Wicked Billionaire Read online

  She shakes her head, another smile. “I can totally do that myself. I just appreciate so much what you do for us, I’d never ask you to do for me what I can.”

  “I love you, you silly goose,” I chide her, bending to kiss her cheek. “You raised me, which was no easy chore, so you should let me take care of you now.”

  “You were a dream to raise,” she corrects. “Wasn’t she, Lyle?”

  “Sure was,” he agrees, not even taking his attention from the TV. I glance at it, take in the tiled letters that Vanna White has revealed, and can see the answer clear as day. I won’t ruin it for my dad, though, and hold my peace.

  “Okay, let me get the kitchen squared away, and I’ll get your bottle changed out,” I say.

  This time her smile is grateful and apologetic. She hates me doing this for her, and I hate that she has to hate it. It’s not fair.

  “Are you working tonight?” my mom asks before I turn away. Her expression is worried. “You work way too much.”

  “No choice in that,” I mutter without any further explanation. My mom doesn’t need it. She knows that Caleb left me with a pile of debt when he… well, left me. What I don’t like is that she worries, so I say, “Actually… I got a new day job today. One that pays well enough I can ditch the Uber driving and blackjack dealing.”

  “Really?” my mom exclaims, her eyes brightening. It takes so little to make her happy. “Tell me all about it.”

  My dad actually shows some interest, taking the remote and muting the TV. His head swings my way. “Yeah… tell us all about it.”

  And well, I’m actually kind of excited about it to be honest. This could be the start of an actual career for me if I can manage to find some joy in working for such an arrogant boor of a man. I’ve never been able to figure out what to do with the business administration degree I got six years ago. Could never determine my passion.

  Still, it’s good news. I don’t have to work for Uber tonight, so I take a moment to chill with my parents. Plopping on the couch beside my mother, I tell my parents about my run-in with Declan Blackwood and how it netted me a job.

  ♦

  “There she is,” Jeff calls as I walk into his bar. He grins from behind the worn wooden top while he mixes a highball. “You’re way overdue.”

  Jeff Cordley is a high school classmate that had no higher ambition than to open up a bar. Which is a pretty big undertaking at just eighteen years of age. But with some seed money he had from his grandfather’s estate, he rented a dive location off the strip and set about making a friendly neighborhood bar the locals could hang out in away from the twinkling lights and tourists.

  That was almost ten years ago, and I come by when I get some free time for a beer and good conversation. While Jeff and I weren’t the closest of friends in high school, I’d consider him a good pal today. We’ve had some great conversations from across the bar top while I shook off a hard day with a beer or partied on the weekend back in my more carefree days.

  Back before I became a scorned wife riddled with debt and working like a dog to make ends meet.

  “Bud Light,” I call, which is a frivolous waste of words. Jeff is a great bartender, and he knows his customer’s preferences.

  There was a day I used to drink the high-end stuff. The few artisan beers he’d stock. But these days, he knows my budget calls for Bud Light. The bottle, all frosted and opened, already waits before I can plop my butt on a stool.

  I look around as I pick up the bottle. Many locals I recognize, a few I don’t. I take a long pull from the beer and set it back down.

  Jeff meanders over after making a few more drinks. “Decided to give yourself a night off?” he asks.

  “Actually, got a new job,” I reply.

  Jeff’s brows rise, and he gives me a wide smile. Reaching down into a cooler before him, he pulls out a fancy beer I’d typically drink and pops the top. “Congratulations, this one’s on the house.”

  “Thanks.” I settle in, explaining all about Declan Blackwood and my job as his assistant.

  “You have moxie,” Jeff says with a nod. “I’ve always said that.”

  Although Jeff has another bartender working behind the bar with him, he’s not one to ignore his customers to chat with another. I’ve learned over the years to converse with him in snatches of time. He moves off to serve a man two seats down. I sip at my beer, watching one of the TVs with a basketball game on.

  My phone starts ringing from within my purse, and I reach in to grab it. I sigh with annoyance at seeing Caleb’s name. I used to have his picture come up, but, after we split up, it was too painful.

  I’m over the heartbreak of it all, seeing as how it was over a year ago. Now he’s just… a pain in my ass.

  “Hello?” I answer, not committing to any familiarity with him.

  “Hey, Bails,” he says, carelessly using the nickname that’s reserved only for family and close friends. He’s neither to me, but I don’t call him on it.

  Instead, I rise above and make my reply friendly. “What’s up?”

  “Just calling to check-in… see how things are going with you?”

  I recognize the lie right away. While I may have missed many things in our marriage, I know that tone. Slightly pitched with a tinge of hesitation.

  Plus, he never calls just to check up on me. Only to make sure I’m still keeping up on my obligation to pay off half his credit card debt, which I inherited by marrying him.

  “Cut to the chase, Caleb,” I snap. “And whatever you need, let me just say no.”

  “I don’t need anything,” he replies quietly, and I hear the truth in that. It makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. If he’s not calling to check I’m paying on the credit card and he doesn’t need anything, well… there should be no reason for him to contact me at all.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, dreading what his answer may be. Does he want to reconcile? Because the answer would also be no. Does he have a terminal illness and want to come home so I can take care of him? Well, that wouldn’t be so easy to say no to, but damn it… I already take care of two sick parents.

