Filthy Rich: The Billionaire's Baby (A Bad Boy Romance)

She plopped my drink on the table, rum-and-coke with more alcohol than soda, and flicked her hair over her shoulder before walking away. My eyes were locked on her delicious curves, and the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor (
Clickclackclickclack
) managed to drown out the god-awful thumping music for a moment.

I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and right now it’s flooded with images of her and that built-to-fuck body: those ruby-red lips stretched around the girth of my nine inches, her jaw locked in place as she struggles with my length, her lipstick staining my cock as she bobs up and down.

Salon-fresh butter-blond curls rest on her bare shoulders and bounces with each excited step as she click-clacks around the bar to deliver drinks. Her mouth-watering (and dick-hardening) curves are squeezed into a skin-tight strapless hot-pink dress that’s only held up by her perfectly round tits. The dress is cheap, but those shoes aren’t: Jimmy Choo’s if I’m not mistaken.

A flock of smelly-looking hipsters horde around the wobbly old table. I watch them watch her, and I feel a pang of possessive anger whenever one of them stares at her through their clear lenses. One lowers his hand to smack her on the ass but she dodges the lame attempt and slinks off towards the bar.

Click

Clack

Click

Clack

The sound disappears, and I’m left alone with my drink and my thoughts. I run my fingers along the lip of the glass as the images in my mind become fuzzy and unclear. My eyes shift from the table to the bar and back again as I wait for her to reappear. The last image of her vanishes and is replaced with words.

You need to make your fucking move. You don’t have time to play around.

No, I don’t—I really fucking don’t. I’m not normally the doe-eyed stranger in the bar waiting for a chance to ask the cute waitress for her number. I’m a doer. I’m a taker. I see what I want, and I take two handfuls (and I really want two handfuls of her right now), but I can’t seem to find the right words for this woman.

She’s not like the others, those stick-think Barbie-types that follow me around like a bad smell follows those hipsters, she’s different. I’ve never liked those runway-ready magazine-pretty girls that the media try to shove down our throats. Those always-cold high-maintenance chicks that insist on going to a fancy French-named restaurant only to order a stick of celery and a glass of water. No, I don’t want them, I want
her.

I want her in my in my life as much as I want her in my bed. That voice returns.

You don’t have time to play around. You don’t have time to ask her for her number. You don’t have time to woo her or to wait for the third date to fuck. You don’t need a girlfriend, you need a fucking wife.

Never planned on getting married. Most men won’t admit it, but a lot of dudes grow up dreaming of their wedding day. Not me, not with my role model. But I don’t have a choice anymore.

My family name is etched into the foundations of New York, and I’ll be damned if I let my mutt of a half-brother take what is rightfully mine. My grandfather, Louis, chiseled his name into the concrete, but it was my—also named Louis—that put the Kingsley name in the sky. I intend to push it higher: to the fucking stars.

But he’ll never give me what’s mine, not with my reputation.

Jack, my dimwitted half-brother, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow most of the time, but he’s got a wife and kids. He’s stable. He’s dependable. More importantly, he’s got a son that can take over the reins when the time comes.

Dad’s only been talking about one thing for the last few months: legacy. He hasn’t said anything yet, but his actions tell me everything I need to know. He’s showing Jack the ropes so that he can take over Kingsley International when the time comes.

Not. A. Fucking. Chance.

I’m risky and impulse. I’m a liability, and I need to change if I’m to claim my birthright.

I wrap my fingers around the glass and lift it to my lips just as the blond reappears; she’s giggling with a friend and flicking her hair. Her eyes glance in my direction, and I grin right back. I’ve been parked on the same stool for a week trying to think of the right words.

I’ve tried to be calm and calculated, but it’s got me nowhere.

Fuck it.

I’ve tried to do it my father’s way. Now I do it
my
way. I go to stand, but the bulge in my pants convinces me to sit back down and turn away from the bar. I’ll make my move as soon as my not-so-little friend softens.

“He’s totally checking you out,” Molly whispers as she presses her glossy lips against my ear.

My eyes drift from the handsome stranger to my friend, colleague, and roommate all balled up in to one. Molly is short and thin and ever so cute. Wavy fresh-from-the-bottle red hair rests on her shoulders and her to-die-for figure is perfectly accentuated by her yellow polka dot vest and stonewashed denim skirt.

Molly is awesome. We met just a couple of months ago, but she’s already my BFF. She prized the Ben & Jerry’s  Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice-cream out of my fingers, ripped off the Tweety-bird yellow bathrobe that I’d been wearing for longer than I’d care to admit, and dragged me down to
Jammy’s
to get this job that I now find myself in.

