Single Mom Wanted for Fake Marriage: A Billionaire Romance

by Aubrey Dark

  They’d turned the soundboard counter into a bar, and Piers looked like he was getting a kick out of playing bartender for the night. The studio was jammed from wall to wall to celebrate our last run in New York. There were probably a dozen platinum records sitting at the makeshift bar.

  Three years ago, I would have been drooling at the opportunity to network with the big names in the biz. But tonight, after a killer show at Shea, I just wanted to find a girl to take home. Maybe two, to get rid of this bug up my ass.

  Hell, maybe three.

  Pops wasn’t there yet, but his latest girlfriend was leaning over the bar, helping herself to a bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label.

  Figures. Sherry was poison, and it was probably her that made me feel something in the air wasn’t right. Oh fucking well. A drink would fix everything.

  “Shots on me!” I yelled, and the crowd roared their approval. I motioned to Piers, who quickly yanked the bottle of Jack Daniels out of Sherry’s hand and flipped it over the counter to me.

  “You know what I like, Piers,” I said, ignoring Sherry’s dirty stare. “You in the weeds yet?”

  “If I wasn’t before, I am now. This place is a bloody madhouse,” he said, in such a proper British accent I couldn’t help but chuckle. Piers wasn’t really into music—I don’t think he’d ever sat through one of my concerts in its entirety. But chicks dig accents, and Piers played it up whenever he came out after one of my shows.

  “Hey, you wanted to be the bartender.”

  “You kidding? I can’t tell you how much shit I’ve overheard already. If I wanted to blackmail someone in the music business, I’d be all set.”

  “Remind me never to get you mad.”

  “Don’t worry. I think the tabloids have already printed every picture of your bare ass in existence.”

  “Not bare anymore.”

  “You finally got that tattoo?”

  “Bet your bare ass I did! Wanna see it?” I started to unbutton my jeans, but Piers held up his hands.

  “Whoa! Later, big boy. Don’t want to scare away all the ladies with your derriere.”

  “Scare them away? I’ll have you know that girls fly across the world to get to see this.”

  “Humor me and keep your pants up for the first hour of this party, Clint. You showed up before most of the security guards.”

  “Fine,” I said, tucking my shirt back into my jeans. “Wouldn’t want to start a riot, I guess.”

  “Thank you for not flashing everyone in here. Trust me, it’s a great kindness.”

  “You’re so welcome.”

  I leaned back against the bar, looking out over the crowd again. Still no Pops. And Sherry was flirting with some other producer, I forget his name. What a bitch. My fingers itched at my side, and I tapped out a beat on my knee.

  “How was the show?” Piers asked, interrupting my rhythm.

  “Huh? Oh, great! We all kicked ass.”

  “So?”

  I looked up, unscrewing the cap off of the bottle. Piers was already stacking shot glasses in a pyramid on the bar top. I stole a glass and poured myself one.

  “So?”

  “So why does your face look like you just licked a sour pussy?”

  “Fuck, I dunno,” I said. He gave me a look that said he wasn’t going to give up that easily. I’ll give Piers one thing—he knew how to read people. Especially me.

  I leaned over the bar so that I didn’t have to yell. I was trying to figure out what had gotten into me, to put it into words.

  “It’s like… it’s all the same shit.”

  “The same shit,” he echoed.

  “All the music and the shows and the girls.”

  “Uh huh. And? Your problem is?”

  “I dunno, Piers. The music world moves so fast, man. But we’re still playing the same shit we played three years ago.”

  “Well. That’s what people want to hear. The hits, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  But that’s not what I want to play.

  I didn’t say it. I had it good. Talismen had been my dad’s idea, and he knew best. He was the one with the big office, the platinum records, the number one hits. He’d built this recording company from the ground up. If he told me to get up on stage and play Row Row Row Your Boat with a harmonica and a cowbell, I’d do it and I’d like it.

  “Look at me,” Piers was saying. “You think I like doing reality TV?”

  “You don’t?” I let sarcasm drip over the words. “How could you not love Secret Baby Bachelor?”

  Piers rolled his eyes at me.

  “You know, I came over to America to be a news reporter.”

  “That would be something else.” I tried to imagine Piers behind a news desk, talking about… Syria or something? I didn’t have a clue what news people talked about.

  Piers slammed an empty shot glass down onto the bar.

  “But people don’t want news. They want Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian clawing each other’s eyes out over which shade of lipstick is better.”

  “So what do you do with that?” I asked. I already knew the answer, but I wanted him to say it.

  “Fuck it. You do what you have to do.”

  “Do what you gotta do.”

  “That’s how we’re on top, right? Fuck it.”

  “Fuck it,” I echoed, and slammed down the shot. The whiskey burned hot in my throat, but then it was down and a warm fuzzy feeling swept back whatever it was that had me feeling like shit.

  “Hey, I got something for you tonight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Her name’s Roxie.” He nodded over to the far corner of the studio. I looked over and saw what he was talking about: a buxom chick with fiery red hair lounged around in a skin-tight silver dress, a pouty expression on her face. “Pour these shots. People are getting restless.”

