Billionaire Heir (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  “I never thought you would.” He thinks for a second. “Who's the father?”

  “Dad-”

  That anger comes back to his face. He stands up. “Is it Max?”

  “Dad, please!”

  “I'll murder him, for touching my daughter!” He bellows, his face red with fury.

  “It isn't his fault, Dad! I'm the one who continued the relationship!”

  Mr. Spencer gives her a sharp look, hatred burning within him. “If he comes close to you, tell me. I'll make him suffer.”

  4

  “God damn it.” Poppy throws her blanket off of her and scratches her head. She sways, her sleepiness keeping her off balance. The clock says six in the morning, and Poppy's green eyes have dark circles beneath them.

  Ambling into her bathroom, she relieves the urgency and then heads to her front door. She slips into some old shoes and throws a big sweater over her body. No time to change out of your pajamas when you've been woken up to a full bladder every hour since you went to bed.

  Even though Poppy doesn't want to believe the thoughts in the back of her head, she doesn't want to go mad from insomnia either. The only option is to figure out what the problem is. Such is the predicament that sends the red haired beauty into the chilly streets to walk to the corner pharmacy.

  The bell chimes cheerfully as she steps between the sliding glass doors. For some reason, the store has the air on, so it's even colder than it was outside. The cashier is out in the aisles tidying up, glancing up only briefly from his list as she walks past him. His hair is greasy and the skin beneath his eyes is as dark as hers.

  Down aisle ten she finds what she's looking for: rows of pregnancy tests, each box a different color, but they all say similar things. Early detection, perfect accuracy, cheap price. Poppy picks up one box and reads the back, then tries another. She picks up a third, then a fourth; she doesn't put any of them down. She has six colorful boxes in her arms before she gets fed up and decides to just buy them all. Better to be safe than sorry, right?

  She stands at the counter for a few moments before the young man with the greasy hair and large glasses notices her. He hobbles over from his busy work to ring her up. “Will that be all?” He asks, his eyebrows high after scanning six pregnancy tests.

  Poppy would blush, but she's too tired to feel truly embarrassed. She'll save that for the morning. “Yeah, that's it.”

  She pays her bill and waits for her tests to be bagged, then she's out onto the street again. The sickening scent of hamburgers hangs heavily in the air from a barbecue the day before. Poppy nearly throws up then and there just from the smell alone. It's so bad that she's thankful to reach the regulated air of her apartment, and her nausea slowly subsides.

  Placing the bag on her kitchen counter, she takes a moment to look around her apartment. If these tests give her a positive answer, her whole life is going to change. Probably not for the better.

  She pulls a box out and opens it to read the instructions within. “Use only first morning's urine?” She asks, placing a hand on her hip. “Well, fuck.” That's no good. Leaving the rest of the boxes on the counter, she heads to the bedroom and pulls her pants off before crawling back into bed. “I'll just try to sleep a few more hours.” As the sun is coming up, she finally drifts off to sleep again.

  Nine in the morning. There are six boxes crushed in the small trashcan between the sink and toilet. The plastic sticks have been thrown into the sink. One cup full of her urine sits on top of the back of her toilet.

  Taking a deep breath, Poppy tries to steady herself. Her nerves are on edge and she is so tired, and on top of that she kind of has to pee again. She pulls open the first test, dipping the test stick into the cup and setting it down.

  She fidgets with her hands as she watches the test, then pulls open another test and sets that one next to the first. “I'll just... do all of them now,” she says, pulling the last four open and dipping them in the liquid. If her mom lived closer, and if Poppy could know she'd be sober, she might call for advice. Her hands are shaking, her mouth dry.

  If she had friends that we more than just party friends, she would call them for support. But really, without Max, Poppy has no one- not even her parents. It's not unusual for her, in fact she's become quite used to it. It's just that this is the first time it's mattered. This is the first time she hasn't known what to do, how to fix the problem.

