The Dirty Series: The Complete Bad Boy Billionaire Boxed Set

by Amelia Wilde

I text Stuart and tell him to take the rest of the night off, then walk home, looking in the windows of all the shops and restaurants.

  Everywhere I look, there are couples.

  Jaw set, muscles tense, I pick up the pace.

  No matter how much it hurts right now, I had no other option.

  I can never let her—or any woman—get that close to me again.

  I spend the evening ensconced in the penthouse, looking it over.

  No, I’m not going to sell it. That would be letting her win, and I’m not about to let her achieve that kind of victory over me.

  Instead, I’ll remodel the whole damn thing. Remove any traces of her. Replace the furniture. Make it a new place.

  Make it mine.

  Like she was supposed to be mine.

  “No,” I say out loud to the emptiness. “Not a fucking chance.”

  Isn’t there?

  No.

  I strip off my jacket and suit pants and change into comfortable lounge clothes, and then I crank up the air conditioning.

  Now that I’ve got the penthouse to myself, I can do whatever the hell I want.

  Tomorrow I’ll get back in the game. Tomorrow I’ll ask Connor to go to the Swan. He’ll find us some beautiful women to talk to and I can enjoy them for an hour and leave them behind, just like it’s supposed to be.

  Just like it will be, forever.

  In the meantime, I can finally enjoy the quiet. The peace.

  It’s not deafening. It’s how I like it. I like the solitude.

  I relish the solitude.

  I do.

  But solitude is nothing if you’re just going to sit around and waste it, so I queue up my favorite moves from my digital collection—my own personal Netflix—then place a call to Sasabune.

  “It’s Jett Brandon.”

  The people at the hostess station put me through to the chef.

  “Buddy!” he cries. “Takeout for you and the lady?”

  He doesn’t need to know a damn thing. He just needs to send a metric fuck ton of food and send it fast so I can get started on my night in.

  “Give me your best,” I say, and sit back and wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Angelica

  My lawyer calls at ten o’clock on Sunday. I’m already awake, burrowed under my comforter. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying like this.

  I don’t care.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Angelica. Are you at home?”

  “Of course.”

  “How soon can you be at the police station?”

  I shove my hair away from my face and roll over onto my back. “Half an hour. Is there something they want?”

  She sighs a little, like I’m deliberately being an idiot. “They want to question you, Angelica.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll meet you there.

  When she hangs up, I toss my phone onto the bedside table and get out of bed. My muscles ache like I’m an old woman. I feel vaguely ill.

  Heartbreak.

  I can’t summon the energy to deal with a full shower, and anyway, I stood in there long enough last night. So I compromise by taking five minutes to twist my hair into a respectable bun at the back of my head and choose an outfit that won’t make me look like some kind of desperate criminal.

  If only I hadn’t done this to Jett.

  If only Charlie had chosen anyone else to be the target.

  Shit, if that were true, then I might still have a chance with the man I’m almost certain is the love of my life.

  It was damn stressful, doing what I did, but when I was with him there were stretches of time that it just...faded into the background. He made me feel treasured. Precious. He made me feel wanted. He made me feel like I’d never have to worry about walking past some street harasser, heart racing, again.

  “That’s over now,” I tell myself in the mirror when I stop to check my outfit one last time. “It’s over.”

  As soon as I step inside the police station, I’m nearly bowled over by a woman who’s coming at me at full speed.

  At first I try to step aside—my mind is on Jett—but then her arms envelop me and I inhale her scent, and oh, my God—

  “Mom?”

  She squeezes me tight. “Angelica.” I look past her shoulder, and Adam is standing there, too, hands in his pockets, bags under his eyes.

  My mom hugs me for a long, long minute, and then steps back to look at me. I’m expecting to see disappointment in her eyes, but they’re filled with confusion. “I don’t understand, Angie,” she says after a beat. “They want to ask me questions, too, but I didn’t have anything to do with this. Adam won’t even tell me what’s going on.”

  “That’s probably...that’s probably the best choice, Mom.” I cut a glance over my mom’s shoulder at Adam, who gives me a little nod. “Just tell them what you know. That’s all you need to do.”

  She drops her hands to her sides, then reaches out again and pats my arm just above the elbow. “Whatever it is, honey, you can tell me.”

  “I will. We will.” I guide her a couple of steps closer to Adam. “What are you doing in the city?”

  “The police asked us to come.”

  My stomach turns over. “That doesn’t seem like—”

  “I know.” Adam cuts me off. We don’t need to say out loud that my brother could be a sitting duck in the city. Things have almost certainly started to go wrong for Charlie by now, unless the police have chosen to do nothing in the interest of tracking him and his people. There’s just no way to know.

  I lower my voice. “Where are you staying? Not at your place, I hope.”

