by Daphne Dawn
One day—maybe—I’ll be ready to settle down again for real. But only once I find the woman who can handle the two of us. However, that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. No woman has been able to hold up to my standards so far. I need someone who can keep up with me in every way. Ambitious, brilliant, sexy as hell—and a good mom. Yeah, you can see why my short list has yet to even have a name on it.
I sigh, and down the rest of my coffee, then fill my mug up again. No time to get lost in these depressing thoughts today. Time to get back to work.
The jolt of caffeine hits me just in time. I’m ready to get started.
I’m not going to lie―Ms. Winters is the shit. I’m talking the real deal. Yes, I’m fucking damn proud of the alter ego that stemmed straight from my imagination.
She’s elusive and sought after, my pride and joy. I continuously develop her character and charming poise, which is why I think it keeps the big money dudes coming—and cumming. Those filthy rich men just want to witness what other outlandish amazing shit I can root up from my good ole’ noggin.
Not to brag, but Ms. Winters brings in the most revenue out of any other alter ego on the site, and I’m fucking proud of that fact.
I’m untouchable. Watch anybody try to get on my level, and they’ll undoubtedly fail to reach my potential.
The other billionaires of the world are her fresh and prime target, and you better fucking believe I shoot those darts with the aim to hit the bull’s eye every fucking time.
Because, seriously, who could ever be better at knowing how to bring a billionaire to his knees than another alpha billionaire?
That’s fucking right. No one.
Let me guess…you want to know all about Ms. Winters, don’t you?
Well, let me appease you by giving you a slice of heaven on a platter.
Ms. Winters is cool and sexy, fun and adventurous. She’s got long, golden blonde hair and huge, beautiful blue eyes the color of the Caribbean waters. Yep, her eyes are a token trademark.
She’s tan and slender, but muscular at the same time, with perfect legs that guys want wrapped around their waists.
Ms. Winters doesn’t buy into hype or bullshit, but if you’re ready to get naughty and play the game, you bet your ass she’s going to be there front and center playing her cards right.
She’s the kind of girl who will let you cry on her shoulder (if you need that), but she’s also fun-loving enough that if you decide to go to Vegas on a whim, she’ll meet you at the airport with a bag she’s already pre-packed.
That’s what makes her so appealing to the men who get lured in. She’s up for anything, scared of nothing. Challenge is child’s play to her.
I take another sip of my delicious coffee and squint at the screen, ready to dive right in to an engaging conversation with another idiot with an overstuffed wallet.
Except there’s another name that catches my eyes.
Another client.
His name is Mr. BadBoy.
What the fuck?
That’s fucked up, but at the same time takes some serious fucking guts. This guy’s balls must be the size of New Hampshire.
How the fuck is he even getting away with that screen name? HR filters names and make sure they’re appropriate for the site. What the fuck?
We go through the pleasantries, but I’m impatient. I want to know who this asshole thinks he is.
Where do you live? I type the words into the chat box not long after I say hello, expecting Mr. BadBoy to respond with a vague answer like ‘SoHo.’ But to my surprise, he gives an actual address.
I live at 35 Houston Street in a brownstone.
No fucking way. Is this guy for real giving out his address to a stranger so early?
I need to fucking find out more about him.
You’re bold, giving out your address like that.
The pause is extended, but finally, I see the prompt pop up that notifies me that the other person is currently typing.
I don’t have anything to hide.
This guy is giving me a run for my money, but I have to remember that I’m posing as a female and that I have to mask my real animosity towards him.
There’s nothing wrong with a little mystery every now and then, I type into the chat box.
You’ll just have to wait and see what I have to offer, Mr. BadBoy replies.
Yeah, you bet I fucking will, you fucking creep. I want to tell him I find him sketchy, but I can’t exactly write that if I want to keep up appearances.
I audibly scoff at my screen, thinking that I have the brainpower and intelligence to top this guy at this game. At my game. No fucking doubt.
I didn’t work my ass off for nothing just to lose.
I’d love to hear what you have to offer, I mildly throw that out there to tread the flirtatious waters.
My prime purpose for Ms. Winters is interviewing these billionaire freaks to make sure they’re not doing any seedy shit. That they aren’t going to tarnish the rep I’ve built for my site.
My goal is to get in their heads and wrap them around my finger. It’s not hard, because most of them are so fucking lonely they’ll fuck a piece of cabbage if it will spread its legs for them.
Anytime, sweetheart, he writes back.
I heave a hefty sigh and glance out the window of my Manhattan penthouse. The view is fucking glorious. The city skyline isn’t a view one often forgets to appreciate.
It’s mid-morning by now, but the heavy fog is still dense, as if I were in the fucking moors of England or some shit.
I guess today isn’t going to be sunshine and blue skies, but that’s okay; my mood is fit for a king, anyway.
I crack my knuckles and contentedly lean back in my desk chair, thinking of the best way to hook, line, and sinker this prick.
Are you still there?
The cursor blinks on my screen. I let this guy keep hanging for a few minutes before I answer.
I’m wherever you need me to be, baby.
There, take that asshole.