  With all the tests in a line on her sink, she dumps her pee out and sits down on the closed toilet to wait. The tests each have different times before they're ready. The longest one is five minutes.

  Biting some dead skin off her bottom lip, Poppy's leg jiggles. She stands up, suddenly remembering something. “I should set an alarm!” Going into her bedroom, Poppy puts and alarm on her phone, but doesn't go back to the bathroom. Her body won't let her.

  After picking at dead skin on her finger and braiding half of her hair, the alarm goes off. Poppy stands up, feeling as if her heart has stopped beating. It finally thuds loud against her chest, and Poppy sits back down.

  The warning alarm goes off 45 seconds later, forcing Poppy to her feet again to grab her phone. She gets up the courage to walk into the bathroom, but freezes as she looks at the tests all over her sink. These small pieces of plastic hold her future. One small strip of dye, one 'yes' or 'no' on a digital screen, is the single deciding factor between being a single party girl... and a single mom.

  She turns and runs back into her bedroom, diving underneath the blankets and covering her head with her pillow. “I'll just check them later!” She shouts, to no one but herself. “I'll check them when I wake up!”

  After a few moments, she eases the pillow off of her face. She gets as comfortable as her shaking body can get. I'm going to be okay. I don't need to worry. I won't be like my mom. I'll be a great mom!

  She stares at the wall, wide eyed, for several minutes before closing her eyes and falling into another fitful sleep.

  Poppy sits up. Her bedroom is dark, as dark as night. “Did I sleep that long?” She asks, checking her clock. It says six AM.

  Something in her kitchen crashes, causing Poppy's whole body to go rigid. She doesn't move for a few moments, listening intently for any other sounds. All is silent.

  Dashing to the hallway, she cocks her ear toward the kitchen. She's so busy focusing on that area that she doesn't hear the kitchen door creak and notices too late when something small scurries past her. Something that seems to giggle.

  Poppy shrieks and jumps back, hitting her head against the door frame. She nurses what will definitely become a bruise before tip toeing towards her small kitchen.

  The kitchen area is slightly lighter, a gray light emanating from the open refrigerator.

  “Hello?” No one answers her call. She moves a bit closer, peering over the island. The floor is covered in liquor bottles, all of them full and frosty from the fridge. Something is moving behind the refrigerator door.

  She creeps up to the door and pulls it open. There, on the floor, is a tiny infant. It looks up to her, its green eyes full of fear, and her heart cries out for the baby. Her body responds by picking the infant up in her arms. It's heavier than she expects.

  The look in the baby's eyes changes suddenly, from fear to hatred. It raises its fist, which is holding a glass bottle of vodka, and slams the bottle against her forehead. Everything goes black.

  Poppy jolts awake. She rubs her forehead where the dream infant hit her. No soreness, but her blood is still pumping with adrenaline anyway. There's no way she'll get back to sleep now.

  On the table next to her bed, her phone lights up. It's a text from a friend, which she reads and closes out.

  Looking up at the ceiling with the cell phone clutched to her chest, she wishes she could text Max. Talk to him about the baby. Figure out what they're going to do, how to fix this. Max will make her feel better, but a part of her feels like she doesn't deserve to feel better.

  With a pit in her stomach, she tos
ses the phone back onto her table and turns over in bed.

  5

  The Cooper home is covered, mostly, in sports memorabilia. The televisions around the house, too, are often plastered with ESPN or a football game. If there's no football, it's basketball; if not basketball, then baseball.

  Jared Cooper, the youngest son of Alexander Cooper, is the star athlete of the family. He's also the star quarterback of his high school's football team.

  During their weekly family breakfast, most of the time is filled with Jared telling stories of the games he played or his practices over the last week. When that's not being discussed, Max's future is.

  “And then, I slammed right into him! Now I'm not a small guy, but he must have weighed as much as an elephant because he didn't even budge!” Jared guffaws, his eyes wide and his arms moving wildly. “I literally slammed into a brick wall!”

