His Beautiful Revenge: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

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His Beautiful Revenge: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Page 91

by Michelle Love


  “I love you,” he said simply, “I’m in love with you, Kym.”

  Tears dropped down her face as she pressed her lips to his, feeling his strong arms lock around her. “I love you too, big man,” she murmured against his mouth. “So much. So very much.”

  They never made it to the bed this time …

  Bay smiled at Tom as she ended the call from Roman. “He’s in.” She went to bang on the window of the studio and beckon Pete in. Pete, dark circles under his eyes and a big smile on his face, joined them. Bay passed him a soda.

  “Pete? Do you think you can bear to be away from Lucy for a night?” Lucy, the three-month-old light of Pete and Hank’s life had charmed her way into everyone’s heart in the short time they’d known her. Pete, exhausted but wiped out by love, grinned at Bay.

  “You’re up to something, missy. I know that smile.”

  Bay chuckled and exchanged a look with Tom. “You got me. Just wondering if you’d like to take a quick overnight trip to the Big Easy?”

  Pete’s smile grew wider. “Why do I think this has something to do with our absent friend? What ya got planned, minxy?”

  Roman whistled as she opened the door. “That, beautiful, is more like it.” Kym grinned shyly. She had finally bleached her hair back to its platinum blonde, gotten rid of the spectacles (although she had gotten so used to them, she kind of missed them), and was wearing a ripped Purple Rain t-shirt and skinny jeans.

  Roman, of course, was in a suit that probably cost more than her rent for a month. She didn’t care. She stood on her tippy-toes to kiss him. “Let me just grab my boots and I’m all yours.”

  They walked hand-in-hand to the bar. “Our third date,” she said, grinning slyly at him. “You might get lucky tonight.”

  Roman laughed. “Third? More like three hundredth.”

  “Doesn’t count before we, you know.”

  “Oh, now she’s shy …”

  They turned the corner and walked up to the Hot Tin Roof. “Only you would take me to my place of work for a date,” she grumbled, but smirked at him.

  “Stop complaining, woman.”

  Kym walked in and stopped. The place was clear of customers—just a few regulars and all of her colleagues. They all grinned at her as she turned to frown at Roman.

  “What’s going on?”

  He steered her into a booth, putting himself between her and the door. “You’ll see. Private party.” He winked at Cal and Lee who were balancing drinks and food on trays.

  “We’re celebrating,” Cal told her.

  “What?”

  Cal chewed on his lip, thinking as Lee and Roman grinned. “Friends.”

  “I’ll drink to that, buddy.”

  “Me too.”

  Kym looked at the three men in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Friends, food, drinks, good times …a little music. Hang on, I’ll go put something on.” Cal disappeared into the other bar room.

  “You’re acting weird,” Kym said, grabbing a beer from the tray, but grinning. What the hell was going on?

  Cal came back in just as the first chord of The Killer’s song, Just Another Girl, started.

  “Oh, love this song. We used to …” She trailed off as someone who was definitely not Brandon Flowers started to sing. A very female, very familiar voice rang out over the speakers. For a second Kym froze. She could feel the eyes of everyone on her.

  “That’s not a mp3,” she said in a monotone.

  “Nope.”

  The voice rang out, so sweet and so rich. Drive by your house, nobody’s home …

  “That’s a live band.”

  I’m trying to tell myself that I’m better off alone …

  Kym stood unsteadily and looked back at Roman, her eyes streaming. “How could you? This is not what I wanted …”

  She pushed past the shocked Roman and out into the street. In a flash, he was beside her, his hand gripping her upper arm.

  “Get off me.” She struggled, but he held her fast.

  “Kymberly, stop. Look at me.” She had never heard that tone from him before—fierce and commanding. She stopped struggling.

  “Why,” he said. “Why are you running away? Tell me.”

  “Because …”

  “Because what? Because you love your friend? Because you miss her? Miss Pete? Miss getting up on that stage and belting your heart out? Yeah, big fucking news. I know you miss all of that. So why the fuck do you keep …Jesus …” He let her go and span around, breathing heavily.

  His outburst shocked her and she reached out to touch him. He shook her hand off.