  “You do know what I like.” I grinned and flipped the bottle, pouring the shots expertly over the pyramid of shot glasses. The sweet amber liquid flowed over the top glass and into the others in a fountain of whiskey.

  The first shot was taking hold, and with Roxie on the horizon, my mood was rising already. Nothing was missing. Everything was perfect. I hummed a couple bars of an old timey song I had stuck in my head, nothing like the rock that was actually playing overhead.

  In the big rock candy mountain, you never change your socks,

  And little streams of alcohol come a-tricklin’ down the rocks.

  Along with whiskey and wine, redheads were a weakness of mine. Always had been. Not that this Roxie chick was a natural ginger—it looked more like she had dipped her head in candy apple dye. But fake was fine; nobody in this city was real, anyway. I winked at her as I finished the pour, not wasting a single drop. She bit her lip and tossed her hair over one shoulder.

  It was gonna be a wild night, I knew it.

  “Ladies and gents, drinks are served!” Piers started passing out the shots down the bar. I took a few for myself and retreated through the crowd, still humming as people clapped me on the back in appreciation.

  There’s a lake of stew, and of whiskey too,

  You can paddle all around em in a big canoe

  In the big rock candy mountain.

  As I finished with a whistle, I caught a glimpse of someone over by the recording room. “Hey, Danny!” I called to one of the security guards. “That asshole over there leaning on the glass—”

  “Got it,” Danny said, snapping his fingers. He moved toward the recording room. I’d personally overseen the remodel of the studio, and I wasn’t about to have some drunk rocker fall through the plate glass window between the two rooms.

  “Killer set, Clint, absolutely killer!” my tour manager cried out.

  “Thanks,” I said, handing him one of the shots of whiskey.

  I was about to head over to Roxie to share a shot with her when it happened. I could already imagine the way the night would go: we’d share a shot, then we’d share a kiss, then we’d share a be
d. She’d get a cab ride home by herself, of course, but first we’d have a night of crazy hot sex.

  Then something caught my eye.

  A woman at the end of the bar shook her head, her light blonde hair falling in long waves down her back. Not really my type, but that wasn’t why I was looking at her anyway.

  It was the guy sleazing out all over her that drew my attention.

  I didn’t know who he was or what record company he was with, but he looked like every stereotype of an old-school rocker gone bad. A black leather jacket with patches all over it and metal studs around the neck. Three days’ worth of patchy scruff on his cheeks. A gold chain around his stringy neck. It was laughable.

  The guy had his hand around the chick’s midriff. She leaned away from him, but he didn’t get the hint. Instead, he pulled her away from the bar.

  I moved closer as he began to tug her towards the exit. Some sort of stupid instinct that draws me toward trouble instead of keeping me away from it.

  “Come on baby, let’s go,” he was saying.

  “But I don’t want to go,” she said, her voice rising above his. “I didn’t even meet him yet!”

  I headed between them and the exit door. Yeah, I’m the kind of idiot who doesn’t know when to mind his own fucking business. But I figured it was my name on the studio door, and my reputation on the line if some girl got treated bad at a studio after-party.

  “You can meet him later.”

  “But I want to see him now!”

  She was shouting by now, causing a commotion at the end of the bar. Not even the music could drown out her high-pitched shouting.

  I stepped in front of them and put my shot glasses down on the bar. The guy leered at me from under his greasy, slicked back hair. I had no doubt that I was doing the right thing.

  “Move, buddy,” he said.

  “Is this guy bothering you?” I asked the girl. Not a girl, really, but a woman. She was older than I’d thought, maybe thirty-five. Too old to be wearing a fake leather miniskirt or bright red lipstick, that’s for damn sure.

  “Oh my god. You’re Clint Terrance.” Her mouth dropped open.

  I nodded.

  “I was supposed to come here for an audition!” She couldn’t stop gushing, and every sentence coming through her fire-engine red lips was an exclamation. “I love your studio’s music! This is like fate! Me meeting you here!”

  “You’re the Terrance kid?” the guy asked. His leer turned uncertain. I could tell he knew who I was. My name was a weapon, and I didn’t use it unless I had to. Usually I didn’t need to.

  “An audition?” I focused on the woman. She licked her bottom lip and I realized her pupils were dilated from some designer drug. She wasn’t awful-looking, but I’d seen too many of her type. Bleached blonde wanna-be rock stars who had gone past their prime.

  All coked up with nowhere to go.

  “Where is he?” she asked. Her hand clawed around my wrist. “Can I see him?”

  Him? Who the hell’s she talking about?

  “Come on, sweetie,” the sleazeball said, yanking her away from me. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Hey!” I said, planting myself firmly between them and the door.

  “You don’t want to interfere here, kid,” he said. The warning was in his tone and in the way his arm clamped even tighter around the woman. She barely seemed to notice. All of her desperation had turned to me, and she was waiting for me.

  “I’m not a kid to anyone but my dad,” I said.

  “Whatever, kid,” he said. “Come on, we’re leaving.” He tried to push past me with the woman.

  “Nobody messes with the girls in my studio,” I said, pushing him back.