I get up to stretch and trudge back to my kitchen, feeling a chill in the air that’s probably just a reflection of the bleak and dreary sky outside.
Plus, it’s a Monday. Who fucking likes Mondays?
I drum my fingers against the countertop and blow out a puff of air. I need to take this Mr. BadBoy on. I’m fucking pissed and offended at his sheer audacity to use the same username as the name of the site.
It’s probably a lapse on the part of my otherwise brilliant HR team. But I don’t want to bring this to their attention just yet. I want to get a feel for this new guy first.
I stare at my liquor cabinet, thinking I might need to add some refreshment to my coffee cup if I’m going to up the ante.
It’s going to be a long fucking day.
Chloe
It’s just too fucking easy.
Given that my swagger is uncanny, I still can’t believe that these women are just gullible as hell. The way they swoon over me makes me do the fucking evil laugh in my head.
Some of them are even kind of slutty, which surges me into even further fits of mocking laughter. I mean, fucking seriously?
I’m ‘Mr. BadBoy,’ my made-up alter ego. Yeah, a lot of women know him as he’s quickly developed quite the reputation that chicks dig at Thebadboys.net.
The job is interesting and certainly fun, mostly because I get to use my own creativity and charming banter to bring this male character I’m posing as to life. I enjoy this new challenge. It’s nothing like the work I used to do back when I wrote for a top-of-the-line magazine.
I know I’m really good at what I do, but that doesn’t mean I can slack in this job. I still need to bust my ass for my new boss and impress him so I can keep getting paid.
See, here’s how this goes down at Thebadboys.net, and this isn’t something a lot of people know. These busy as fuck billionaires with no time to date actually outsource the screening process. Yeah, you heard me right. I’m paid to p
retend to be this rich as fuck dude and find his “perfect match.” In essence, I’m a professional catfisher.
But I like money, you see. Yep, I’m a big fucking fan of money and I want to make fucking loads of it. Who doesn’t, right? So enough of this and let’s go back to schmoozing these unsuspecting ladies.
So here I am, chatting with a couple of girls, getting really into the conversations, when my bedroom door swings open.
“Holy fuck!” I heave a dramatic sigh to try and calm my racing heart as I slam my laptop closed.
I’m sitting on my bed, comfortable in sweat pants and a t-shirt while I conduct my online business. I lose track of time on a regular basis, especially when I get into the zone with a customer, so I don’t particularly relish distractions.
But hey, it’s Cassie.
My gorgeous twin sister—who has the same level of gorgeousness as me, of course—walks in nonchalantly, like she’s not disrupting anything important and plops down beside me.
Cassie is four minutes older than me, and she never fails to rub it in my face any chance she gets.
She loves to say things like, “I’m your older, wiser sister.” Like duh, how much wiser could you get in a few more infantile minutes of exposure to your surroundings? Total bullshit.
Oh, there’s also my all-time favorite when she says stuff like, “When I was your age…” I gotta hand it to her. Only my dear sister could make a tiny slice of an hour seem like ages—without being a complete bitch.
I know she’s only teasing me. We have an amazing relationship. You know, that special bond everyone assumes all twins have.
We’re fraternal twins, not identical. Lucky for us, we didn’t have that ‘cute when you’re young, but awkward when you’re older’ moment when people would be confused which is which. We look alike just enough that people can tell we’re twins.
We both have long, straight black hair and brown eyes. Kind of like a signature look. When we were little, Dad used to sing us that song, you know…“Brown Eyed Girl.”
I know, you’ll probably get that song stuck in your head now.
You’re welcome.
“You and that damn computer.” Cassie rolls her eyes and stares at me as if I’m losing my damn mind.
“What?” I chuckle and glance at her.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” she quizzes me.
“It’s for work.” I toss a pillow at her.
“You are aware that it’s Friday night, right?”
“I’m aware.” I glance at my laptop, wondering when she’ll leave so I can get back to Mr. BadBoy. I can’t lose this client. Besides, I already know what’s coming. At some point of this exchange, she’s bound to drop her older sister act on me. Or maybe one of her wise-ass lines. You’ll see.
“So that means you must also realize that every other twenty-five-year-old on this melting pot island of ours is out having fun and mingling with real people at a club?” Cassie raises an eyebrow at me.
“I’m new at this job, I’m just trying to get ahead,” I say defensively. It’s true. I have yet to reach a stable position in this company. I’m sure my boss won’t promote me based on how hard I party during my free time. He’ll promote me based on the quality of pussy I secure for him.
This is also a good strategy for me. The women I can attract right now will be devoting their time to me since they apparently don’t go out much. This should create a higher chance of converting them into profits. Welcome to market research 101.
“I’m sure your boss doesn’t expect you to work weekends,” Cassie retorts.
Cassie doesn’t get it. She’s already at the top of her field, an executive at a young age for a marketing firm, so she doesn’t have to worry about proving her worth anymore. This is my second real job out of college after my quick stint at the magazine, and I aim to succeed at all costs.
