Need (Bad Boys with Billions Book 3)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “Sure. I understand.” But I didn’t. The back of my throat ached. Why was I all of a sudden so sad? I hardly knew the guy, yet it felt as if we were breaking up. “We’ll be friends. Would I then at least be able to take you for a nice lunch?”

  “If you make it a simple food-truck lunch, then I’ll take you.”

  “Deal.”

  And that was that. The end of my sparkling new relationship. My overenthusiastic dancing crushed the dandelions, the swimming-pool water was far too cold to enjoy and the ice cream melted from my cone, drizzling between my fingers like sticky waterfalls.

  I said good night, when what I really meant was goodbye.

  Nathan

  Monday morning, as usual, I head to Food Mart.

  I front the merchandise, positioning all the Del Monte and Kellogg’s at the edge of their shelf cliffs. I liked them practically fucking falling, but not quite—like me.

  When it was finally time for my break, instead of shooting to the break room to down one of the three bologna sandwiches I’d brought, I headed to the front of the store to ask a favor of the last person I’d have expected.

  I waited until Lena had a lull in customers in her line, then went for it. “What do you know about the VIP program?”

  “If you sign up, you get double coupons. Oh—and when you spend a hundred bucks, you get ten bucks back in store credit—but you can’t use it on cigarettes or booze.”

  Bummer. “Yeah, what I really need to know is can you find a customer through the VIP list?”

  “I personally can’t, but ask Liz in the office. She’s in charge of that stuff.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I took off toward the gray steel door beyond which we mere mortals didn’t typically chill.

  “Wait.” Lena left her register. “Who are you looking for? It’s that stripper who buys all those frozen burritos, right?”

  “Leave it alone.”

  “The redhead who lives on celery and Lean Cuisines?”

  “Give it a rest.” I’d reached the office door. “You’ve got a customer.” In the office, I found Liz at her desk.

  “Nathan. Hi. I don’t get much company back here.” The sweet middle-aged woman with more salt than pepper in her short hair had helped me fill out my W-2 and health and dental forms. “What’s up?”

  I sat in the metal folding chair alongside her desk. “I have an odd question for you.”

  “Shoot.” She leaned back in her ergonomic seat. “I could use a break.”

  Where did I start? I hated lying. She seemed like a nice lady. “You know the rewards program?”

  “Sure.”

  “Customers have to give their names and contact info, right?”

  She groaned. “I think I know where you’re going with this. You met a girl and want her number?”

  “Sort of.” I winced. “Only with a little different spin.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any customer’s personal information.”

  “That’s okay. I understand.” I’d known this route was a long shot in finding Uma, but it had been worth trying.

  “Find your girl?” Lena asked when I emerged from the office.

  “Nope.”

  “Liz is a pretty straight arrow, but you know Monte? The night manager?”

  “Yeah?”

  “For twenty bucks, he’ll probably help.”

  “Good to know. Thanks.”

  I sulked until lunch, then grabbed a fried chicken and mac & cheese dinner from the deli department that I took to the break room. Fuck bologna. Someone had left that day’s newspaper on the table. Of course, there was a pic of Ella and Liam all smiley together at some charity gig, so I turned the offensive image over to ward off indigestion. On the flip side were a bunch of those get-rich-quick ads I usually ignored, but since I was bored, I scanned them for entertainment value.

  MAKE YOUR FORTUNE FLIPPING!

  PENNY STOCKS PAY!

  ATTEND OUR HYPNOSIS SEMINAR TO MEDITATE YOUR WAY TO WEALTH!

  Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. I flipped the page to check out the legit help-wanted ads. Using the pen I kept in my back pocket, I circled a couple of interesting positions—one was for an entry-level gig as a Realtor’s assistant. The other, serving as a deckhand on a fishing boat. I didn’t have experience for either, but what the hell? I had to start somewhere, and if this thing with Uma didn’t pan out, at least either of those gigs got me out of stocking Cheerios.

