Billion Dollar Bad Boy (Big City Billionaires #1)
Page 1
Billion Dollar
Bad Boy
A Big City Billionaires Novel
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Nora Flite
Copyright © 2016 Nora Flite
All rights reserved. BILLION DOLLAR BAD BOY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Also from Nora Flite:
Never Kiss a Bad Boy
The Bad Boy Arrangement
My Secret Master
Last of the Bad Boys
Only Pretend
Hard Body Rock
Slow Body Rock
Flawed Body Rock
True Body Rock
Watch Me Fall
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
- Chapter One -
- Chapter Two -
- Chapter Three -
- Chapter Four -
- Chapter Five -
- Chapter Six -
- Chapter Seven -
- Chapter Eight -
- Chapter Nine -
- Chapter Ten -
- Chapter Eleven -
- Chapter Twelve -
- Chapter Thirteen -
- Chapter Fourteen -
- Chapter Fifteen -
- Chapter Sixteen -
- Chapter Seventeen -
- Chapter Eighteen -
- Chapter Nineteen -
- Chapter Twenty -
- Chapter Twenty-one -
- Chapter Twenty-two -
- Chapter Twenty-three -
- Chapter Twenty-four -
- Chapter Twenty-five -
- Epilogue -
~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~
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- Chapter One -
Alexis
The package that tumbled out of my mailbox was not addressed to me.
In fact, it wasn't addressed to anyone.
Brown paper, a simple glint of tape on the seams; it was as ordinary as possible. I mean, as ordinary as mystery boxes go.
Logically, I poked it with my shoe to make sure it wasn't dangerous somehow. You hear about it all the time on the news, packages that just explode or carry poison or something. Arsenic? Wasn't that the big thing recently?
My box didn't explode. It just rolled limply onto one side.
What the hell? I wondered silently, crouching down to get a closer look. Had someone sent me a package but forgotten to label it? That by itself was weird, I never got anything in the mail. Nothing besides bills, anyway.
“Are you alright?” The speaker was a sweet, older woman. She was decked out in the familiar slate-grey of a postal office employee. Though she was smiling at me, her eyes had that distinct 'I think you might be a crazy person, please leave right away' accusation in them.
Clearing my throat, I scooped up the box anxiously. “Uh, I'm fine. Just a little surprised.” That's an understatement. “Sorry if I caused a scene.”
The woman lifted her eyebrows, increasing my discomfort. A quick scan around the room revealed that the everyone was eyeballing me. I was probably the most exciting thing they'd seen all day.
Sweat crept down my neck; I'm not a fan of being the center of attention. Self-consciously, I tucked the box under my arm. It was about the size of a baseball, it fit perfectly against my ribs. “Again, really sorry—I'll uh, I'll just get out of your hair,” I said.
Shutting my mailbox, I locked it quickly. Then, I used every ounce of strength I had to walk slowly through the front doors. The distance felt longer than a mile.
Climbing into my tiny, far-too-beaten-up Volkswagen, I breathed in deeply. The metal bubble was a perfect place to regain my composure.
Pushing the back of my skull into my seat, I closed my eyes.
This was an odd start to my day.
Speaking of odd...
Sitting up, I lifted the small box into view. It weighed as much as a kiwi, and when I turned it, I heard something rustle inside. Digging at the taped sides, I frowned. Just what are you hiding in—
A horn honked loudly; the box fumbled in my lap. Twisting around, I spotted a car behind me in the tiny lot. “Alright, alright! I'm going, chill out.” Reluctantly, I set my package on the passenger seat. Clutching my keys, I started the engine, reversing to give the rude driver my parking space.
He shot me the stink-eye as we passed.
It wasn't a long trip back to my rent-a-home, but the entire time, my mind ran wildly with ideas. The contents of the box could be anything: nail polish, batteries, a dead goldfish.
Money.
Money would be nice, I mused soberly.
It didn't take a detective to realize I was running up against the poverty wall. My car was junk—it broke down constantly—and my home was nothing to brag about.
Pulling up to the yellowed front yard, something scrambled in the dumpster before vanishing into the shadows. It wasn't even noon and animals were in my trash.
The area was empty, just some skinny trees and another house or two, cracked streets and the occasional stray cat. Still, it was better than nothing.
Turning off the Volkswagen, I gathered my things and strode to my front door. The tiny house had been my home for five years. I'd moved in soon after high school.
For a while, I'd dreamed of going off to college in another city, or of traveling the world.
Dreams aren't very reliable.
Shoving the door open, I dropped my purse on the coffee table. Then I did a quick, paranoid check, making sure my home was empty.
You could never be too sure.
Breathing out, I dropped onto my couch, finally alone with the box.
“Reveal your secrets,” I said to myself. I wanted to ease the tension.
It didn't work.
Fidgeting, I peeled the tape away. The box split, and when I tipped it, a small bag fell into my lap. Blinking, I stroked the luxurious material. Intrigued, I loosened the knot, carefully spilling the contents out onto my hand.
