Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  “Then I’ll take this,” she said, not needing to reveal her ace high as she reached across the table and gathered up the pot.

  She stood, walked straight to Skunk, and handed him the chips. “I’ll cash out.”

  He stuffed a rolled-up slice of bologna between his thick lips, inhaled the meat, then licked off his stubby fingers before he counted out her money. Nearly five thousand, and she wanted to sing, to shout, to soar.

  “You want me to give this to Charlie?”

  She shook her head. “I will.”

  “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  As if she were going anyplace else but to deliver the dough.

  Still, Skunk followed her, serving as her handcuffs, huffing as he waddled down the steps.

  “You played good tonight,” he said in between heavy breaths.

  “Thanks,” she said, wishing she’d liked playing so well. Like she once did. She used to love poker like there was no tomorrow, a true favorite past time. Now it was tainted.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said, patting her on the back.

  Inside, she recoiled at his touch. On the outside, she acted like it was no big deal. Like none of this was a big deal.

  A minute later, they weaved through the tables to the back of Mr. Pong’s restaurant, mostly empty at this late hour. Tall and trim, Charlie was hunched over in a chair, swiping his finger across the screen of his iPad. He wore a sharp black suit, a white shirt and no tie. He smiled when he saw her, baring his teeth, yellowed from smoking.

  The sight of him made her skin crawl.

  His eyes traveled up and down her body hungrily. She pretended he wasn’t undressing her in his mind as she turned over the cash. “Here.”

  “Ah, it’s my favorite color. Green from Red,” he said, stroking the cash.

  She told him the number. “Count it.”

  “I trust you, Red.” His accent was some sort of mix of Greek and Russian. Not Chinese, though, despite the headquarters in China Town. From the little bits and pieces she had cobbled together he both liked Chinese food, and had taken over this restaurant and the apartment above it. Probably from some poor schmuck who’d owed him, too. Someone who didn’t make good on a debt.

  “I don’t trust you though,” she said sharply.

  “Funny,” he said as he laughed, then counted the bills because there was no trust between either of them. “Very funny. Do you tell jokes that funny when you are working behind your bar? Or should I drop by sometime to check?”

  Red clouds passed before her eyes. Julia clenched her fists, channeling her anger into her hands as she bit her tongue. She knew better than to incite him. Still, she hated it when Charlie mentioned her bar, hated it almost as much as his unplanned visits to Cubic Z. Drop-ins, he called them. Like a restaurant inspector, popping in whenever he wanted.

  “You are welcome anytime at my bar,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I know,” he said pointedly. “And the next time I’m there, the pretty bartender will make me a pretty drink.”

  When he was done counting, he dropped his hand into the pocket of his pants, slowly rooted around, and withdrew a slender knife. Only a few inches long and more like a camping tool, it was hardly a weapon, but it didn’t need to possess firepower to send the message—he could cut her to pieces if she failed to deliver. He brought the handle of the knife to his chin, scratched his jaw once, twice, like a dog with fleas, keeping his muddy-brown eyes on her the whole time in a sharp, taut line. He didn’t blink. He shoved the knife back into his pocket, then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Some kind of business goon scurried over, a leather-bound ledger tucked under his arm. “I knew you could take the VC,” Charlie said to her, a nefarious glint in his eye. “That’s why we brought Hunter for you. You did a good job, separating the fool from his money.” Julia’s insides twisted with the way Charlie talked. Then he turned to his associate who’d opened the book. “Mark this down in the books. Red is a little bit closer.”

  The guy scribbled in a number.

  “A lot closer,” Julia corrected.

  “A lot. A little. What’s the difference? The only thing that matters—” Charlie stopped to raise a finger in the air, then come swooping down with it, like a pelican eyeing prey as he stabbed her name in the ledger “—is when this says zero. Until then, you are a lot, you are a little, you are mine. Now, you want some kung pao chicken? It’s considered the best in San Francisco by all the critics.”