  But yes, I’d do it. I was once in love with him. Despite how badly he hurt me, I suppose a part of me will still always care for him.

  “What’s wrong?” I demand again, preparing for the worst.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he says hesitantly. “In fact, everything’s right. I just… I wanted you to hear it from me before someone else told you.”

  “Hear what?” I prompt.

  “Felix and I are getting married,” he murmurs guiltily.

  I don’t expect the twinge of pain in the center of my chest. It’s not deep or brutal, but it’s an annoyance, just like Caleb. It still pinches to hear.

  I mean, of course it hurts my ex-husband is going to marry the man he cheated on me with.

  Yeah… that’s one of the things I missed in our marriage.

  The fact my husband was gay.

  Bisexual, he’d say, which is fine. I just had no clue he was attracted to men, and, yes, one of the things that burns is that part of the joint credit card debt I’m helping to pay off is for shit he bought Felix or spent on him. Like presents, secret hotels, and gay bars.

  Ugh.

  Still, I force myself to swallow past the bitterness. “Congratulations.”

  “I’m sorry,” he offers.

  “It’s fine,” I assure him.

  There’s an awkward silence. Finally, he asks, “How are your parents?”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose with my finger and thumb, I breathe out a long sigh. “Let’s not do this, Caleb. Let’s not pretend we’re going to be friends and you care about my family. That’s all done. I’m happy that you’re happy. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Bailey,” he murmurs sympathetically.

  “Oh, and stop calling me to check on the credit card payments.”

  “Yeah, okay… fine,” he replies, sounding almost eager to give me something. Sort of
like a parting consolation prize.

  “Have a great life, Caleb.” After I disconnect my phone, I set it down beside my purse. I finish off my Bud Light and push the empty toward the edge of the bar top, taking the artisan beer in hand.

  Jeff appears before me, dumping the empty and placing his forearms on the edge of the bar. “Let me guess… that was Caleb on the phone.”

  I blink in surprise.

  He shrugs. “Looks like you smelled shit in your beer or something.”

  Jeff knows about Caleb. As a couple, we hung out here together. After we split, Jeff was a friend, as well as a bartending ear. Of course, he knows about my painful humiliation and heartbreak over my husband leaving and about me having no clue he liked men.

  Although I should have known.

  “How did I miss he was bi?” I ask. It’s not the first time we’ve pondered this. “I mean… it was all right there. We’d role play or tell each other our fantasies, and he’d offer to invite another man into the bedroom with us. I thought it was sweet and generous that he’d do that for me, but I always declined. Now I know he wasn’t offering for me. Instead, he was offering for himself.”

  Jeff stares, wearing an inscrutable expression.

  I grimace. “Too much information?”

  He shakes his head. “Not at all. In fact, I was just thinking… have you even dated since you two broke up?”

  I shrug, not sure if a horrible experience with a Tinder date counts. The man who met me for dinner was most certainly not the same as the photo on the profile.

  Regardless, dating is hard and time-consuming. I don’t have room in my life for the stress of it.

  “You need to get laid,” he says with a firm nod of his head.

  Far from being offended, I incline my head in curiosity. “That simple, huh?”

  “Your heart is still raw,” he observes.

  “My heart is completely fine,” I counter adamantly. “I am so over Caleb.”

  “Of that, I’m sure,” Jeff agrees sympathetically. “But you’ve had it hard, Bailey. Your marriage failing, working three jobs, caring for ailing parents, paying for debt that isn’t yours… When do you ever do anything for yourself?”

  He has a point. I don’t do anything for myself. While Caleb and I were by no means well off, our dual-income household made us comfortable. I used to get my hair done and nails manicured often. I would buy pretty clothes, and we’d eat out at nice restaurants when the mood hit.

  I’m intrigued Jeff would boil down something nice for myself to simply sex. But I have to admit… a great orgasm is a definite tension buster, and nothing says relaxation like the feeling after.

  This I know, as my vibrator has gotten plenty of use since Caleb left, but it’s not a sure-fire replacement for a great fucking. And despite the fact Caleb liked men as much as women, the man sure knew how to use his dick.

  “I don’t have it in me to date, though,” I say regrettably.

  “Who said anything about dating?” Jeff replies with a laugh. “My wife and I met at a sex club. Maybe you should try that.”

  And then… he moves off to serve another customer while I stare after him with my mouth agape.

  A sex club?

  That’s how he met Amy? I would have never guessed. She’s a freaking fifth-grade schoolteacher.

  My mouth is still hanging open when he comes back, his grin sly and mischievous. “Too much information?” he teases back.

  I shake my head slowly before leaning in to whisper. “You and Amy met at a sex club?”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “We still go sometimes. Keeps things spicy.”

  “I didn’t even know sex clubs were a thing,” I mutter, taking a long pull on my beer. “You just go inside, and what… find someone to hook up with there?”

  “Well, there are different kinds around Vegas. Some are pretty seedy, while others are high end. You can Google it.”