In the pale light of my single ceiling bulb, the earrings glinted like freshly poured silver. Were they silver? The emerald centers were bigger than acorns, so rich and deep I could have lost myself if I stared too long.
I didn't handle—or own—much jewelry, but even I could tell that these were expensive.
What... what the hell?
Entirely lost, I hefted the earrings, enjoying their weight. They were meant for a queen, not a girl who had holes in all of her jeans. There was no denying it, this gift was clearly not for me.
Chewing the side of my tongue, I set the earrings on my coffee table. The mystery of this was making me nervous. Wasn't it illegal to open mail not sent to you, a federal crime or something?
My eyes darted to the velvet satchel again. Putting the box aside, I dug into the bag. My fingertips brushed a hard edge. Eagerly, I tugged a piece of paper into view.
It was crisp, heavy card stock. My heart was doing its best impression of a drum-line as I opened the note. Curled, handwritten ink rolled before me.
The note was short, and I read it with prickles sprouting along my spine.
Dear Pet,
I hope you enjoy these. I'm picturing them now, clasped on your lovely ears, just begging for me to stroke them and make you whimper.
The green will draw every eye to you... but won't they be jealous, once they realize you're already claimed?
—S
I breathed in sharply—I'd forgotten I needed air.
Pet? S?
No, this was all a mistake. The wrong address, for sure. The earrings were for someone worth courting, and unless I was crazy, the vibe of the letter screamed 'sex' and 'kink.'
My life experiences pushed me far out of the kinky club. Hell, almost out of the sex club, too. Though I was twenty-three, I hadn't been in a serious relationship in forever—a fact my lovely mother liked to remind me of each time we spoke. Virgin? Oh, no. But I was close, and if it was possible to become one again, the way your piercings sometimes grew back over?
I'd be a virgin reborn by now.
Puffing air through my lips, I sank into my couch. The earrings taunted me, reminding me of everything I didn't have. Whoever this 'Pet' was, she had a rich admirer. But good for her, I mused sullenly. She's probably a hot, confident girl to draw this kind of attention.
The last guy I went out with tried to hold my hand at the end of the night.
I'd run away like a freak and never called him back.
My co-worker, Laralie, had set me up with the guy. When she heard that I slammed my door in his face, she'd thrown a magazine at me. She kept telling me to take initiative... to be more trusting, less scared of the world.
It was impossible to explain to her why I couldn't do that.
People say your scars heal with time. I think they just grow deeper, like tree roots.
Shaking myself, I reached for the jewelry. I froze in mid-movement, dropping my hands to squeeze my knees and drum my fingers.
Was it terrible that I wanted to hold the earrings again? Just to feel them?
It wasn't so bad, right?
Glancing around, as if someone could see inside my apartment, I groaned. Don't be so pathetic. Just put everything in the box and... My thoughts ended abruptly. What was I supposed to do? There was no return address, no way to send this gift off to the right person.
I didn't even know how it had gotten in my mailbox. Could you send mail without an address? Did someone at the post office mess things up, sticking this package in my locker and calling it a day?
There were so many questions that I had. One of them chewed at me extra fiercely:
I wonder how the earrings would look on me?
Slapping my cheeks quickly, I jumped to my feet. “Nope,” I said to the room. “I'm not doing that. Bad idea. Think about something else.” Spinning, I paced across the scratched up floorboards.
On the one hand, I could just keep the gift, but that felt all kinds of shady. On the other hand... doing the right thing was pretty impossible. Tomorrow, I'd just have to ask the people at the post office which of them had put the gift in my mail slot. Surely, someone had seen this 'S' or whoever.
If I reasoned it out, I could picture the scenario. The mystery man had gone to the counter, asked to have the box put in someone's locker... and the worker had slipped up and put it in mine, instead of this 'Pet' person's.
Breathing out, I slumped where I stood. It made so much sense. Not only that, but it gave me a solution.
Turning, I scooped up the earrings and dumped them in the bag, then added it and the letter to the box. My re-taping was a little shoddy, but it would suit.
By tomorrow, I'd be able to walk away from this mess.
- Chapter Two -
Alexis
“Hello again,” I said brightly. I pushed the box onto the counter, meeting the eyes of the female employee from yesterday.
Her frown said she remembered me.
“This might sound weird,” I said, “But someone accidentally put this into my mail.” I nudged the box again. “Could you take this and deliver it to who it was meant for?”
She lowered her eyebrows, pursing her lips for a long minute. “If you want something delivered, it needs an address on it.”
“No, I know that.” Waving my hands side to side, I tried to look friendlier. “I'm saying someone put this in my mail, when it doesn't even have an address.”
The woman, whose name tag read 'Betty,' squinted closer at the little box. “Huh. Well that's not standard practice at all.”