I’m just a drinks-fetcher, which wasn’t my major at Berkeley by the way, but I’m really enjoying being out and experiencing life again. Being Allie again. I traveled across the width of America for a fresh start and found myself in New York.

The journey was so exciting that I couldn’t even enjoy the in-flight entertainment. Ryan Gosling and Rachel Adams had to take a backseat to my journal. I sat there scribbling away. Imagining all the wonderful things I could do in the Big Apple. How I’d finally kickstart the career that had been on hold for so long that opportunity was about to hang up.

The excitement didn’t last long. I turned on my phone to check my messages and there it was.

If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere.

I didn’t recognize the number, but I did recognize the tone. I shake the thought from my mind. Literally. I literally shake my head to get that man out of my mind as Molly tries to hook me up with someone new.

“I’m not sure, Molly, maybe he’s just thirsty.”

“Oh come on, Allie. Look around. The place is full of baristas and wannabe-writers. That guy is here for more than a stiff drink if you know what I mean.”

I always know what she means. Molly doesn’t do subtle.

But she was right, he did stand out from the regulars. The locals are short and skinny-fat while he’s tall and muscular. They wear loose-fitting faux western shirts and black-framed glasses with clear lenses while he’s dressed in a muscle-hugging Italian-cut suit that belongs in an upscale overly-expensive wine bar rather than a place that would need renovations to be called a dive bar.

“Maybe he’s waiting for a friend or something.”

“He’s looking to
make
a friend, Allie. He’s been here every night this week. Every. Night. And he just sits there waiting for you to take his order.”

“Oh, come on, now you’re making stuff up.”

“Allie Quinn, don’t make me slap you on that pretty face of yours. You
know
he is. I must’ve gone over to him ten times this week to ask him if he wants another drink, and he always says no; even if he’s got an empty glass.”

“Maybe he’s just not thirsty, ever think of that?”

“Oh, he’s thirsty, sweetie. That’s why he lets you take his order if his glass is full.”

I know she’s right. I hope she’s right. But guys like him aren’t supposed to go for girls like me. I’m carrying a few more curves than I probably should (thanks, Ben and Jerry) and my tummy is a little smooth. Sure, I feel much better now than I did when I was elbow-deep in ice-cream, but I don't know if I could take the rejection.

“I don’t know, Molly, I don’t even know his name.”             

“Sure you do. He’s rum-and-coke guy. He’s tall, and he’s hot, and he’s not TJ. That’s all you need to know right now, Allie.”

I shudder when I hear those two letters. Tee. Jay. They sound so sweet on their own, but I can’t stand to hear them together.

“What would I even say? ‘Hey, rum-and-coke guy. I’m Allie, Allie Quinn, want to come back to my place? Oh no, don’t mind all of the candy wrappers on the floor or the wet tissues on the nightstand, and try not to get your balls stuck in that half-eaten bucket of cookie’s and cream cheesecake core, I’m saving that for after. ‘ “

Molly's lips curl into a soft smile.

“Hey, it’s better than an after-sex cigarette. Besides, a guy like that doesn’t live at home with mom. He’ll have a mansion or a penthouse apartment or something. And, if you do decide to take him back to our place, make sure that you leave an empty tub on the doorknob so I can make myself scarce.”

We share a laugh. Molly is amazing, and exactly what I needed after I left California. New York was intimidating at first. It’s weird how you could feel so alone when you’re surrounded by eight million strangers yet so safe with just one friend.

“Well, Denton did say that someone’s been asking about me all week. Said he was real eye-candy too.”

My boss, Denton, is a prize-winning asshole. He called me an
enhancement hire
two days into the job. Apparently having me around makes all of the other girls look even prettier. His words are so harsh they could bruise so I didn’t take him seriously at first. I thought it was a joke at my expense. Maybe he was telling the truth.

“See! I told you he was checking you out. Your first month on the job and you’re already turning heads. I bet you’re glad you traded in that urine-yellow bathrobe for the killer pink dress now, huh?

Molly linked her arm with mine and led me towards his table. His head was turned away, and I felt like I was going to explode, but I didn’t stop until Molly let go of my arm just a few feet from his table.

“It’s now or never, babe,” she said as she tucked a loose curl behind my ear.

His head was still turned. His fingers dragged along the rim of the glass. The music was loud, but I could still hear my heart race. I opened my lips to speak, but no words came out. I was just about to try again when I felt a clammy hand on my wrist.

I spun around expecting Molly only to find a beer-loose stranger.

He wore thick, get-in-my-van glasses that looked like they were from 1984. Not the movie, the year. A mop of thinning red curls—natural red, not Molly-red—rested on his large head, and his freckled quick-to-sunburn pale skin was so white it was almost translucent. He was short and wide. Thick blue veins ran up his muscular forearms (the right noticeably more muscular than the left) and disappeared behind the black ink of a once-in-vogue tribal tattoo.