  “The Times Square Sheraton,” my mom says, trying to put a smile on her face. “I got a bonus at work and I thought we could make a vacation out of it.” She blushes a deep red. “Not that I think this is a vacation....”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know what you meant, Mom. But don’t worry about the bill. I’ll pay for it.” Out of the savings I’ve spent years scraping together, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  A sergeant approaches, along with a detective. The instant they introduce themselves, I’ve already forgotten their names. Now that I know my mother and brother are safe—at least for the moment—my mind turns back to Jett. Jett’s face. Jett’s hands. Jett’s heart that I’ve broken, stomped underneath my high heel like a worthless piece of trash on the sidewalk.

  No—what I saw in his face wasn’t heartbreak. It was anger. It was rage.

  Anger at having his heart broken.

  The detective is still talking. “Mrs. Chandler, we’d like to speak with you first. This should be a quick interview.”

  “Okay,” my mom says slowly, looking at me, then at Adam.

  “Come back with us to my office.”

  She kisses each of us on the cheek like she might not see us again, then follows the pair of them out of the room.

  Adam sighs, then his eyes flick around the station. Nobody seems to be paying attention to us, but I can guess what he’s thinking. We don’t want to seem like we’re conspiring, getting a story straight...anything like that. Of course, my only experience with this kind of thing is from crime shows. Adam? I’m not so sure anymore.

  But I have to say one thing.

  “I didn’t throw you under the bus. I told them Charlie threatened you, and that it was about money. That was it.”

  “I’ll tell them the rest. You don’t have to worry about it, Angie. They’re going to want to meet with me next.”

  I roll my shoulders back and straighten my spine. After that, it’ll be me—and we’ll rehash all the things I told them yesterday, but in greater detail. Where exactly did I meet Charlie? What time? What was he wearing? Was there anyone with him? I settle in, start organizing my memories.

  If I’m going to lose Jett, I might as well help end Charlie’s reign of terror.

  Chapter Forty

  Jett

  Moving on is im
possible when the police call me three times a day with updates.

  It seems like it’s been forever, but it’s only been three days, and already I can feel myself becoming snappish, the kind of asshole I always hated growing up.

  I don’t want to hear anything else about Angelica.

  On Monday, the doubt clouds my mind like a thunderstorm descending over the city.

  Everyone’s words go in one ear and out the other, and after meetings, when I look down at the legal pads in the leather portfolios I’ve taken to carrying with me, I don’t remember what my notes are supposed to be about.

  If I made such a great fucking choice, why is it eating me alive?

  By noon, I’ve had enough. I’ve also had enough of being alone at my penthouse. I never ended up asking Connor to go out, and now my chest is dull and heavy and somehow like a live wire, raw and exposed, at the same time.

  Maybe a night out would have lifted the weight a little bit.

  “Emily.” My voice is loud and clear. I stand up from behind my desk, grab my suit coat, and pat my pocket. Phone is secure. “I’m out for the rest of the day. Reschedule everything for later in the week. Wednesday at the earliest.”

  “Mr. Brandon?” she says, standing up from her own desk as I come through the outer office. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “No.”

  She takes in a breath like she’s going to ask another question, but changes her mind.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m gone.

  I end up at a piano bar on 47th with my hand wrapped around a cold glass, which contains something called the Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not entirely sure what’s in it, and I don’t really give a damn.

  There’s no music playing right now, but one of the pianos is being tuned and the man doing the work occasionally lets a note sound long, then fiddles with it. Aside from a couple of tourists—from the Midwest, judging by the accents and the way they gleefully order every appetizer on the menu and giggle their way through each one—I’m the only one at the bar.

  I’m halfway through my drink and just beginning to relax when the bartender leans against the bar across from me. I’ve been staring at the polished hardwood bar top and thinking about Angelica. When I raise my eyes to find out what he wants, he’s looking at the tourists in the corner booth.

  “They’re having a great time,” he comments smoothly, like we’ve been having a conversation all along.

  The pair of them have moved on from the basket of popcorn they started with to a ham and cheese sandwich and a second cocktail. “Yeah.”

  “You think they’re going out tonight?”

  The woman is wearing a black sheath dress and the man has a button-up shirt—I can’t see if he’s wearing pants, but I’d guess cargo shorts, just by the looks of him. “They’re tourists,” I shrug. What the hell else do tourists do except go out?

  What do you do except stay in?

  “Fifty bucks says they get discount Broadway tickets to the first show on the list.”

  I laugh, but it sounds bitter and hard. “I’m not stupid enough to throw away money on that kind of bet. We both know you’re right.”

  The bartender, a tall, skinny guy with red hair, smirks, then waves his hand between us. “I can’t judge them too much. They help pay the bills.”

  “Damn right.” They help pay mine, too, even though they probably don’t know it.

  There’s a pause.

  I sip my drink.

  It’s three-quarters gone, so I down the rest and push the empty glass toward the bartender.

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “More of the same?”

  “Surprise me.”

  He putters around behind the bar, mixing, stirring, and then presents me with another glass. “My signature.” I don’t ask. I don’t care. From the taste of it, it’s either highly alcoholic and this man is a master of disguise or he’s watering it down in case I start to lose it.

  A legitimate assumption.

