The Billionaire's Muse Complete Series Box Set

by M. S. Parker

  “Speaking of work,” I continued, “how are things going for you in that department?”

  “Same as always.” She shrugged, her mouth growing tight at the corners. “It’s a job.”

  “You know, you could go to college, pursue a career of your choosing.” We picked a place on the platform and waited. “Now that I’m done, it could be your turn.”

  Her smile was soft, but she looked past me, not at me. “There’s really no point. I’ve never had anything that I’ve really wanted to do. Nothing I wanted to be. Other than a mom, of course.”

  Sometimes, I thought she actually believed it when she said that, but I’d spent too many years hearing the happiness in her voice when she talked about being on the road with all those bands. If I hadn’t come along, she probably would’ve ended up being a manager and never settled down. I knew she didn’t resent me for it, but there were times I wondered if she found herself missing the life she’d missed.

  “You know that I just want you to be happy,” Mom said as we moved onto the subway car.

  I forced a bright smile. “I am happy.”

  She gave me a skeptical look but didn’t argue with me. She didn’t need to. We’d had this discussion before. She meant well, I knew, but like a lot of parents, she just didn’t get how different the two of us really were from each other. She loved me, I never doubted that, but she didn’t get me.

  Even as I thought it, she reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “Why don’t you tell me about your latest project?”

  Two

  Reb

  I groaned as I came back to consciousness after several blissful hours of nothing. I did this because I wanted to forget, but nothing came without a cost, and I was feeling that right now.

  My head felt like I had an iron spike going through one temple and out the other, a sharp, pulsing pain that I knew would only get worse when I opened my eyes. My mouth was dry and tasted like some wild animal had taken a shit in it. I could smell the alcohol leaking from my pores, and with it, I registered sweat and sex.

  No surprises there.

  I’d started drinking pretty much the moment I’d caught my ex cheating on me nearly three months ago, and I’d been hooking up with random women two or three times a week for almost that same period of time. I didn’t remember much about last night, but I knew it hadn’t been much different than the previous ones.

  Finally, I forced my eyes open, wincing reflexively even though the curtains were all closed. The room was dark, but I didn’t need to see to know that I was in a hotel, probably the one I’d been practically living in since the cheating girlfriend incident. I’d kicked her out of my apartment, and I still paid my rent every month, but I hadn’t been able to stop seeing her fucking other men in my bed every time I walked into the bedroom. I’d replaced the bed, but that hadn’t helped.

  Nothing helped except drowning myself in women and alcohol. And even that didn’t help for long.

  I rolled toward the edge of the bed, prepared to stagger my way into the bathroom and take a shower, half to avoid having an awkward morning-after conversation, and half because I stunk. It was part of the new routine that had become my shitty life.

  But I couldn’t climb out of bed the way I usually did because someone was in the way.

  I frowned and turned the other way, but there was a body on that side too. A flash of memory from last night went through my mind.

  A blonde and a redhead knelt on either side of me, both wearing black silk thongs and nothing else. The blonde was nibbling my ear, her breasts pressing against my arm, and her friend was leaning over my lap, her tongue moving over my cock like it was some sort of fucking lollipop.

  Another immediately followed.

  The red-head smiled up at me, her eyes half-lidded, pupils so dilated that I knew she was on something other than the tequila shots we’d done together. That was her business though. My business was fucking the blonde who was stretched on the bed between the redhead's legs, eating out the pussy I’d be fucking next.

  I scratched my head, then resigned myself to crawling to the foot of the bed so I could get up without waking either of the women hidden under the covers. I’d apparently enjoyed their company last night, but I wasn’t interested in things carrying over to this morning.

  When I reached the bathroom, I braced myself for the light, but it didn’t prevent me from grimacing at the reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, but I could take care of that with a pair of sunglasses. Being a rock star came with the sort of perks that included being able to wear sunglasses anywhere, anytime, without being called a douche.

  I took a piss while I let the shower heat up, then let out a stream of curses when I stepped under the spray. One of those women had scratched the hell out of my back.

  By the time I was done, I felt cleaner, but not really any better. I tossed back a couple aspirin and swallowed them with a full glass of water. Hydration would help me feel at least a bit more human, and hair of the dog was always good for a hangover. One of the best parts about having access to an obscene amount of money was that I didn’t have to think twice about cleaning out the mini bar. I could afford it.

  As soon as I stepped out of the bathroom, I was doubly glad for the fact that I had money. The women were gone, and as far as I could tell, they hadn’t stolen anything. Unfortunately, as the now-blazing lights revealed, it was most likely because they couldn’t find anything in the mess.

  Shit.

  I remembered drinking, and I remembered pieces of fucking both women, but I didn’t remember trashing the room. I didn’t doubt that I’d done it though. I’d apparently cleared out the mini-bar already because at least a dozen tiny bottles were all over the place. Two ceramic lamps and what looked like every vase and bowl in the place had been shattered into hundreds of pieces. It was a fucking miracle that we hadn’t cut our feet walking through here.

