Baby Love: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance (3 page)

“That’s my favorite,” I said, feeling odd. They hardly ever ordered pizza, and when they did, it was always an artisanal, gluten free, thin crust from some hipster place in Lincoln Park.

“I know,” Patrick replied. He had a pile of envelopes tucked under his arm. He tossed them on the countertop.

“How was your bank meeting?” Callie asked, sitting next to me and pulling a slice out of the box. She rested it neatly on a porcelain plate. Patrick handed her a fork so she could carve into the steaming bit of cheese, ham, pineapple, tomatoes, and thick, chewy Chicago crust.

“A bust,” I replied heavily, taking out my own slice of pizza. It was all I could do to not inhale it. I needed to chew carefully; if I ate this too fast I was liable to vomit it all up.

Patrick had a look on his face caught somewhere between anticipation and skepticism.

“You look like the cat who swallowed a goddamn canary-filled aviary,” I said through a mouthful of burning cheese. It would scald my tongue but I would regret nothing. I needed fat, salt, and calories like a sex addict needed cock.

Patrick pulled out a thick manila envelope from the mail pile and handed it to me.

“Patrick!” Callie exclaimed, her Southern accent showing itself. “We were going to wait until after dinner…” she raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“What are you all on about?” I asked them, perplexed. “First off, you brought home food that isn’t free-range pork hand-fed by milkmaids. And now…what is this?” I took the heavy envelope in my hands.

“Hopefully you avoided the press today,” Patrick said slowly.

“Yeah, usually they swarm me,” I replied sarcastically, setting down my fork with a twinge of regret at putting off eating even for a second. “But I managed to give them the slip after lunchtime.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “I meant I hope that you missed the news today. But it’s not like this will be any less surprising if you didn’t.”

I had literally zero idea about what could be in this envelope. I hated surprises. I could see Callie’s face showing that she knew that. And she 
would
 know that. In third grade our mother had thrown me a surprise birthday party; I’d walked into our kitchen and when the lights flicked on and I saw the HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RACHEL! banner I’d turned around without a word and fled the property for the library. That was the last time anyone in my family ever did anything like that for me.

I feigned surprise to throw off my own discomfort and went for a sarcastic joke to further protect myself from their combined gazes. I put on a Southern accent that approximated Callie’s. She loved when I did that. “Is this when y’all tell me I’m actually adopted?”

Patrick and Callie laughed. “Just open it, Rach,” Callie said.

I tore the tape off the envelope and undid the brass brad with the tip of my finger. I slid out the thick packet of papers and read.

Dear Ms. Cobb,

We are pleased to inform you that you have reached the final audition round for Boiler Room. We look forward to seeing you in person to meet with our producers Thursday, July 10th, at seven in the morning.

Attached is the address, map, and directions of the screen test you will be doing. Please bring your business plan and do not be late.

Warmly,

Jane Adkins

Boiler Room Production Assistant

I had the good sense to hold onto the packet of papers without dropping them on my greasy pizza. I cleared my throat and set them down, digging back into my plate.

“Well?” Patrick asked, looking panicked. “Are you excited?”

Callie gave him a dark look. “I warned you that she’d be like this. Trust me, the fact that she’s still even in the
 
building
 
is a great, positive sign. I’d take what you got, Patrick.”

“You went behind my back to do this?” I hated feeling like I owed anyone anything. Hated it. It was bad enough that I was living on their dime in their million-dollar Lincoln Park townhouse.

Patrick looked panicked. “I thought…I thought you’d be excited. I know one of the producers and I made a few phone calls.”

I white-knuckled my fingers around the fork. The only thing I hated worse than owing someone was
 
preferential treatment based on who you know.

“I told you, she hates owing people,” Rachel intoned in an
 
I told you so
 
voice.

Patrick guffawed. “This isn’t 
owing
 
people! It’s a mutually beneficial business relationship. You need money for your business; the investors earn money in return!”