“I’m trying to snag a date,” I joke and laugh, because Cassie doesn’t know much about my job description and the crazy tasks it entails. We’re thick as thieves. But some things I need to keep from my all-knowing sister. Who knows what she’d say if she really know what I got up to in my job?
“Why don’t we go out in real life and score some real dudes instead?” she teases.
I shut my laptop and give her an annoyed stare. It’s no use. She won’t stop until I give in.
“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that Cassie Colburn?”
“I’m the growth you can’t get rid of.” She winks at me. “That’s what twins are for.”
I take my last ounce of resistance, push open the screen again and decide to tell Mr. Badboy I’ll have to continue this later. Cassie’s going to keep pushing until I agree to go out.
“You don’t understand, this person I’m talking to is special.”
Cassie scoffs.
“They can’t be special enough to hinder your Friday night plans.”
“I don’t have any Friday night plans,” I remind her dryly. Oh wait. This is my Friday night plan. Lovely.
“Well, you do now.” Cassie narrows her eyes as I read what just popped up on my screen.
Come over, let’s play a naughty game.
“Who buys that kind of shit?” I scoff and Cassie raises an eyebrow at me.
“What? Let me see.” She angles her head to see my screen but I yank it away.
“What are you actually doing here, Chloe?” Cassie asks, confused.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
I review some of what Ms. Winters and I have been talking about back and forth through the chat box. We’ve been talking for several days now, and I’m getting excited about reeling her in. She responds positively to all my plays and I might just snag her. This is some big fish, if ever.
I read the latest line she submits my way, careful to keep Cassie from seeing.
My mouth can do amazing things, you have no idea.
Tell me more, baby, I write back.
Come over and I’ll show you just how erotic your Friday night can be.
Hot. If she only knew…My fingers do more amazing things to women on a daily basis—figuratively, that is. Apparently, they’re working their magic on her now, too.
Meanwhile, I watch as Cassie stands up and walks over to my closet, pulling dresses and sexy boots out left and right.
“Um, excuse me?” I call out to her.
She spins and glances at me, holding one particularly revealing red sexy dress up to see how it looks held up in a mirror. Which reminds me, I haven’t worn that in a while…
“What?”
“Why are you raiding my closet?”
Cassie ignores me and throws a black leather mini skirt at me.
“You’re wearing this.”
“To a biker chick rally?”
“No!” Cassie rolls her eyes. “To meet men. Tonight.”
She drawls sarcastically as if I’m thick in the head and can’t understand how this fact is important.
“You’re fucking relentless.” I grab the skirt and stand up, knowing the battle with Cassie is uphill and I’m out of ammunition. Sometimes, there’s no arguing with my twin. She just doesn’t take no for an answer.
I get dressed while Ms. Winters takes her time responding.
“There you go, much better.” Cassie winks at me as she makes me strut in a little twirl to show off my figure in the skirt. She even claps her hands in approval.
She’s living with me, although temporarily. I know I give her a hard time about being my annoying sidekick but honestly, I can’t imagine life without her. Life is just a bit better with your sister.
Cassie just finished graduate school and thinks its economical for us to live together, though she could definitely pay for her own place. I don’t mind, without a roommate I’d probably have to sell a kidney just to be able to pay rent. Another good motivation to reel in those women.
I finished school before Cassie, but we’re right on par with each other when it comes to being in our resp
ective fields. I’m not much into further studies, since I felt I had a good start with my career after college. Cassie used to work for an international fashion magazine called ‘Posh,’ but now she’s moved on to bigger and better things.
The same way I did with my previous job, moving on to bigger and better things—which I’m hoping will be bigger and better soon. We do miss the bad ass perks like getting into the trendiest bars, restaurants and fashion boutiques. But I have a good vision of what I want, and I know I’m inching my way closer to it with this career shift.
I intend to make it big someday; I can almost imagine own plush penthouse office, a sharp secretary to take care of my schedule and mundane tasks, several executive-level business meetings, writing a few important pieces—all the works of a lucrative career. Nice. I could really use a fast-forward button now to get there.
Cassie works hard as shit too, balls to the wall Monday through Friday, having the beauty of enjoying an 8-hour all weekday job. She occasionally extends hours, but not as much as I do. My job is more of a twenty-four-hour business venture.
I have to be on my A-game at all times and be willing to be on call at all hours of the night for the women who need a man to talk to. Being a woman myself has its advantages since I already know what I’d want to hear if I was on the other end of the screen.
I’m proud of Cassie for her accomplishments in the marketing industry. Likewise, I know she’s proud of me for what I’m doing in the media field, whether it be writing magazine articles or writing flirty responses to women—even though she’s still in the dark on that part.
“Here, let me help you.”
Cassie walks swiftly towards me with her arms held out.
“What?” I spin around, thinking I have a thong stuck to my clothing or something equally embarrassing.
“You need to be zipped up all the way.” She finishes the job and jogs back to the closet with an eager frenzy drive.
“Wear these with it—you’ll look totally hot.”
“I look just like you,” I remind her.
“Congratulations,” she teases.
“Just put them on the floor. I’ll put them on when we’re ready to go,” I instruct her.