  One last ad caught my eye. It wasn’t flashy. Just a few lines: GREAT IDEAS WANTED! NEED THE NEXT GREAT PHONE/TABLET APP IDEA. WILLING TO PAY TOP DOLLAR. SERIOUS SUBMISSIONS ONLY. Instead of a phone number, there was an email address: greatideas@pmail.com. It was probably a scam, but I tore it out anyway, along with the other two ads.

  On my afternoon break, I called about the real estate and deckhand positions, but both had already been filled. Swell. I used the rest of my fifteen minutes firing off app ideas to that email address. None of them were probably even that great, but at least I felt proactive.

  After my usual shift, I went to my apartment, but I walked back to the store a little past ten. It took forty bucks, but Lena had been right, and Monte forked over Uma’s digits.

  Outside the store, a light drizzle turned the streetlights hazy. I wanted to call Uma right away, but this late, figured I should wait until morning.

  I was at work by six a.m., which was too early to call, but by break time, I wandered to a secluded corner of the stockroom to get this done. My nerves were shot from waiting— wondering what Uma’s reaction would be to my asking for a second chance at the job she hadn’t even offered. I no longer cared what the position involved.

  My date with Carol had been like sticking my man card in a shredder.

  Before what happened at Ella and Liam’s wedding, I’d been able to pretend I was fine, that my shitty apartment and job didn’t bother me and I was okay with my lackluster future.

  But being with Carol had been a game-changer.

  I’d known Ella first as Julie Smith. We’d been equals—at least, I thought we’d been. Back then, I’d had big dreams of the two of us forging better lives together. Sure, it could take a decade or more, but that would be all right, because we’d make a great team. Because we’d both come from not-so-easy lives that needed rebooting.

  The only reason I’d stayed in California was the hope of Ella and me somehow reuniting.

  Now that she’d married, I was only here because I was too broke to leave.

  My old man offered to foot the bill for my return trip to Arkansas, just like he’d offered to take out a loan to send me back to school, but due to an on-the-job back injury he was on a fixed income and just as broke as me. When Mom died, she hadn’t had life insurance, and our health insurance had been so shitty that Dad would be paying her medical bills till the end of time. I had this fantasy of paying them all in one lump sum.

  Being with Carol reminded me how little I had to give. Sure, I had above-average skills in the sack, but what good was that when it came to raising a family? Paying the bills? For the first time since losing Ella, Carol made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, there might be more for me in this life.

  Something about her did it for me. I liked her cutting edge. After hearing the way she’d carved her current situation out of nothing, I admired the hell out of her business savvy. But because of that admiration, I wouldn’t use her. That wouldn’t be cool.

  What I would do was raise myself to her level, then give it another go. This thing with Uma wouldn’t be forever, just a bridge to get me where I needed to go. I’d finish school, get a great job, get my dad’s financial house in order, and best of all—get the girl. I took a deep breath before punching in Uma’s number.

  “This is a pleasant step up from the coffeehouse.”

  “Glad you approve.” I stood when Uma approached the waterfront table at La Vache et le Poisson—the fancy place where Carol had wanted me to take her but I’d been too busted to afford. I had no bu
siness being there now, but decided this was the crisis I’d been saving my rainy-day fund for.

  “I do, but can’t stay long.” With her usual grace, she sat, arranging her full-skirted black dress just so. Her multiple pearl strands reminded me of Carol, and why it was important for this meeting to go well.

  “That’s okay.” My mouth developed a sudden drought.

  Her cell rang. “So sorry. I deplore people who answer their phones during meals, but this can’t be avoided.” She rose, taking the call near the servers’ station.

  I caught only snippets of her conversation. “She has to . . . The price is nonnegotiable . . .

  Five thousand for the entire night—fifty for the weekend . . . Yes, that’s right. One hundred for the week. Such a bargain, no?” Fifty large for a weekend?