“But my entire business plan is based upon earning as little money as humanly possible,” I objected. “The investors are going to eat me up and swallow me alive. That's if I even make it past the producers.” My mind flashed to my marathon viewings of the show. Scott Friend, known ironically as “Mr. Friendly” would laugh me off the set. I blanched at the very thought.

Patrick swallowed and tilted his head back and forth. It was something he always did when he was nervous. The sound of his spine crackling always freaked me out. As per usual, it was doing absolutely nothing to calm my nerves. “Look, Rachel. The producers know that. If you make it through, you’ll be part of a special 
Chicago’s Finest
 
episode to kick off the new season. Complete with Zane Reid returning to the spotlight.”

I finished off my pizza slice and went in for a second one. Callie was nearly chugging her can of flavored, sparkling water and had hardly touched her meal. Stress caused her to not eat.
 
More for me
,
 
I thought drily. “So I get the human interest pity story treatment, and
 
Boiler Room’s
 
inhuman investors get to feel better about themselves for entertaining me for a few minutes?”

Callie laughed darkly. “She’s taking this just as well as I thought she would, Patrick.”

Patrick put his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Fine. I get it. I really, really do. I just think what you’re planning on doing is fantastic. But it’s not getting off the ground. You need a
 
huge 
influx of cash. Huge. Enormous. We could sell this apartment, cash out our 401(k) and Roth IRAs and
 
still 
only have only ten percent of what you need.”

This rankled me, but only because it was the truth. Patrick had an MBA from Wharton. He knew what he was talking about. “I’m getting a ton of press,” I pointed out pitifully. “That has to count for something.”

Patrick exhaled slowly. “Rachel. You and I both know that translates to absolutely nothing if you don’t have the product ready to go out to consumers.”

“I don’t want to get my start from a
 reality
 
show. It feels like…cheating, somehow.”

Callie finally spoke up. “You need to do this, Rachel. The world needs your idea. Desperately. You know that.”

She was right. So was Patrick.

I had to do this. It was the only shot I had left in the world.

It had to work.

CHAPTER THREE

ZANE

People always cleared the room for me.

It didn’t matter how little I was in the press, how few interviews I managed to do: no one would ever let me forget who I’d been. I was Chicago’s Golden Boy. I’d made history here in the NFL. And then I disappeared.

“Mr. Reid,” said a woman who I was mostly sure was named Jane. “I didn’t think you wanted to be here for the interviews.”

I shrugged. “What the fuck else am I going to do?” Everyone spends their lives saying the only thing they need to be happy is lots and lots of money. The thing billionaires never admit is that it’s the most boring life in existence. Which is precisely why I agreed to do this television show; on the condition that they bring it closer to me.

Despite what I’d said to Jim Smithson: I hated California.

Jane laughed nervously. “Well, this is wonderful. We’ll grab another seat for you.”

I shook my head. “I’ll be behind the two-way mirror,” I said, jerking my thumb behind us to the poster-sized rectangle of glass built into the wall. “Can’t use up all of my people skills in one sitting.”

She clearly didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Mr. Reid, we’ll be getting started with the first of the final dozen candidates. Of those twelve, six will be a part of the show’s season premiere.”

“Great,” I said dispassionately, turning around and heading toward the buffet table. I honestly didn’t care. I looked around to see who else I could intimidate for fun, but the entire staff seemed to be catching the energy I was emanating. They were busy avoiding me.

I filled a plate up with lox and bagels and grabbed a cup of coffee before climbing into the hidden room. It was small and dark with six folding chairs placed in rows.

Just as I was taking my first bite of bagel and salmon, the door opened. “Hey, asshole.” I looked up to see Roger standing there with a grin and a Red Bull. “Fancy seeing you putting in an honest day’s work.”

I smiled and set down my plate, standing up to do the one-harmed hug with back pat that all men seemed to intuitively recognize as the universal sign of brotherly love. “Right the fuck back at you,” I replied.

Roger smiled and sat down, popping open the energy drink with a
snap
.