  She shook her head. “No thanks. I’ve had my fill tonight.”

  “I will see you next Tuesday, then. Shall I send one of my limos for you?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  She turned on her heels and left, walking home in the cool San Francisco night, leaving Charlie and his chicken behind her.

  When she returned to her apartment, she tried to push the game out of her mind as she let the door slam. She washed her hands, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and was about to reach for the remote so she could lose herself in some mindless TV when her phone rang. A 917 number flashed across the screen. Her heart dared to flutter. Dumb organ. Then her belly flipped. Stupid stomach.

  But it was two against three because only her common sense said Don’t answer, and common sense wasn’t winning. The brain rarely bested the body. The caller was Clay Nichols who she’d met a few days ago while she was tending bar. The tall, dark, gorgeous, filthy-mouthed lawyer from New York, who fucked like a champion and called her irresistible, and then asked her to tell him more about all the things she liked as they lay tangled up in hotel sheets, blissed out.

  The man who lived three thousand miles away. The man she was sure was full of shit when he’d said he would call her again. The man she’d spent some of the best twenty-four hours of her life with.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hello, person I never thought I’d hear from again.”

  “Hey, Julia. What would you say about coming to New York for the weekend?”

  A smile started to form on her lips. “Tell me why I would want to go to New York for the weekend,” she said, sinking down on her couch, crossing her ankles.

  “For starters, I have a new set of ropes I’ve been meaning to use, and a restaurant I want to try, and a big king-size bed you’d look spectacular tied up to. Oh, and there’s also a new heist movie coming out this weekend that we could see.”

  She laughed. “Let me get this straight. I’m being invited to the Big Apple for dinner, a movie, and a little bondage?”

  “Yes, that would be correct.”

  She didn’t answer right away. Her mind flashed back to her big win tonight. Regardless of the chains Charlie had on her, she was closer. And while she’d promised herself she wouldn’t get involved with anyone till she was free, Clay wasn’t asking for more than two nights of her life. Two nights were thoroughly finite, and therefore could be thoroughly enjoyed. She had off this weekend. Besides, the very thought of Clay had a way of erasing some of the evening, of blotting out those moments when she was so clearly under Charlie’s thumb.

  “Then the answer is, pick me up at the airport in a town car, handsome, because I’m going to be ready for all of that and then some as soon as I step off the plane,” she said, as she kicked off her heels, and took a drink of her whiskey, enjoying the burn as the liquor slid down her throat.

  They chatted for longer, and soon the tone shifted, and his voice lowered. “What are you wearing right now?”

  “What do you want me to be wearing?”

  “Thigh-high white stockings, lacy white panties, and a matching bra,” he answered immediately.

  “And what would you do if I were wearing that?”

  “Drive you crazy through the lace with my tongue, then take your panties off with my teeth.”

  She didn’t think it was the whiskey that was making her feel warm all over. “Funny thing, Clay. I believe that’s what I’ll be wearing on Friday afternoon.”

  The next day, she went lingerie shoppin
g.

  Carefully, so as not to run the nylon, Julia inched the stocking up her thigh. Her sister sat perched on a peach-colored armchair in the corner of the spacious dressing room of Hetty’s Secret Closet on Union Street. McKenna absently kicked her ankle back and forth, a pleasantly distracting sight because her heels were sparkly peacock blue, matching her sapphire-colored skirt.

  “What do you think?” Julia asked as she twirled around to give a full view of the bra, panty and stocking set.

  A well-known fashion blogger and online video star, her sister has suggested this chic boutique for the shopping trip. Now, McKenna surveyed her up and down, pressing a finger to her lips as if she were studiously considering the undergarments in question. “It’s a good thing you don’t get cold easily. It’s chilly in New York in April. I was just there.”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if I’m going to strut around the Big Apple in this get-up only,” she said, gesturing to her lingerie ensemble.

  “I’m just checking,” she said with a wink. “You’ll pair it with what? A trench coat?”