  This was going to be pricey.

  And then I saw that we’d somehow managed to destroy both the television and a chair. I didn’t bother keeping the curses inside my head this time.

  My manager was going to have my ass if this ended up being as bad as it looked, and something nagging in the back of my mind told me it was actually worse.

  I picked my way back into the bedroom to find clothes and my phone. Whatever was nagging at the back of my brain, it’d be on my phone. Once I figured that out, I’d call the front desk and see about getting someone up here to clean things up. I’d make a healthy donation above and beyond what I’d be charged for damage done.

  And then I’d find myself something to take the edge off.

  As soon as I found my phone, I saw half a dozen voicemails from Chester waiting. And a calendar reminder about an important recording appointment that I’d missed by more than ninety minutes.

  “Fuck me,” I muttered. I was going to need more than just a small drink.

  I put the phone on speaker and let the voicemails play through while I grabbed some clothes.

  “Reb, you’re late. You better have a damn good excuse, or you’ll have a shitload of explaining to do.”

  “Where the hell are you, kid? He ain’t going to wait around forever.”

  “Fuck it, Reb! You better be dead because anything short of that won’t be excuse enough.”

  They went on like that, each one a little louder and with considerably more expletives. If Chester was already this pissed off, he was going to be livid when he found out about the hotel room.

  Then came the last voicemail, the one I hadn’t noticed but wished I would have seen first.

  “Reb, this is your mother, in case you’re currently too drunk to recognize my voice. I don’t know what’s gotten into you as of late, but I expect you to be at the Union Square Ballroom this evening or we will be having a serious discussion about your priorities.”

  A rush of guilt washed over me.

  Everyone had told my mom not to let me go into music, and definitely not rock. I’d ge
t into the whole sex and drugs lifestyle. I’d fuck my way through groupies and be lucky if my dick didn’t fall off from some raging STD or get someone pregnant. I’d be drunk and high most of the time and have at least one overdose by the time I was twenty-five. I’d blow through everything I earned and then start on my inheritance, ending up broke and possibly homeless before forty. And that was being generous.

  She’d silently told them all to go to hell by encouraging me. After my dad had died, music had become my escape, and she’d seen that. She’d told me that I had to apply to college and work on a degree, but if I landed a contract, I could quit school. I’d gotten into Columbia and majored in music education for two years, and then Chester Lhaw had found me. Mom had been true to her word and hadn’t said a single word against it when I dropped out.

  I’d worked my ass off, not just at proving I could make it in such a cutthroat business, but at making sure everyone saw that my mom had been right to put her faith in me. Despite my numerous tattoos and the bad boy image the studio crafted for me, I was as far from the stereotypical rock star as a person could get. No drugs. No all-night parties. No arrests. Discretion when it came to sexual partners.

  Well, at least until recently.

  I didn’t need to hear my mother say how disappointed she was in me because I could hear it in her voice, and that was worse than my hangover.

  I looked at the time and then pulled up my calendar to double-check when I needed to be at the fundraiser. As much as I hated myself for it, I was going to need some liquid courage before I’d be able to face my mother.

  I’d only planned on having one or two drinks before stepping into the ballroom. Just enough to take the edge off my headache and make fielding questions about my love life bearable. The kind of people who came to these charity events might have liked pretending that they were beyond such things as gossip, but they never had a problem asking me about the latest story as if I had the inside track to all of it.

  Unfortunately, my break-up had made tabloid headlines for a couple weeks, and even though it happened in June, I knew there’d be people here who’d want to ask me about it. Plus, based on the looks I’d gotten from strangers already today, I had a bad feeling that word had gotten around about me trashing the hotel room last night.

  With all of that in my head, I’d indulged in a bit more Four Roses than I should have, and now I found walking in a straight line to be a little problematic.

  My mom’s mouth flattened as I approached her, and as soon as I leaned down to kiss her cheek, she grabbed my arm.

  “You came here drunk?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear her displeasure.

  I straightened. “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t have a chance to say anything else because the president of some arts foundation was coming toward us, and we didn’t air our dirty laundry in public. I’d probably be in for it after the event, but for right now, I was safe. I gave people polite nods of acknowledgment as I made my way to the bar and ordered the most pretentious scotch they had.

  I’d made it through my second glass when a pale, weedy-looking guy stepped up to the bar next to me. I was prepared to ignore him, but as soon as he downed his drink, he turned to me and started talking.

  “You’re the rock star, aren’t you?” His voice was louder than it needed to be, which was infinitely more annoying than his question. “Mr. Hot Shot musician who lowers himself to come down and talk to the little people.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height, which was taller than most, and much taller than this guy, and glared down at him. “I think you should walk away and let me drink in peace.”

  His cheeks flushed, and a quick glance over his shoulder told me that he was trying to impress someone, but all that did was irritate me even more. I was not in the mood to deal with this.