  “So, what’s your deal?”

  I take another swig of the drink. Rum. It has rum in it. “My deal?”

  “Yeah. Guy like you, expensive suit....” His eyes flick along the lines of my jacket. “Your type isn’t usually in here at noon.”

  Why the fuck not?

  “I wanted to get out of the office.”

  He nods, the corners of his mouth turning down. “This is better than an office.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Did you get fired or something?”

  That’s funny. “No,” I say, a wry smile on my face. “I just couldn’t focus.”

  He cups his hands around his ears. “You can tell me. I’ve got all afternoon, and it’s empty in here.”

  I shake my head. “Are you a living cliché? Is that what this is?”

  “I just like to talk.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  I swallow. The thoughts that have been hammering around inside my skull all day are begging to get out. Even if I have to tell....

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Ryan.”

  “Ryan.” Another sip of the drink. I don’t want him to know who I am—you never know who is in cahoots with the gossip websites. “Have you ever met a woman who seemed like the perfect fucking person for you, and then they turn out to be....” I can’t begin to describe it. My heart clenches, turns inside out.

  “Yeah, man,” Ryan says sympathetically. “You end things with her?”

  If I were sober, I’d never answer. I’d never be talking to this guy like he’s Connor, or one of my other friends from the Swan.

  If I were with Angelica, I wouldn’t be here at all.

  “I did.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  His words cut into me, punch a hole through my already bleeding heart.

  I finish the drink in two gulps, pull out my wallet, and toss a hundred on the bar.

  “No.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Angelica

  In the middle of Monday morning, there’s a soft knock at my apartment door.

  I’m curled up in the middle of my sofa, the comforter from my bed wrapped around me, the air conditioning turned up as high as it will go. I’m halfway through 27 Dresses on Netflix.

  It’s not anyone from work because why would they come to my house? I had to tell Hadley at least the outlines of what happened, and she practically tripped over herself to tell me that I could not, under any circumstances, come back into the Sisterspark offices until this issue was resolved.

  “I’m not terminating you, Angelica,” she said, her voice stretched thin.

  “Thank you, Hadley. I know it’s not—”

  “Being questioned by the police isn’t just cause for firing you, but I simply can’t risk having you in the office if you’re charged. I hope you understand.” Her tone conveyed she didn’t really give a damn if I understood or not.

  “I do.”

  “Please let me know when this is resolved, either way.”

  “I will.”

  “Goodbye, Angelica.”

  So it’s definitely not Hadley at the door, or anyone else from Sisterspark.

  I flip the comforter off me and fold it into a rough square, draping it over the back of the sofa. At least I’ve picked a fairly normal outfit to wear—yoga pants and a tank top—and my hair is piled on top of my head in a bun. Whoever it is, they won’t be scared of my appearance.

  The knock comes again. “Be right there,” I say, then scoop up a couple of dirty dishes and drop them into the sink in the kitchen.

  At the door, I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob.

  My mother is standing in the hallway, dressed in a skirt I recognize from her job-interview outfit and a button-down shirt with puff sleeves. She’s wearing her most comfortable shoes, a pair of KEENs I bought her for Christmas two years ago because you can dress them up or down and they don’t make your feet hurt after putting in a double shift at th
e convenience store.

  “Mom! Come in.” I wave her inside, then shut the door behind us, flipping the lock without thinking.

  “Hi, Angie.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She gives me a quirky smile. “A woman can’t visit her own daughter?”

  “I thought—I thought you’d stay at the hotel, with Adam.”

  “He gave me your address. I wanted to see you.”

  She wraps her arms around me and holds on for a long minute.

  “I’m glad you came, I just....” I don’t want to tell her that she could still be in danger. I haven’t heard anything about whether they’ve managed to catch Charlie, and he could be...he could be anywhere. I wrack my brain. Has he ever mentioned knowing my address? I wouldn’t be surprised if he had it. “I’m just surprised.”

  My mom takes in a deep breath. “Do you want to sit and talk?”

  “Sure. Something to drink?”

  “Oh, water’s fine.” I can’t count how many times I’ve heard her say that over the years—“water’s fine.” We rarely had money to eat out when I was growing up, but when we did, she never splurged on pop.

  I pull two bottles of water out of the fridge. When I come back to the living room, she’s nestled on one side of the couch, her feet tucked up underneath her.

  “Angelica,” she laughs, “tap water is more than enough.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom. I had this around.”

  “Oh, all right.” She twists the cap off the bottle and takes a drink while I sit down across from her, leaning against the arm rest and crossing my legs.

  Then Mom looks me straight in the eyes. “Angie, you can tell me what happened.”

  I take a deep breath, then put my fingers to the corners of my eyes, where tears are welling up. “What did Adam tell you?”

  “Not very much,” she says, her forehead wrinkling. “He told me he got in over his head with a group that lent him money. He didn’t say what for. And then he said that somehow you got roped into helping him pay it off.”

  “That’s all true.”

  “I just don’t understand how.”