as he watched the slender brunette sashay out of view.

  “Excuse me? I didn't quite catch that,” said Heather, who spoke on the receiving end.

  “I just don't want to see you get hurt. Best to keep things professional,” Chad said.

  “Best for who? You?”

  “For us. You're my agent. Things could get tricky,” Chad said, catching a box of cigarettes that Dean tossed his way.

  “So you want me to act like nothing happened?”

  “That's not what I said.”

  “You're unbelievable, Chad. You sweet talk me into the sack and now you're worried about hurting me?”

  “Heather, it was just a bit of fun.”

  “Well, we can keep having fun. Or have you gotten bored with me?”

  “Bored? What makes you think I'm bored?”

  “You've just ditched me out of the… wait, is this because of the TV show?”

  Chad groaned. “The media is going to dig into my private life now more than ever. I don't want your face put out there as Mr. Steel’s latest conquest.”

  “Oh, the irony. I managed to snag you the main role on Win a Filthy Bad Boy and you're ending our little fuck sessions because of it. You are an asshole, Chad, you know that?”


  “I know.” He was naturally thick-skinned and could care less how the media portrayed him: a relentless woman chaser, a reckless driver, and the young billionaire blowing his dead father’s fortune on parties and alcohol. Or there was the more unusual aspects of his character that tabloids would entertain. They made him sound like a circus freak; journalists might just as well come out and shout,

  Everyone, gather around, gather around, step right up, come witness the world's number one male escort, the miracle of Mr. Steel’s enormous junk. See the damage it has done.