  “Why are you even here?” he asked, either the alcohol or the people watching us giving him the courage to say things he shouldn’t. “You clearly don’t fit in. Sure, you may have money, but it’s not the kind that comes with class. The Whitehall name used to demand respect, but everyone here knows your mother lost it when she went slumming with some jarhead–”

  Anything else he would’ve said was lost when my fist connected with his jaw, and he dropped to the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth to pool on the polished wood.

  Shit. That wouldn’t go over well.

  Three

  Paige

  “Near, far, wherever… Fuck.”

  I wasn’t sure if the elderly man in front of me shot me a dirty look because of the song or the curse. I’d caught myself humming that song all day yesterday, and I’d hoped it’d be out of my head by the time I got to work, but no such luck, apparently.

  I slipped my earbuds in and turned the volume up almost loud enough to hurt. I didn’t have anything against Celine Dion, but classical, and other instrumental pieces were my preference. The sort of music that didn’t get much in the way of recognition.

  By the time I got my Iced Caramel Macchiato, some Bach and Debussy had chased Dion out of my head. They also did wonders for calming my nerves, which was always important before I went to work. I hadn’t been lying when I told my mom that I enjoyed my job, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be stressful.

  As the elevator doors opened, I took a slow breath, turned off my music, and focused on the job ahead. I was the youngest full-time associate at the public relations firm, and I wasn’t naïve enough to think that everyone believed I deserve the position I’d gotten. I didn’t actually care what people thought in the sense of needing their approval, but I’d be damned if I proved the doubters right.

  I ignored the morning chatter as my co-workers swapped stories of the things they’d done over the weekend. Everyone had their own little group. The young singles who exchanged tales of dancing, drinking, and sex. The young marrieds who liked to talk about how wonderful their spouses were. The middle management men who were either trying to convince everyone that they were going to be moving up the corporate ladder soon, or that they were happy where they were because it gave them time to do all of the crazy things the twenty-somethings were doing. And then there were the women who either complained that they couldn’t get ahead because the men were sexist or insisted that any woman who did manage to get ahead was sleeping with someone higher up.

  I had neither the time nor the patience for office gossip. I didn’t really care who was doing what with whom. I wasn’t there to make friends, and even if I had been, I hadn’t met anyone yet who I’d want to make an exception for. I wasn’t a people person.

  “Paige!”

  I kept my face blank as I moved a bit faster. My boss didn’t get a smile or a grimace. Depending on what mood she was in, either one could earn me a lecture. Sybil Feldt wasn’t the easiest person to work with, but she let me do a lot more than the others like me got to do. Plus, I didn’t have to put up with any of the sexual overtures that many of the other women dealt with.

  “Good morning, Ms. Feldt,” I said as I handed over her Caffé Corretto.

  “Did you finish the notes from last week’s meeting with Grover’s Peanut Brittle?” She barely even looked at me as she sipped her drink, but that wasn’t anything new. She wasn’t a friend or a mentor. She was my boss, and I appreciated her brusque way of doing things.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said as I logged into my computer. “I emailed you a copy and filed a hard copy.”

  “Did you come up with anything new?” She tucked a strand of barley-colored hair behind her ear.

  “I caught something Mr. Grover said in passing,” I replied. “A memory of his father coming home after working all day, exhausted, but still taking the time to sit with him and listen to him talk about his day. I think that could be the emotional hook. Nothing big and flashy, but simple and family-focused.”

  To my surprise, she actually looked at me, hazel eyes shrewd. “That’s a great idea.”

  “Do you want me to wr
ite up a proposal?” I kept my voice even. If I could get a proposal to even be considered for a major project like Grover’s, it would go a long way to getting me a client of my own. Not something like repackaging the image of an entire company. Something simple, but mine all the same.

  “Yes, type that up first thing. Once you get it done, I’ll want to see you in my office.”

  Something about her tone made me look up at her, but she’d already gone. I finished up the sentence I was typing, sent off the email, and then hurried after her.

  As soon as I was inside, she started talking.

  “You know music, don’t you?”

  I stiffened, unable to stop myself. I didn’t talk about my personal life at work. No one here knew who my mother was, or the story behind who I was. My mom had been a groupie for several years, but it wasn’t like that was something she put on her résumé.

  “Why would you think that?”

  Sybil rolled her eyes. “You’re young. Don’t you keep music available like twenty-four seven?”

  The hand squeezing my lungs eased, and I could breathe again. “I don’t tend to listen to much in the way of popular music.”

  Again, a sideways look, this one with a raised eyebrow. “You might want to fix that.”

  I paused so I could make sure my voice was calm. “Is there a particular reason why, ma’am?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” She tossed her empty coffee cup into the trash. “You’re getting your first assignment, and how well you do on it will determine where your career goes from here.”

  I should have been thrilled. This was exactly what I’d wanted, what I’d been working my ass off for. Why I never questioned the fact that most of my job seemed to be doing Sybil’s work for her.

  Except my excitement was tempered by a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What’s the assignment?”