  “And then you slid past him and still made the goal?” Max asks, a smirk on his face. He wanted to play football, too, but he was never good enough at it. The coaches said he didn't take it seriously enough, and they were right.

  “Well of course!” Jared takes a big bite out of a sausage. “What else would you expect me to do? Fail?”

  Max and his father both chuckle. Alexander Cooper, tall and muscular even at 65, dabs some more syrup on his pancakes. He's so proud of Jared. His younger son really tackles life head-first and does spectacularly well, especially for a boy who was born prematurely and lost his mother that same day. “Were there any scouts at that game?”

  Jared scratches his patchy beard. “Hmmm... Oh! I did hear that someone for California State was there looking for recruits!”

  Alexander nods and grunts before stuffing another bite of pancake into his mouth.

  Even Max is proud of his little brother. When they were younger they fought all the time, but as they matured through their teen years Max found himself looking up to his younger brother. It was probably the first time he broke his leg during a game that turned Max around, and since then they've been very close.

  “So, Max,” Alexander starts, pushing his gray hair out of his face. “What have you been up to this week?”

  Max thinks. He's just been playing video games ever since Charlotte finally and completely dumped him. He shrugs. “Nothing much. I'm just trying to relax.”

  His father rolls his eyes. “And what, exactly, do you have to relax over?”

  Max tries to keep his face blank, knowing exactly what's coming next. His fork shovels food into his mouth faster in a vain attempt to get him to finish his meal before Alexander can start in on him.

  “Seriously, have you looked for jobs? Have you applied to any colleges? Even just a community college would do, boy, but I can't have my son laying about doing nothing for the rest of his life. That puts me in a bad light.”

  “No it doesn't, Dad! No one cares. If you don't want people to know, just don't talk about me.”

  Alexander's face is becoming quite a bright shade of red. “What do you mean, don't talk about you? You're the son of a billionaire, Max! If you were in California you'd have the paparazzi on you! Everyone is watching you. All the time.”

  “Well,” Max says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. “It's a good thing we aren't in California, then.”

  Alexander studies his son face with a malicious look in his eyes. Suddenly and swiftly, his fist comes down against the table, pounding it loudly and making the whole thing quake beneath him.

  “When are you going to grow up?!”

  Max says nothing.

  “Your mother would be disgusted by you,” Alexander spits, throwing his knife down and standing up. He shoves a finger into his son's face. “If you don't have a job soon, you're going to find yourself out on the street with nothing but your shitty car and the memory of money to sustain you.”

  “Yeah right,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “You've said this every day since I was 16, Dad. You're not going to kick me out.”

  Alexander laughs and storms out of the room, throwing a final and blood curdling, “Just watch!” before leaving a deafening silence with the Cooper brothers.

  Jared stares at the table. Max fumes in his chair, pushing the maid away when she tries to clear his plate.

  “Fuck off, will ya?” He curses. Jared throws him a dirty look.

  “Don't be like that, she's only trying to do her job.”

  “Whatever.”

  Jared sighs and shakes his head. “When are you going to stop antagonizing Dad like that?”

  “When he stops trying to rule my life with an iron fist, probably.”

  “He just wants you to get a job or go to school!”

  Just the thought of getting a job makes Max feel tired. He yawns and rubs his eye. “Look, can we just not talk about this? What are your plans for the day?”

  The youngest Cooper boy thinks for a moment. “We could go play some football, and then catch a movie or something.”

  Max moves toward the door. “Alright, I'll go change and grab a ball. Meet you outside in 10.”

  Max tears apart his bedroom looking for his football. It's been so long since he's used it that it could have been thrown away for all he knows. The final place he looks is deep in his closet, past old winter jackets and ski boots.

  While looking, Max happens upon a taped up box that he doesn't remember. He pulls it out. On the top of the cardboard is written 'football'.