  “Do you know what gunshots sound like, close up? Like your ear drums bursting. Like your heart exploding. Do you know what it feels like to have hot metal rip through you—to know that someone hates you so much that they could do that to you? My dad did. That girl in there did. And none of it, none of it, was your fault. Dad getting shot wasn’t my fault or Otis’ fault. Stu shooting Bay is all down to that pathetic slug. Not you.”

  Kym was trembling so hard that Roman, his eyes still burning with passion, wrapped his arms around her.

  “Do you know what I would give to be able to speak my dad again? To hold him? Please don’t waste this, Kym, please.”

  Kym couldn’t help the tears that came then and his arms tightened around her, holding her.

  “Kym?”

  Kym heard her calling out her name so hesitantly—so unsure of the reaction she would get. She turned to face her best friend, the girl who nearly died, her Bay. Kym took one stumbling step toward her and then they were in each other’ arms, crying and laughing at the same time and telling each other over and over how much they loved each other.

  Roman smiled and, stepping around them, left them alone, going back into the bar. He went to the room where they had been playing and saw Pete, complete with his family, enjoying a beer. He gave him a thumb’s up. Tom looked relieved and Dash and Emily clapped with delight. Otis and Shae hugged him in turn, then Roman looked at his brother.

  “Otis …we need to talk.”

  Otis’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

  Roman half-smiled. “It’s about dad …and our sister.”

  Epilogue…

  All of them watched as Norah Jones and Eddie Vedder crossed the stage to read the nominees. Bay, Pete, and Kym could barely believe that they were there—the Grammys.

  Pete grinned and nudged Tom. “I think you’ve lost her.” He nodded at Bay, who was staring, completely and utterly star-struck, at Eddie Vedder, her hero—Pearl Jam’s legendary singer.

  “I hope he's the one who says our name,” she said, sounding like a kid. “Not that I don’t love Norah, but, y’know, it’s Eddie.”

  Kym was laughing. “Hey, remember your boyfriend? That tall, handsome man sitting next to you? Tom?”

  Bay grinned, then looked around wildly. “Who? Tim, was it? I have no idea who you mean.”

  “Funny girl.” Tom was laughing as he kissed her. “Girl done good,” he whispered. She grinned, then put her hand over his mouth.

  “Hush now. My future husband is about to speak.”

  Tom shrugged good-naturedly as the others laughed.

  As the two superstars read out the nominees and the audience was treated to a snapshot of their music, Kym felt Bay’s hand slip into hers. She leaned against her best friend. Their name was the last to be read out—by Eddie. Bay squeaked in delight.

  “And the winner is …” Norah handed the envelope to Eddie, who opened it and bent his head, speaking in that low growl of his …

  “Seattle’s –finest--The 9th & Pine!”

  Bay, Kym, and Pete all froze as the crowd erupted around them. Hands were pulling them up, then pushing them towards the stage. Bay felt Tom kiss her, but couldn’t make sense of what was going on. Kym cried and Pete high-fived everyone on the way down to the stage.

  Finally, stumbling and incoherent, they made it to the stage to be presented with their Gr
ammy. Bay nearly fainted when Eddie hugged her. Later she would tell Tom, “I think I might have said ‘I love you’ to him. God, I hope I didn’t,” as Tom cried with laughter. Kym raised her Grammy in the air as Pete, the only person who could form an entire sentence, said most of their thank yous. Neither Bay nor Kym, however, forgot to announce their love and their thanks to their partners.

  It was a crazy whirl of interviews and shaking hands then, until they finally made it back to the penthouse suite Quartet had rented, where Shae, Otis, Emily, and Dash were waiting, along with Hank and Lucy. Their Grammy’s took pride of place on the long glass table as they relaxed. Tom popped the first of many champagne bottles.

  “Well, kids, we made it. The last two and a half years have been …tumultuous, to say the least. Pete, Kym, and Bay,” he grinned down at his lover, who reached around and grabbed his butt, making the others laugh. “Despite everything that’s been thrown at you, you did it. And you deserve every bit of your success. Guys, raise your glasses to The 9th & Pine …”

  Kym and Roman flew back to Seattle that same night, wanting to be alone. As they lay in bed together, damp skin from making love, Roman trailed a leisurely finger up and down her spine.