Nodding patiently, I tapped the counter with emphasis. “Right! Standards. So someone who works here took this from some guy, and then put it in the wrong place.”
“Wait,” Betty said, locking a dubious stare onto me. “How do you know the sender was a guy if there's no name or anything on here?”
Red, molten shame burrowed into my guts. “Uh.” Fuck. Now she starts paying attention, great. “Well, okay, so the thing is... because there was no name on it, I opened it, thinking maybe it was meant for me.”
Betty's mouth curled into a deeper frown.
Perspiration blossomed on my chest. “I mean, easy mistake to make. It was in my mail! But inside, there was a note, which I read—and it obviously was sent from a man and meant for someone else and... and...”
Firmly, Betty put her hand on the box. “You opened it.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You do know that's a crime, ma'am?”
Every inch of my face was glowing. “But—well.”
“And you expect me to take it back and magically figure out who it was meant for?”
I was at a loss. Tense as a fishing line, I clenched my hands at my hips. “...Yes?”
Deflating, the postal worker gave me a tired once-over. Then, she pushed the box back to me. “Honey, I don't know what to tell you. I don't have time to play cop or investigator. There's no name on here, it was in your mail, you opened it. Just keep the darn thing.”
My mouth was slack. On reflex, I retrieved the package. Betty spared me one more look, then waved over my shoulder. “Next in line.”
In a fog, I walked away from the counter. This wasn't how I'd expected things to go. What was I supposed to do with these earrings? Keeping them felt wrong, trashing them—jeez, they probably cost more than six months of my rent.
Amazingly, I found myself in front of my locker again. Peeking at Betty, I was tempted to set the box on the floor. Would this 'Pet' person see it, and know it was meant for her? I didn't know if this was the first gift or the millionth, a box was a box.
Shaking my head, I resolved to think of a new plan. I didn't have one yet, but in time, something would click.
It just had to.
Soothed by my rationalization, I slid my key into my mailbox. I was on autopilot, I checked my mail every morning if work wasn't in the way.
Yes. A new plan. Okay.
The tiny door swung open, hanging on its hinges and revealing the inside of my locker. My lungs hitched, ribs freezing. Everything became a far away dream.
No. Not again.
In front of me sat another box.
****
The gifts continued to arrive over the next two weeks.
Nothing I did could get them to stop; not talking to the postal workers, not asking for information on the deliveries, and not waiting around a whole day in my car to try and catch the mysterious S.
I'm not proud of that last one, but it's not like I wasted my whole day.
Besides, I had something else to feel guilty over.
I'd opened all of the boxes.
Not at first, no. I'd waited a few days before I cracked, the packages sitting on my kitchen counter. They were like nagging, loose threads on a fancy shirt, just waiting to be yanked.
I looked for ways to justify it, digging deep to wave away the wrongness of opening someone else's mail. I'd asked myself, What can I do? Hadn't I tried to make it right?
Gradually, I started looking forward to them. It wasn't even the gifts that excited me, it was those damn letters! They came in every
box, always meticulously written and soaking with erotic tension.
He'd say things like, “I'm imagining how you'll gasp when I smell this perfume on your throat,” or, “This color will match perfectly with your lips, once they're red and swollen with desire.”
S knew how to keep my attention.
Progressively, the gifts began to get more personal. The earrings were almost innocent when held up against the Jimmy Choo pumps (how did Pet and I wear the same size?) or the Sferra Milos sheets.
Then the lingerie appeared.
As I sat on my couch and lifted the creamy, decadently over-priced bustier, panties, and garter belt—something I'd never even seen in person before—into the air, I was stunned. The matching lace-topped hosiery completed the set.
Quickly, I peeled open the letter he'd sent to me—I mean, to Pet.
I had to remind myself of that.
Dear Pet,
I saw this outfit on a mannequin. I knew it would look far better on you.
I'm tempted to give you my phone number, just so you can send me a photo of you wearing the lingerie.
Another time, maybe.
For now, wear it for me, and when you do, I want you to imagine me standing there, watching. Close your eyes and think how wonderful my fingers will feel as they graze across the smooth silk.
How sensitive it will make your skin.
How hard your nipples will become.
It'd take so very little to tempt you further. You'd moan and squirm while I brought you so close to coming. In time, you'd be begging me to get you off.
Wouldn't that be fun?
I'll leave you with that thought.
Next time, my surprise for you will be even more delicious.
—S
I realized I'd been clutching the letter.
My heart was in my throat, swelling beyond belief as the rest of me struggled to figure out how to feel. The letters had always been intense, clearly private, but this... this was straight up obscene!
Shifting on the couch, I shivered at the movement. Reading his words had called up vivid images, setting my skin aflame even under my boring jeans and t-shirt.
Okay. Just take a breath and relax. Setting the letter down, I glanced immediately at the lingerie. I'd gotten the impression from his writing that S had met Pet, but maybe I was wrong. They had to be in contact somehow though, right?