  Suddenly anxious, his fingers fiddle with a bit of loose tape on the end. This is probably where his football is, but it's also where his dreams were buried. Pulling the tape off the box, he pulls open the flaps and the smell of old clothing and moth balls fills the air.

  On top is his football jersey from the one year he played in middle school. It's comically small compared to the shirts he wears now. After folding it and putting it off to the side, he finds three signed jerseys from his favorite players. The scent of old leather hits his nose and brings back a wave of nostalgia. Memories flood Max's senses, of days when his father would take him out to football games and pay to let his son meet these stars.

  At the bottom of the box is the football he came in here to find. He pulls it out and puts the jerseys back into the box, each one bringing a twinge of sadness, mixed with something else he can't put his finger on.

  “So, what do you want to do anyway?” Jared picks at the last few bites of his steak. His stomach is distended from eating so much.

  “I don't know, dude. I know Dad wants me to take over the business one day, but that seems so...boring.”

  Shrugging, Jared says, “Dad has a lot of free time to do whatever he wants. I think running the business can't be that bad.”

  Max plays with his old man's watch, the gold glinting off the fading sun. As the oldest son of the man who founded Cooper Hotels, Max was always expected to go to business school and take over the hotels when Alexander passed. For a while Max was pretty excited about that, but when his mom died everything felt wrong and Max blamed Alexander for the stress that killed her.

  “Are you depressed again?”

  “No, I don't think so,” Max says, biting his bottom lip. Aside from losing all contact with Charlotte, his mood was pretty stable.

  “And you're not dealing drugs again, right?”

  “God no!” He shouts so loudly that a few heads turn to stare at him. He hides his face behind his hand, blushing. “I'm just not sure what I want to do, Jared, stop giving me shit.”

  “I'm not trying to give you shit, I just want my big brother to be happy.” Jared flicks the balled up paper that covered his straw at Max. “Maybe you just need a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, right.” Max grimaces and throws the paper at Jared's head. “I'm done with women. For a while, at least. I need to meet some new girls.”

  “Maybe you should go to college out of state.”

  Max is about to snort in response to Jared when his phone rings. It's a number he doesn't recognize, but something in his gut tells h
im to answer.

  “Hello?”

  An unfamiliar voice comes across the line: “Max? There's something wrong with Poppy!”

  6

  Poppy wears her carpet thin pacing across her room, trying to get up the courage to look at the tests. “They're just a room away. Just one look, that's it. Like ripping a bandage off.”

  Except a bandage probably won't leave you a destitute single mother for the rest of your life after one mistake.

  The clock on her wall chimes. Poppy is so on edge that she jumps up and then claws at the clock to take it off the wall. She's almost ready to smash it to pieces, but she stops. Her grandmother gave her this clock.

  “That's it! I need to get out of here!” Poppy stomps into her bathroom and grabs her makeup bag and brush, all while keeping her eyes far away from the plastic sticks littering her sink. She takes the small silver bag into her bedroom and applies lip liner. Dark red. Filling that in with a slightly lighter red lipstick, she then covers the bags under her eyes with concealer and applies a thick cat's eye for eyeliner.

  She throws her hair up and checks that she doesn't smell bad before throwing on a tank top, leather jacket, and tight skinny jeans. She slams her front door shut behind her and gets in her car for the short drive to Paradise.

  Inside, the club smells of the cigarette smoke that lingers on clothes and cheap vodka. Poppy looks around the room, already full of people her age bumping and grinding against each other. One time, Poppy watched some girl blow her boyfriend right there on the dance floor. People come here to have fun; nothing's going to stop them.

  In the far right corner of the room, a gaggle of her friends are screaming with laughter over something on Candace's phone. Candace is a tall Jewish girl, the princess her Daddy always wanted. She's sort of the small city version of Paris Hilton. She used to have a big nose before she got it shaved down, and now her naturally beautiful face is absolutely stunning.