  There were very few ways anyone earned that kind of money that fast. Either you were Liam, who happened to have his own empire, or a fat-cat Hollywood type or dealing drugs. I couldn’t see Uma in the role of drug trafficker, which meant she was one of the other two. I’d accused her of running a strip club, but if that were the case, why would she have weekend rates for her performers? Unless they didn’t do all their work onstage . . .

  Holy shit. Was Uma a madam?

  She ended her call and returned. “So sorry. Most people read the fine print before signing.” I wanted to blurt, Are you high-class pimp? Instead, I nodded.

  “Anyway, I have time for one mojito and the pan-seared scallops. Can you make that happen?”

  I waved for the waiter.

  “Smaller.”

  “Excuse me?” The guy didn’t see me, so I waved both arms.

  “Make your gesture smaller. In doing so, you actually make yourself—your stature—larger. Without a single word, you tell the waiter you are secure enough in your ability to command his attention that you know he’s studying you. Now, sit straighter—taller. Try this . . .” She held her hand chest-level, then barely raised her index finger. I must have seen Liam do this a hundred times with the yacht crew.

  I mimicked Uma’s gesture but got nowhere. “I feel like an ass. And the guy’s still ignoring me.”

  “Look around,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”

  I gave the room a quick scan. “Hell, I don’t know. The bay. People eating. The guy three tables down has a great-looking steak—his date has an even better rack.”

  She laughed. “All valid observations, but this time, go deeper. Our waiter isn’t noticing you because he’s having a tiff with his girlfriend. See how the waitress with the ponytail leans into him? How he possessively has hold of her forearm, but she seems to be pulling away? Look at what most of the other patrons are wearing. May not be true, but just from appearances, who would you think would be the bigger tipper? That guy in the obviously custom-tailored suit? Or you, in your frayed-hem khakis, Converse and grunge-rock plaid? I don’t have time to cover everything that’s wrong with your hair.”

  To save a buck, I’d cut it myself using Food Mart’s break room scissors. In that moment, I saw myself as not only Uma must see me, but Ella—and more importantly, Carol.

  “Oh—trust me, from the ladies you’re getting plenty of favorable reviews. The buxom brunette in the corner booth can’t keep her eyes off you. Even with the hack-job hair, you’re quite striking. What are you? Six two?”

  “Somewhere around there.”

  “I thought so. Your build is an asset, too—nice and broad—hard from all that physical labor.” She licked her lips, leaning in close enough to offer a great view of her tits. “How about giving her a signal that you’re interested in me—only me.”

  “I, ah, don’t know what you mean.” Goddamn, I wanted a better job, but so far, this meeting was growing stranger by the minute. The whole point of landing this gig was to make more money so I could afford to take Carol on a decent date. Uma was hot and all, but on some level, she scared me.

  “What I mean is show me how you’d make me feel special.”

  “Look . . .” I released the breath I’d been holding. “You’re hot, but I’ve kind of been seeing someone—well, not really consistently or anything, but we had this one hot night, and I—”

  “Nathan, do you want this job or not?”

  “What job? Because I’m flattered if you want to pay to sleep with me, but—”

  “Why am I wasting my time?” She started to stand.

  “Stop.” I shot my arm across the table to grab her forearm. “You keep tossing this mystery job to me like it’s a fucking bone. News flash, lady—I’m not a dog, but I do need cash. Tell me, in plain terms that even a simple-minded country boy can understand—what do you want?”

  “Whew . . .” After flashing a dazzling smile, her next move was a dainty shiver. “What I want from you on a much more consistent basis is that—your intensity. The way you intrinsically let a woman know you’re in charge. Now, in those plain terms you requested, I run a male escort service, and—”

  “I was right. You’re a she-pimp.”

  “Wrong. What I was about to add—if you’d been paying attention—was that I don’t run an ordinary service, but the best in the world. My men are delicacies. Spoiled, rich women will crave you, because unlike everything else in their lives, they can’t have you.”

  “Hold up—you want me to fuck women for money?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Even better—I want you to mind-fuck women for money. Your job will be to make them want you. Desperately. You need to make them imagine those big hands of yours all over their bodies. You need to make them dream of you—only you—morning, noon and night.”