  “No. This thing called a skirt. Ever heard of it? Then a blouse, too. Then the trench coat.”

  “I am pleased to inform you,” her sister began, flashing a bright smile, “you have the Fashion Hound seal of approval on your sexy outfit.”

  “Exactly why I keep you around.” Julia began stripping off the stockings, the underwear and the bra.

  “Wait. Don’t I get a little sashay of the hips and all? A lap dance maybe?”

  “I’m saving that all for Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”

  “You must really like this guy if he gets your whole weekend. You haven’t given anyone three days in a long, long time.”

  “I haven’t given anyone any days in a long, long time,” Julia corrected, as she neatly folded the items, then pulled on her jeans.

  “Not since Dillon.”

  “Yep, not since Dillon,” she said, turning away because she didn’t want McKenna to see how much it hurt to even hear that name breathed. Dillon was the reason she kept secrets from her sister, and from everyone. She shifted gears to her sister’s upcoming wedding. “Hey, when are we going for your next dress fitting?”

  “When you get back from New York, and we can pick your Maid of Honor dress too,” McKenna said in a voice laced with true happiness. She’d found her match, and her happily ever after was in her hands. Julia wasn’t jealous, not one bit. She was glad for her sister, even though the notion of a happy ending seemed about as far away to her as living on the moon.

  Cubic Z was buzzing at happy hour. Thursday night was one of the busiest of the week, drawing in the one-more-day-till-the-weekend crowds of twenty-somethings as they spilled out of their nearby offices here in the SoMa district of San Francisco. Finance and tech guys and gals abounded, ordering up microbrews or fancy cocktails.

  As Julia mixed a vodka tonic, she turned to her partner-in-crime, Kim. The petite brunette behind the bar was pouring a Raspberry Ale from the tap while absently running a palm across her round belly. She was due in a few months, the first baby for Kim and her husband.

  “You’re all set to run this place solo for the weekend?” Julia asked.

  Kim rolled her eyes and shot her a look as if to say she were being ridiculous. “I run this place when you’re not here. I know what to do. Besides, Craig is going to help me out,” she said, as she handed the glass to a regular customer, a skinny guy who always stopped by after work. Kim and Julia were both part owners of Cubic Z; they’d bought an ownership stake a year ago, so they served drinks and made sure drinks served the bottom line. Kim’s husband had just finished bartending school but hadn’t nabbed a job yet and they didn’t need an extra bartender at Cubic Z, so she was the sole source of support for the two of them.

  “I know. I just wanted to make sure. What can I say? I’m looking out for you and the baby already,” Julia said, as she slid the vodka concoction to a customer.

  “Yeah, protect us from all the unsavory types,” Kim joked, because Cubic Z was upscale, and might draw hipsters who hit on bartenders but didn’t attract that sort of more dangerous clientele. “Like that guy,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as she tipped her forehead to the door. A man stood with his back to them, talking to a friend, a shock of white in his dark hair. Tension knit itself tightly inside Julia, shooting cold through her bones. She didn’t want Skunk anywhere near her bar. He’d been here once, and once had been enough. He’d parked himself in a bar stool, ordered a drink, and said one thing and one thing only as he nodded, surveying the joint, “Yeah, I like this place. I like it a lot. You give good pour.”

  But when the man swiveled around, he wasn’t Skunk. He wasn’t anyone Julia knew. And there wasn’t a reason for her veins to feel like ice. She shrugged it off, the worry that tried to trip her up now and then, the fear that Charlie or Skunk would hurt her or someone she cared about. They hadn’t yet. But they could in a heartbeat.

  Chapter Two

  Clay finished off the rest of his scotch, then glanced at his watch.

  “Got someplace to be?” Michele asked.

  Damn. He was caught checking the time again, a bad habit he’d started since he invited Julia to join him in New York this weekend. It was nearing ten, and he should cut out of this bar and head home. She’d be arriving tomorrow, and tomorrow evening couldn’t come fast enough.