  “You know what’s weird?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Even in this, quite frankly, way over the top house of yours,” she grinned and he chuckled, “I still miss that little apartment in sweaty, dirty, New Orleans.”

  “You know,” Roman said. “Me too. It was tiny, but god, we had some good times there.”

  Kym kissed him. “I fell in love with you there.”

  “And I you, beautiful.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me my life back, even though I was so sure I didn’t want it. You knew better.”

  Roman cupped her face with his big hand. “It was the life you deserved, Kym. I would do anything to give you the world.”

  Kym sighed happily. “Roman? Maybe Polly and the baby would like to come stay here for a while. She and Otis seem to have connected amazingly.”

  Roman pressed his lips to hers. “See? See what you’ve done for me?”

  And silencing her with his mouth, he rolled her onto her back, covering her body with his. Kym stroked the hair above his ears and smiled up at him as they began to make love.

  “Forever?” She whispered and Roman nodded, the love in his eyes unmistakable.

  “Forever,” he agreed as they made their way, with love, into that forever.

  The End

  Thank you for Reading Quartet.

  Please click here to support the Author with a review on Amazon.com

  Dirty Money

  A Billionaire Contemporary Romance Series

  By Michelle Love

  Aulora is a young art student who’s struggling to make ends meet with a waitress job while wondering if art is really what she’s supposed to be doing.

  Weston is a British hunk who waltzes into the young woman’s life, igniting her passion when she thinks she’s met a kindred spirit.

  Aulora’s wealthy father abandoned her and her mother when she was a teenager, leaving her hating wealthy men with a passion. And when she finds the handsome Weston is a billionaire, she finds herself running from the man.

  Collateral Damage Part One

  Chapter 1

  ‘It looks like it might rain’, Aulora thought as she idled at a stoplight. She waited for the green arrow to signal so then she could turn into the parking lot where she worked, becoming more frustrated with each passing moment that the road on both sides stayed empty and that the light stayed red. “C’mon,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m gonna be late.”

  Finally, mercifully, the green arrow appeared and she turned across the wide street into a sloped parking lot outside Tackleman’s, the grungy sports bar that had helped her pay her bills for the past two years. The gravelly noise in her engine was back, she noticed, as she situated herself in her favorite parking spot. It’s just because it’s cold, Aullie told herself. She couldn’t afford any significant repairs.

  The dated, blue Accord was on its last legs and she was firmly in denial about it. It wasn’t like she had the money for a new car.

  Twisting the keys out of the ignition, she snatched her black, canvas, serving apron off the floor from under the passenger seat, amidst an array of discarded receipts and crinkled plastic water bottles. The door creaked as she opened it and again as she slammed it behind her and manually locked it.

  The air was crisp and cool, making her snuggle into her fleece-lined hemp hoodie as she crossed the mostly empty parking lot. ‘Great…’ she thought as the chill bit the tip of her nose, ‘…another slow night’.

  The front door, a heavy, scuffed monstrosity with fading brass handles and a white TACKLEMAN’S decal, peeling off from the dingy windows, groaned as she yanked it open and a blast of heated air warmed her chilly cheeks. Inside, feel-good music played quietly on a constant loop in the dimly-lit bar.

  Tackleman’s boasted thirty-six beers on tap. They were usually out of about twelve of them. A full wet bar, all house liquors, loomed behind a colossal wooden bar plastered with tacky sports memorabilia, flickering neon signs and celebrity mug shots. Worn tables, most with an aged and peeling finish, were scattered around the bar in a sort of ‘wherever it fits, it goes’ design. A low stage sagged into the back corner, near a small, pathetic excuse for a dance floor. It was usually lonely, except for the wretched weekend nights when local bands of graying wannabes did their best to rupture Aullie’s ear drums.

  “Hey, Aullie!” a baby-faced blonde called out, galloping up to the front of the bar with an enthused smile. Dammit, Aullie thought, she had really been meaning to learn the new host’s name.

  “Hey,” she said vaguely, with a half-assed smile, hoping the girl wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t said her name back.