  I think about it for about three seconds before I shake my head resolutely. “Yeah… I don’t think I could do that. Just walk into a place and hook up with someone I don’t know.”

  “A lot safer than meeting people online,” he counters, and well… that could be a good point.

  Still, I don’t think I’d have the guts to try it. Not by myself. Maybe if I had a close friend who would go with me, but that would be a little weird.

  And moot since most of my friendships have dried up. The joint friends I had with Caleb aren’t an option because that’s way too awkward. And the couple of girlfriends I used to routinely hang out with have probably forgotten who I am over the past year since I’ve had to decline invitation after invitation to do fun things with them. They’ve given up on me.

  I take another sip of my beer, thinking about relationships, sex, and hookups.

  And the only conclusion I can come up with is I should just stick with my vibrator. I have a good, guaranteed outcome there, and it will remain faithful to me as long as I keep it stocked with batteries.

  CHAPTER 5

  Declan

  The executive offices of The Blackwood Vegas don’t take up much space. There’s a large corner office overlooking the championship golf course attached to the property, which I currently occupy, and it will be filled by a new general manager once I move on to the next property under construction. To the left and right of the office are smaller ones belonging to the VPs of marketing, operations, and human resources, as well as an office for our head chef who oversees three fine dining restaurants on the property. Directly catty-corner to my office is an open area with several large cubicles where the administrative staff works, including the first cubicle that will be the workstation for my new assistant if she ever bothers to show up.

  Not that she’s technically late. I told her I like to get started by eight each morning—as well as reminded her there is no official quitting time. That just happens to be when I’m done for the day, and I expect the same from her. While it’s only 7:45, I honestly expected her earlier. She’s proven to be a diligent worker with a laudable ethic, and I thought she might start early by trying to impress me. I know I shouldn’t hold it against her. Frankly, I’m not sure if I’m disappointed that she’s not trying to impress me, or perhaps I’m just eager to see her again.

  I know I sure as hell have thought about her way too much since I released her from my services yesterday. She did an admirable job of salvaging the entire fundraiser for the Canterbury Art Center, and I mercifully let her leave at five last night.

  Leaning back in my chair, I swivel it to look out the window at the golf course. Despite the early hour, it already has early morning hackers out there. The typical Blackwood patron has, at a minimum, several million in their investment portfolio and comes to stay with us in Vegas for the multitudes of opportunity to indulge. Many will bring along their wives, who will be happy staying at the Blackwood with our world-class spa while they head into the city to do wicked things bad husbands do behind their spouse’s backs.

  I know about those things, but seeing as how I’m not married, there’s no moral dilemma. No telling how many countless cheating pricks were at The Wicked Horse last night, but not my place to judge them. Live and let live, I always say, and not to say there aren’t cheating wives. I’m sure I’ve inadvertently hooked up with a few during my visits there.

  No clue about the woman I was with last night, her name already forgotten. That’s the beauty of having a membership at a sex club, the encounters can be as anonymous as you like them to be without any hurt feelings. It’s because every person there is seeking one thing, and one thing only… a satisfying release.

  Perhaps I didn’t bother remembering much about the woman last night because while I was with her, I was doing a bit of fantasizing about my newest assistant. Every fucking dirty thing I did to that woman, I imagined it was Bailey Robbins. I wondered how she would respond to kink and if she got off on dirty talk, because I’m exceptional at both.

  It was a better than average night at
my favorite sex club. Most of the time, I was in my head in my own little private fantasies.

  Which, of course, led me to thinking about those things when I woke up and in the shower when I jacked off.

  Even now, as I sit here viewing the lush greenery of hole number fourteen and the tee for hole number fifteen, I wonder if she’s a screamer when she comes.

  Not that I can do anything about it.

  Unfortunately, Bailey Robbins will have to remain firmly in my fantasies because one thing I don’t do is dally with my employees. It’s bad business all the way around.

  A slight tapping sound on my open office door has me swiveling my chair that way, and the object of my current fascination is standing there just at the threshold.

  I can tell immediately that she’s nervous, just by her bearing. She’s attempting for confident with her shoulders pushed back and chin slightly elevated, but the way her hands are clasped just a little too tightly reveals her discomfort.

  Because I love everything about a beautiful woman, I tend to take in their appearance from head to toe, concentrating on the shapes, subtle lines, and curves. My eyes note with a critical awareness that Bailey’s wardrobe is cheap but certainly functional. She’s wearing a simple black suit that could pass as crepe but is probably a polyester blend. It consists of a knee-length skirt that hugs her hips, a black mid-length jacket, and a cream blouse. Her shoes are black faux leather with sturdy blocked heels, and the one thing I appreciate is her bare legs. I fucking hate pantyhose.

  Yes, totally functional for this job if she were to sit in the office all day and work on a computer. Not apropos for the business lunch I intended to have her attend with me today. Or potentially the business dinner I thought about requiring her to attend. It’s something I’ll remedy soon.

  “Miss Robbins.” My tone is crisp and professional. I push up out of my chair, buttoning my jacket.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she demurs politely, which does nothing to soothe my ire she didn’t anticipate the fact I would have liked her here earlier. “I am so sorry I’m late.”