“That shit will kill you, bro,” I said cautiously.

He shrugged. “Live fast, die young.” He exhaled and put his feet up on the chair in front of him. His pristine Italian leather shoes sparkled even in the dim light. “You ready for all this bullshit?” He gestured around him. “Television’s not like football. Or the tech industry. You actually have to interact with human beings.”

I grunted in response, setting down my food. “Bagels are dry.” I brushed my hands off on one another. “Why do you do this?”

Roger laughed. “Because this show’s the most popular on primetime and it’s the easiest way I know of to make millions of dollars.” He ran his hand over his perfectly slick-backed hair. Roger resembled a young Christian Bale circa the
American Psycho
era. To my knowledge he wasn’t dismembering people in his apartment, though. “Hey, looky here. Seems like we’ve got contestant number one.”

I gazed through the window and saw a nervous-looking white guy in his late forties holding a football under his arm. I felt my stomach drop slightly. I could smell the field in my memory, hear the roar of the crowd. I shook my head to get myself out of it. No good could come from any of that. The guy opened his mouth and started talking. I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Fuck,” Roger said, standing up to hit a speaker button on the wall. He pressed it multiple times. Nothing happened. “I guess the sound’s not working. Oh well.”

“Everyone at home thinks we don’t know these people until we sit down in those armchairs, right?” I asked, still staring at Football Man, who had dropped his glossy binder that undoubtedly contained his business plan. Jane stood up to help him collect the papers that had flown everywhere.

Roger nodded. “Yup.”

“Is
any
of this real?” I asked him skeptically.

“The deals are. I mean, not the ones you see on camera. Typically, we make an offer, there’s a soft verbal acceptance onscreen. Then off camera everyone’s lawyers go five rounds, and we crush them and take their souls as payment.” He grinned devilishly.

I sighed in response.

Roger rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Ethics. Half these people need us. The other half are using the show as free publicity. Most of these companies garner six times their annual sales in the twenty-four hours after the show airs. It’s all helping
someone
.” Football Guy finally stood up, flop sweat running down his face. “My bet is he’ll pass out on camera,” Roger said flatly. “It’d make for good TV though.” He finished off the last of the Red Bull, crumpling up the can and using a basketball throw to get it in the trashcan in the corner of the room. He made it. “And the crowd goes wild!” he yelled with over-acted enthusiasm.

I laughed.

“So, what have you been up to over the last month?” Roger asked. “Other than skulking around Wayne Manor with your British butler and wandering the dark streets of Gotham in spandex, of course.”

“Fuck off,” I said congenially. “My spandex is at the cleaners, unfortunately.” Roger chuckled. “Mostly parties,” I said. “I figured there was no need to turn over a new leaf until we started filming.” I checked my watch as a joke. “Twenty-four more hours of partying left.”

“Ah, yeah I heard the last one you threw was a real rager. Supermodels this time?”

My smile gave me away. “Sisters,” I replied. “From Milan.”

“God Bless Italy,” Roger sighed. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. I was in Tokyo.”

“Can’t really tell one party from the next at some point. You’ll catch the next one and it will look exactly the fucking same as the last. Minus the Italian sisters.”

“Eh, I don’t know. I hate being away from my phone right now. I’ve got a few deals going in Saudi Arabia. You know, it’s the ultimate irony that a billionaire who made the most popular social media app in the history of the universe doesn’t
allow
the use of said app at any of his own functions.”

One of the requirements of my parties was that everyone put their phones in a cabinet when they walk in the door. No pictures. No tweets. No social media. The last thing I wanted was confirmation that I was a sleazy man-whore. Even if that were entirely true. “Business deals? Eh, the oil will be there when the party’s over, Roger. It can wait.”

Roger fidgeted uncomfortably.

I narrowed my eyes. “Oh Christ. It’s not a business deal. It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“Okay, okay. You caught me.” But his eyes lit up. “Her name’s Christine. I met her in Los Angeles a few weeks ago.”