  “Not your fucking studio, kid.”

  Fuck that. I wasn’t going to let this guy push me around. The whiskey was boiling in my blood, and the security guard was over on the other side of the room.

  I clamped one hand on his shoulder and shoved him back against the bar.

  “Hey!”

  He winced and let go of the blonde. She jumped away from him behind me, putting her hands on my back.

  “My savior!” she cried. Way too melodramatic. I could smell the alcohol on her breath as she pressed her fake tits against me.

  “Fuckin’ stop it, kid—” the guy started to say, but I didn’t wait to hear him. My arm was already in the air, and the punch landed right across the guy’s ugly face.

  “I’m not. A fucking. Kid.” My face was inches away from his, and I could smell the blood that was already dripping from his lip.

  “Goddamn lunatic!” He tried to shove me away, but now I was burning mad. “You have no idea what the fuck you’re doing.”

  “Yeah? When has that ever stopped me?”

  “Listen—”

  “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” The whiskey spun my brain, and the energy of the crowd around me gave me another burst of energy. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground. He kicked at me, sending a jolt of pain through my leg.

  The fuck! Who kicks me? Who kicks Clint-fucking-Terrance?

  I punched him again, and my fist cracked across his nose. Behind the bar, Piers was yelling and waving wildly for security.

  “Nobody calls me a kid,” I said. “No-fucking-body, no fucking way! You get that?”

  I mashed a finger into his bloody face, right on his nose. He squealed like a slide guitar.

  “Clint, stop!”

  My tour manager’s voice buzzed in my ear, and someone was tugging at my shirt. I heard it rip as I pushed forward, shaking the smarmy bastard in my grip. He twisted in my hands, his eyes filled with terror. Some people were yelling, and I could hear Danny coming through the crowd behind me.

  I gave the asshole one more shake and raised my fist again.

  “Please don’t,” he said, only with his broken nose it came out as Preese dunt.

  “You fucking sleazeball,” I said. “You goddamn—”

  “Stop.”

  The voice behind me wasn’t a shout, but it boomed across the crowded studio as loud as if it had come through a megaphone. The crowd went silent.

  I dropped the guy back against the bar. He whined softly, slithering back away to a safe distance from my fists, and I turned around.

  My dad stood in the middle of the studio floor, looming over the crowd in his dark navy business suit. Moses himself couldn’t have parted a crowd like my dad did. They fell back in waves. He cleared his throat and adjusted a silver cufflink at his wrist.

  “Get your ass in here, kid. Now.” He turned his back and stepped into the recording room without waiting for a reply.

  “Sure, Pops,” I said under my breath, gritting my teeth and turning back the bar. Piers glanced over at me, but I didn’t meet his eye. I threw back one shot, then the next, without taking a breath between. So much for sharing. The party—and Roxie—would have to wait.

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  It wasn’t supposed to be me.

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  I breathe in the darkness.

  There is a blindfold around my eyes. There is a collar around my neck. I am sitting up on my knees, naked, trembling. My wrists are bound to the bedposts, stretched out to either side of me.

  He is behind me.

  I can feel his breathing on the back of my neck. I strain forward, away from him. He is not touching me, but his breath is warm on my skin. I pull harde
r, but the ties around my wrists hold fast.

  The ties around my wrist are silken handcuffs. The bed underneath me is covered in silk sheets. Even the blindfold is black silk.

  Black. Everything is black. My eyes are open under the blindfold but I can see nothing. I sit there silently, feeling the air move against my naked body.

  “Lacey, my darling.” He breathes the words into my ear from behind me. I gasp as his hand touches my shoulder.

  His fingers are long and slim. They are warmer than his breath on the back of my neck.

  “Are you afraid of the dark?”

  I shake my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

  Am I afraid of the dark? No, I want to say. I’ve always loved the dark. Even when I was a child, I didn’t need a nightlight. I didn’t shed a single tear when I broke my arm. I stayed in the haunted barn one night when my brothers dared me, and I didn’t even cry out when my dad spanked me for doing it. My mom always said that I was the bravest girl she’d ever met.

  Now, though, I don’t feel brave. Now, in the darkness, I’m scared of what’s going to happen. What he’s going to do to me.

  His fingers slide down my back. His other hand grips my hip and I feel the bed move as he shifts his weight closer to me. I grit my teeth.

  Despite myself, I feel my body begin to respond as his hands curve down around my waist and pause there. Warmth spreads between my thighs. I clench them together tightly, trying to ignore the pulsing desire inside of me.

  Take me. Take me.

  No. This isn’t me. This can’t be real.

  I jerk my head away at the sudden touch on my neck. Even in the darkness, I can tell that he is smiling behind me. The touch comes again, and this time I’m prepared. His lips press against my neck. I try to sit still, but an involuntary gasp comes from my mouth when he sucks gently on my skin.

  “Oh, Lacey,” he murmurs.

  His hands come forward, sliding over my stomach and up to my breasts. Again he kisses my neck. Again I gasp. This time it’s his tongue, the hot pressure sending me into near spasms as he cups my breasts.