The Billionaire's BBW Secret

Amazon Edition

Copyright 2013 Mallorie Griffin

 
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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 “Ugh, damned hair,” Denny scowled
and dragged a shiny black comb through her rat's nest of mousy brown hair.  Her
scowl deepened at that thought.  Rat's nest... mousy brown... why did she have
to think of rodents right now?

No matter.  She whipped the comb
through, again and again, hoping to achieve some semblance of order in her fine
locks.  She'd never really like her hair.  It was middle length and straight,
but not thick.  It was fine as a baby's, and easy to break.  She had to be
careful, or else she could very well make her hair even thinner than it already
was.

Her hair was the only part of her
body that could aptly be described as 'thin', of course.  Every other part of
her was thick, and not in a good way, she was certain.  It must have been why
her husband of seven years left her.

It wasn't only that.  It was that
damned floozy he'd ran off with.  Apparently they'd been sleeping together for
over a year, and the bitch finally convinced him to pull up his roots and leave
Denny.

She didn't even know the woman's
name.  She only saw her once, standing smugly by Rob as he handed her the
divorce papers, then packed everything out of their apartment and left.  He
took everything.  The TV, the bed, the furniture.

And her heart.

Of course, that was a ridiculous
romantic's way of looking at things.  Denny knew their marriage had its
issues.  She knew it wasn't perfect.  But she didn't think it was that bad.

She didn't want to be reminded of
Rob anymore, and that apartment was nothing
but
a dismal reminder of her
failed marriage and her failed life.  So she pulled up her own roots, took her
meager savings, and moved on as well.  At least she hoped to move on.

She hadn't even found a job yet.

Which brought her to the combed
hair?  What she was going after was a long shot of a job – a personal assistant
for someone – but she thought she could do it.  After all, she'd been personal
assistant to Rob for nine long years, including the time they'd lived to
together but not in holy matrimony, and she was quite good at babysitting an
adult.

But she wasn't stupid.  She knew
personal assistants were generally young.  And pretty.  She was neither.  She
was frumpy and fat, and middle age loomed on the horizon.  She was only thirty,
and she already felt that the best parts of her life lay behind her, not ahead.

Ma'am.  That was what the young boy
at the grocery store called her yesterday. 
Ma'am.
  It wasn't the first
time she'd been called that, she was certain, but it was the first time she
remembered it so clearly.  She wasn't a miss anymore; she was a dowdy old
matron.  Perhaps she should give up on this interview, and just go find a
school to be a teacher at, or a hospital to be a nurse.

She cursed and yanked her hair back
into a severe bun.  If she couldn't be young and sexy, at least she could look
put-together and organized.  Perhaps whoever was doing the hiring was actually
looking for an assistant, not eye candy.

Denny sighed, and then got to work
on her makeup.  She shouldn't be so pessimistic and she knew it, but it was
difficult to be anything but after the last year she had to endure.  She lost
her husband, she lost her job in the process of moving as far away from him as she
could, and she just lost everything.  She needed something to pick her up and
get her life back on track, and she could only hope that it was this job.

There.  Hair done, makeup done,
interview outfit applied, and she was ready to go.  At least, she looked
ready.  She certainly didn't feel ready.

Turning the light off, she stepped
out of the shabby bathroom and into the equally shabby apartment.  It was all
she could afford at the moment, but there no hiding the fading, peeling
wallpaper from the seventies, or the carpets that had suffered through years of
abuse at the hands of toddlers and the paws of unruly cats and dogs.  The
radiator in the corner rattled and spat just then, adding to the ambiance of
the place.

Denny needed to get out of this
hell hole.

And get out she would.  She stood
up straight, squared her shoulders, and picked up her leather satchel that
contained everything she needed for the interview.  She needed to stop having
her pity party and get out there.  First step, get this job.  Second step, save
enough money to get into a better place.  Third step, put the rest of her life
back together.

One step at a time.

She made her way out the apartment
complex.  The dim, narrow hallway smelled vaguely unpleasant, like vomit and
piss and just enough chemicals to accentuate the former odors, not cover them
up.  She hated this place.  She had to get out of here.

Walking quickly, she hurried down
the stairs and out into the relatively fresh air.  It really wasn't terribly
fresh.  It smelled of exhaust fumes and burnt cat food.  There was some sort of
processing plant upwind of the complex, and apparently they processed burnt cat
food.  That Denny's only guess at least.

“Ey, Miss Denny!”  She turned and
looked at the man who was approaching her, and cracked a half-smile.  Everyone
called the guy crazy Ray, and he was crazy, not to mention homeless.  But he
was a nice enough sort, and he made sure to learn everyone's name.  It was a
sneaky, underhanded way to worm himself into other peoples' hearts, but Denny
couldn't blame him.

“Hey Ray,” she said back, digging
into the pocket of her black wool skirt for a quarter.  She always made sure to
carry loose change for Ray.  It's not that she didn't want to give him more
than fifty cents at a time; it was just that she couldn't afford it.

“How's it going?” he asked as Denny
slipped the shiny silver coin into his palm.  It was almost an unspoken rule
that one slipped Ray money as they talked to him.  Everyone did it, so he came
to expect it.

“I'm on my way to an interview,”
Denny smiled, trying to look attractive.  She may as well start practicing on
someone, and Ray was as good as anyone else out there.