  “Yeah. Bed,” he said dryly. Michele was his best friend Davis’s sister, and his friend too. The three of them had known each other since college. She was one year younger, but had followed in her brother’s footsteps, attending the same university.

  “I remember when you used to be out till all hours,” Michele teased, shooting him a knowing smile as she ran her fingers through her dark hair. She was a pretty woman, always had been, but there was nothing between them. Not since they’d shared a kiss one night at a drunken college party. A kiss that had never been repeated, and he’d chalked it up to her being sad that night over the anniversary of her parents’ death and needing some kind of connection. Understandable. Completely understandable.

  “Hardly,” he said, because he wasn’t the party-boy type, but then he wasn’t usually the first one to leave either. Tonight, however, needed to end early, because tomorrow was the evening he wanted to last all night long. He called for the check, fished some bills from his wallet, and paid for their drinks.

  “Why are you leaving so soon?”

  “Because the glass is empty. I’ll get you a cab,” he said, and walked out with her, the neon lights of the diner across the street flickering behind them. “Do you want to . . .” she said, but the rest of her words were swallowed by the sound of a siren a few blocks over.

  “Want to what?” he asked when the noise faded.

  She swallowed, and then spoke quickly, faster than usual. “Do something this weekend? Have dinner, maybe?”

  He shot her a look like she wasn’t making sense as he hailed the first taxi he saw. “Davis is out of town,” he said. He and Michele didn’t have dinner together. Drinks, definitely. But dinners were something the three of them did together, and Davis was off in London for a few months, directing a production of Twelfth Night that Clay had hooked him up with.

  “Yeah. I know,” she said. “That’s sort of the point.”

  “Point of what?”

  She shook her head. Rolled her eyes. “Nothing. It was nothing,” she said, and something about her tone seemed clipped.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I’m great,” she said, as he held open the cab door for her. “Anyway, you probably have big plans this weekend.”

  “I think it’s safe to say I’ll be tied up,” he said, though as her cab sped off, he realized it was more likely the other way around. That Julia would be.

  He hoped she would be, at least.

  He’d woken up at four-thirty, worked out at five, and hit the office by six-thirty. He’d skipped lunch
, ordered in a sandwich, and reviewed a contract for a new sci-fi flick a movie director he repped was working on. He sent in notes to the producers, a list of points and items that needed to be changed. If they weren’t, his client wouldn’t be happy, and Clay was all about having a hefty stable full of happy clients.

  His junior partner at the firm, Robert, poked his head in around mid-afternoon. “Hey. I got a lead that the Pinkertons are looking for new representation,” Robert said, his blue eyes wide and grinning. A pair of British brothers, the Pinkertons had been bankrolling some of the most successful films in the last few years, including Escorted Lives, based on the bestselling books.

  “We need to lock that up,” he said, and he was sure the glint in his eyes matched Robert’s. Three years younger and eager as hell to grow his role at the firm, Clay had hired him fresh out of law school. Robert had become invaluable, pulling more than his weight in helping to land top clients and sweet deals for them. They’d seen eye to eye on just about everything, with the exception of one minor rough patch a year ago over a client that Robert had reeled in all on his own—a big-time action film director.

  A client they’d lost.

  “No kidding,” Robert said, tapping the side of the door twice for good luck. Robert was like that, always crossing his fingers, and knocking on wood. “I’ll get some more details and aim to set up a meeting with them next week.”

  “Perfect. The Pinkertons are huge golfers, so if you have to schedule a tee time, you should,” he said, and it wasn’t so much a suggestion as it was an order, and one he knew Robert, a former college golfer, would jump at.

  Robert mimed swinging a club. “Shame I hate golf so much.”

  “All right, get out of here. I need to finish up so I can take the weekend off.”

  “I’ll email you when I hear more.”

  “I’m not answering email this weekend,” Clay said, making it clear in his tone that this was a do-not-disturb kind of weekend. “You can update me on Monday.”