  She didn’t. The girl just rested her elbows on the weathered wooden podium used as the hostess stand. The dusty chalkboard on the front advertised the daily specials in colorful chalk, and whoever had done it that day had some very big, very loopy handwriting done in pink.

  “Long time, no see! Am I right?” Blondie tried for a lame, over-friendly joke. Aullie wanted to roll her eyes but resisted the urge. “But hey, look. You’ve got, like, a really good section tonight.”

  “Yeah, I would hope so. I told Napoleon I would come in early and close tonight,” Aullie said, peering over the host stand to scan the table chart. Five tables, all large, somewhat clean booths near the bar, plus whatever came in after everyone else was cut. She could work with that.

  “Hopefully it gets busy, I’m sooo bored,” the other girl whined.

  “Yeah,” Aullie replied bluntly, breaking off the conversation and making her way past the bar and around the tables, to the back.

  Some Tackleman’s guests weren’t even sure the bar had a kitchen because it was tucked way back in the far-right corner. There was a short, metal expo line where the kitchen served up the food. Around the corner, it opened to a semi-cramped kitchen that had probably once been pristine and white but was now stained, yellowed and dirty.

  One by one, the on-duty cooks acknowledged her, their greetings ranging from ‘Yo, Aullie!’ to a sultry ‘Hey, girl!’ and she nodded or waved in return. Most of them had worked there as long as she had, and some were even like family.

  The kitchen backed up to another partial wall, behind which were the manager’s office and two rows of coat hooks for the staff. Several jackets and various sizes of backpacks hung from the hooks already and Aullie wriggled out of her sweatshirt and hung it off one of the hooks on the lower rack. She tied her apron around her waist, securing the strings with a double-knotted bow under her belt buckle and tucking it under the flap. She checked her pockets; coasters on the left, order book in the center, and a cluster of pens in the right. She was good to go.

  The door to the manager’s office was most often closed but not on that nigh
t. Through the opening, she heard a familiar voice call out, “Aullie, is that you?”

  The nasally utterance grated on her nerves. She took a deep breath and rolled her eyes, then crept up to the door and peeked around into the office. As per usual, it was tiny, cramped, and the desk was littered with papers. Shelves on the walls were packed with books and binders and there were six huge bottles of pineapple vodka, leftover from another promo flop, crowded in the back corner.

  A very short, very thin, very pockmarked man in a stiff, charcoal gray button-up with a pair of wiry glasses sat in the bulky, black office chair, typing furiously on a keyboard attached to a clunky desktop monitor.

  “What do you need, Eric?” she asked, the airy, pleasant professionalism in her voice masking her deep, preoccupying loathing for the tiny man and his huge attitude.

  “Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for coming in and helping me out tonight. We had two servers call in tonight if you can imagine that, and as always, I just wanted to thank you for all your hard work and being such a team player.” Eric said it all without looking away from the screen. The lack of eye contact only added to the professional yet wildly insincere tone that he always seemed to have.

  “Yeah, of course,” she replied. “You know me, I need the money.”

  “Yeah, art majors usually tend to need help with that.”

  “Yeah,” she replied bluntly. “Can you come clock me in?”

  Eric stood and Aullie, at only five-foot-seven, could see straight over his head. His height, or lack thereof, coupled with his hair-trigger temper and inflated self-importance had earned him the nickname Napoleon, among his staff. As they walked together back up to the point-of-sale computers, Aullie nursed her battered ego.

  She wished his playful jab at her chosen career path still hadn’t damaged any hope she had harbored for making it as an artist, but after the show that weekend, there wasn’t much left there for him to damage.

  Truth was, she was coming up on three years of learning to draw, and to paint, and which colors to do it with, and which artist was responsible for every painting. Three years of late nights spent sketching, erasing, re-sketching, smudging, coloring, color-mixing, painting, and swearing. Three years of smudged fingertips, washing brushes, and praying countless stains come out in the wash or the shower. And in three months, when she had walked across the stage to receive her fine arts diploma, she knew that she was walking into an unforgiving world whose approval she would need if she ever hoped to pay her rent.

 

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