“That's fantastic,” he said in his
familiar Southern drawl.  “You go and let me know if you get that job.”

Denny nodded.  “I will, I certainly
will.”  He grasped her hand in his, and the skin felt warm, cracked, and
leathery, how she imagined a rhino's skin might felt.  He was so old.  “But I
have to get going now.”

“Of course, of course.”  He nodded
and pocketed the quarter in one fluid motion, and Denny hoped that one day
she'd be able to give him more than that pittance.

For now, she had to get going.

She hurried along the busy sidewalk
of the bustling city.  This was New York after all, and it was never slow in
New York.  The day was a rather dismal one, dirty and gray with a late fall
rain threatening.  Denny pulled the collar of her well-worn coat higher.  At
least it wasn't threatening snow.  It wasn't cold enough for that yet.

The wind blew, tousling her hair as
she made for the subway.  This particular station was the closest one to her
but it smelled like urine.  She didn't much care for it but going to another
station meant walking another several blocks, and that took time she just
didn't have today.

She wrinkled her nose as she
descended the dingy tiled steps.  A blast of warm air blew up into her face,
filling her nose with the familiar, unwelcome scent.  No help for it.  She
descended the steps, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Subway stations always felt more
than a little cave-like to Denny.  If she closed her eyes on a quiet night in
one, if all she could hear was water dripping, she could almost believe that she
was in one.

Right now, that little fantasy was
impossible.  It was just after rush hour and there were still many, many people
scurrying to and fro.  And she was about to become one of those people.

Approaching a kiosk, she slid her
subway card through, and made her way to a train.  She slipped a hand into her
pocket and pulled out the piece of paper holding the address.  She'd
double-checked the location on Google maps before she left so she knew the
way.  But holding the paper gave her the tiny confidence boost she needed.  She
was going to do this.  Even if she didn't get this job, she would get a
different one.

Denny didn't much like riding the
subway, as the seats on the trains were far too small, but she didn't have much
of an option.  Keeping a car in New York City was prohibitively expensive after
all.  So she made due, as she always did.  The situation wasn't ideal but it
was a livable one.

When the train arrived with a loud
squeal and a stench of acrid smoke, the doors opened.  People poured out of
them, and then Denny wedged herself in with the other passengers.  She was
certain some were shooting glares at her.  How dare she take up more space than
what was allotted, she was sure they were thinking.  How dare she be fat?

She didn't care.  She just wanted
to sit down.  She was a bundle of nerves at the moment and her legs felt like
they were going to kick themselves straight out from under her.

Luckily, she found a seat in the
back of the train, and squeezed into it before anyone else could.

Then the train set off.

Denny tried not to look at anyone. 
It was best not to make eye contact on the sub.  Instead, she pulled out her
phone and loaded up a simple game to pass the time.

Before long, the operator called
out the station she needed on the tinny speaker, barely audible through the
static and fuzz.

One switched train and a ten minute
walk later, and Denny found herself in front of the imposing building where her
interview was.  She swallowed, and another cool breeze knocked some more of her
hair askew.

Then she made for the building.

Inside, it was spacious, and on the
high end of luxurious.  The floor was a sea of highly polished, slick white
marble, and there were matching marble columns to boot.  Corinthian columns,
she noted idly as her sensible flats plodded along on the floor.  There were
ferns everywhere; it was as if whoever did the interior decorating for this
building wanted to give the impression of a jungle.  It didn't exactly work. 
Denny was still fully aware that she was in the middle of New York.

She glanced about, feeling woefully
out of place.  More people of all ages ran about in business suits, including
the women.  She felt extremely under-dressed in comparison, but there was no
help for it.  She certainly couldn't go home and change even if she had
something more appropriate to change into.

Instead she took a deep breath,
steeled herself, and made for what looked like the receptionist desk.

A very bored, very pretty woman was
sitting there, staring at a computer monitor.  She ignored Denny, even after
she coughed, forcing the other woman to speak.

“Excuse me?” Denny said just loud
enough for the receptionist to hear.  The woman rolled her eyes and tossed her
perfectly coiffed brunette curls, then not-quite-glared at Denny.  She flushed. 
She couldn't help it.  She knew what the woman was thinking.

What was this fat slob doing
here?

“Can you direct me to-” she pulled
out the paper, fumbling with it.  “Office 14014?”

“Yes, just-” the woman was cut off
as the phone by her rang.  She immediately picked it up.  It was as if she
wanted to avoid conversation with Denny, and the phone conveniently rang just
then.  “Hello, Larson tower,” she said, staring intently at the computer
screen.  “Mmhm.  No, no, not busy at all, sir.  Yes, in fact she just arrived. 
All right.  Yes.”  As she spoke, she waved Denny toward an elevator.  It seemed
more like she was shooing her away than directing her.  Denny shook her head in
disbelief at the way she was being treated, but rather than make a scene she ignored
it and headed for the elevator.

Or elevators, rather.  There was a
bank of eight impressive looking lifts for this massive building, all shiny
gold metallic extravagances.  One pinged opened as she made her way over, but
she didn't rush.  She didn't want to possibly trip or make more of a scene than
she already had.

Thankfully, someone was courteous
enough to hold the door for her.  Denny picked up her pace slightly, shuffling
along the smooth floor.