“I’ve wanted to ask you something all week, doll.”

The confidence that Molly filled me with fluttered away. So this is the guy Denton was talking about. He opened his mouth again, and the smell of garlic and beer seeped out.

“How would you like to earn a tip?” His eyes drooped as he said it. Nothing hotter than a guy that learns his pickup lines from a 1990’s porno click.

His gruff voice was slurred from a night of heavy drinking, and his buggy eyes were magnified behind his large glasses. At least he doesn't wear clear lenses. His thinning hair swayed as air-conditioning pumped into the bar, and the breeze turned his warm grin cold.

“I asked you a fucking question.” He said matter-of-factly, the earlier playfulness gone from his voice.

“Can I help you?” The new voice was deep and powerful: a man’s voice.

A steady hand appeared on the bug-eyed man’s shoulder. My eyes climbed over the solid-gold Rolex watch and dragged up the fine Italian cotton coating his arm before stopping at his lips; which were still visible even with his thick well-groomed beard.

Rum-and-coke guy to the rescue.

“I’m talking to her, not you.” The bug-eyed man said curtly.

With what seemed like little more than a flick of his wrist, rum-and-coke guy spun the bug-eyed man around until they were eye to eye; well, eye to nipple. Standing six-foot-and-then-some, my ash-blond haired stranger towered over the red-headed nuisance.

“Now you’re talking to me,” He said.

The bug-eyed man’s back was to me, but his trembling shoulders told me that he probably wasn’t staring at rum-and-coke guy with the same anger he showed me.

The two shared a couple of whispers. Feeling a confidence that I hadn’t felt since I was a single woman in California, I reached out and spun the bug-eyed man towards me; it took a couple of goes, and I’m sure rum-and-coke guy helped a little, but I’d like to think it was mostly me that got him to spin.

“How about you take your cheesy Ron Jeremy pickup lines and get your Ron Howard’s-weird-looking-brother ass out of here.”

His eyes were still cold, but his lip was trembling. It’s not like me to say something that cruel. Not even when I was back home. But there is only so much one girl can take. And he did look like Ron Howard’s brother. You know, that strange-looking dude that always pops up when you watch a movie from the 90’s? That guy.

The bug-eyed man shrugged his shoulder, and rum-and-coke guy let go. He let out a sigh and rushed towards the door. I leaned to the side and watched him leave, and when I turned back, I was face to face with my favorite customer.

“Thanks for that,” I said as my eyes danced from his lips to his eyes.

His ocean-blue eyes were so deep you could drown. His intense stare was intimidating but welcomed.

“I should be thanking you,” he said as his expressionless face warmed, “I think he was about to swing for me.”

I wiped my hand on my dress and offered it out; he accepted it immediately.

“Allie Quinn.”

“Louis Kingsley.”

Goodbye rum-and-coke guy, hello Louis Kingsley: the man of my wet dreams.

“I knew he was a creep when I saw those To Catch A Predator glasses that he was wearing,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve only ever seen them in police sketches, I didn’t know people actually wore them in real life.”

“I’ve seen more than my fair share, but they’re usually accessorized with a trench coat, bare ankles, and a van of questionable cleanliness.”

“I didn’t see a trench coat,” I chuckled.

“It’s probably out in his van. I’m sure he’d be willing to show you more than his ankles as well if you ask him nicely. Nicer than you asked him to fuck off.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Louis. I didn’t
ask
him to fuck off, I
told
him to fuck off.”

We shared a stare, and this time, I didn’t need to look away.

My confidence was stolen in California, but I feel like it’s coming back when I look at him. I feel like
me
again. I feel like Allie.

I was just about to ask my hero he wanted something to drink when Denton’s nose came into shot.

My boss is two inches shorter than me—five with the Chinese knockoff Jimmy Choo’s that TJ (
shudder)
bought for me, my favorite anything and the only thing that survived the TJ-purge before I left for New York—and Denton has looked down on me since I arrived.

Denton is a short, dude-bro with big but out-of-proportion muscles. Massive biceps and small triceps. Thick, meaty traps and a pencil thin neck. A broad chest but no lats. He’s the kind of guy that brags about
slaying puss
despite the fact that his phone never rings, and he’s always available to work overtime. There’s nothing wrong with a short guy, TJ wasn’t much bigger than my boss, but there is most certainly something wrong with a guy with short-man syndrome.

He’s wearing a way-too-tight black polo neck shirt. So tight that it makes you wonder if he thinks his
gains
will fall out if he wore something looser.