  “Hold up . . .” Hand to my forehead, I asked, “I don’t understand. You want me to be like the fucking James Bond of man-whores, but there’s no fucking? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense—from a business point of view. What’s the cardinal rule of marketing? Always make them want more. Now, you will have certain clients who have an itch demanding to be scratched, but most of my patrons want nothing more than to feel special— adored. Many are even married, but their husbands no longer see them as desirable. You’re going to change that by learning to appreciate the smallest details. You’ll not only notice what a woman wears, but how she feels, how she sees the world, how her hair smells. And for all of that, you will be rewarded. We’ll share everything—fifty/fifty. The house—meaning, myself— carries all the risk.”

  “What risks are we talking?”

  “Any legalities that may crop up from transforming your life. I’ll provide you with a new backstory and degree. A suitable living arrangement. The right clothes and car. I’ll teach you about grooming and how to think, walk and talk. By the time I’m finished with your education, you’ll feel equally at home with royalty or Hollywood A-listers. When I get done with you, you’ll be a king yourself.”

  Promise? I didn’t care that a brigade of fire trucks pealed warning bells through my head. All that mattered was that if this woman was right, hell, by next weekend, I’d be the kind of man Carol deserved.

  Carol

  “This is a nice surprise.” Saturday morning, I hugged Nathan outside Marcoli’s—the Union Square men’s clothing store where he’d wanted to meet. The place was high dollar—the kind of place where Liam might have shopped before he’d started having his suits custom tailored. “After we talked . . . Well, I got the impression we were just friends.”

  “Can’t friends shop together?”

  “Sure, but . . .” His faint smile left me feeling more horny than friendly. This place no doubt had great, big dressing rooms that would be perfect for . . . I licked my lips. No, no, no. I stepped back, searching his face. Something had changed. If possible, he looked more handsome than I remembered. “Did you get a haircut?”

  “You noticed. How do you like it?” His goofball pirouette and fluff routine reminded me of a shampoo commercial—and of how much I liked him when he wasn’t all serious, but relaxed and having fun.

&nb
sp; I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re nuts. What are we even doing here? Thought you preferred Goodwill.”

  “Please . . .” He took a new leather wallet from the back pocket of crisp new True Religion jeans and flashed a Black Amex. “This is how I roll.”

  “Nathan . . .” Frowning, I shook my head. “Knock it off. I thought we’d been over this—how there’s no need to impress me.”

  “Who said I was trying? I landed a new job, and my boss wants me to dress for success. So see? This has nothing to do with you—although I’m flattered you think it does.”

  “Cut the BS. I’m in the corporate world and no one’s going to hand a high school graduate a

  Black Amex. I’m sorry. It’s just not happening.”

  “Why did I even invite you?” He gazed off toward the shopping center’s splashing, three tiered fountain and sighed. “I thought you’d be proud of me, and that this outing could be fun, but . . .”

  I snatched the card from his hand. It had Nathan Black embossed in silver letters across the bottom. How did this happen? “What did you do?”

  “What are you talking about? Why can’t you be happy for me and leave it at that?”

  He entered the store.

  “I can’t be happy,” I practically growled, chasing him like a momma grizzly after her naive cub, “because you’re being stupid.” Before a salesclerk got his claws into him, I wrapped my hand around his distractingly impressive biceps, yanking him back. “This is the real world and no one just hands over that kind of money unless what you’re doing is illegal. In fact—” I released him to cover my gaping mouth. “Oh. My. God. That’s it—you’re selling drugs.”

  “Could you be any louder?” He looked around to ensure no one had heard. “For your information, Sherlock, I’m going to be a gentleman escort.”

  “A gigolo? Are you nuts? I realize American Gigolo was a little before either of our times, but trust me, it ends bad. No good can come of this.”

  “Relax. There’s no sex involved. This is strictly no dickly—meaning, no one’s getting a piece of me but you.” He eased his arm around my waist and tried reeling me in, but I pushed him away.