The F*ck Book: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  “So we all talked about our experiences,” he began.

  “Including you?” I snapped.

  “Including me,” he confirmed miserably. “And then a winner was declared.

  “And was that you?” I demanded, eyes hot with anger. Oh my god, had he won this depraved contest on the backs of my parted thighs? On the stories of how much I’d bled, how I’d begged for his fat cock my first time?

  But Mason shook his head vehemently.

  “No, not even close. This other dude won because he had two girls. You know … identical twins who were virgins.”

  And I vomited again then. This was so sick and depraved. I didn’t mean to, not all over Mason’s fancy jacket and suede couch, but the words nauseated me. This fuck book thing was just too much. Virgin twins who begged to get their hymens punched on screen? Girls who spread their legs for a price, who would let men do anything to them, no matter how humiliating?

  I could see it already. The billionaires in a circle, hooting and hollering as slide after slide of depravity flashed before them.

  Girls cooing and sighing, touching themselves.

  Holding their pussies open.

  Getting ready for cock.

  And oh god!

  One of those slides was me.

  It had to be, Mason’s bullshit about keeping mine private was just that. A load of crap.

  And trembling then, I got to my feet, trying to stay calm. Well, as calm as you can be when your mouth tastes like acid and vomit’s flecking your hair and chin.

  “I have to go,” were my low words. “Right now. I have to go.”

  Mason’s expression was anguished.

  “Baby, please,” he began again, gesturing futilely with those big hands. “It’s not that bad, I swear. And I didn’t show your pictures, I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  That did it.

  This guy only cared about himself.

  “Mother’s grave? Who the fuck cares about your mother? I’m the one who was violated! Me!” came my scream, spittle flying from my lips, face a mottled red. “Me! You didn’t give a shit about me, not at all!”

  Mason ducked his head, big hands in his pockets.

  “I made a mistake,” were his quiet words, a deep breath expanding his chest. “I’m so sorry Beth.”

  But I didn’t care.

  “You’re sorry? You’re sorry? How about me!” I screamed again, my voice ten decibels in the expansive space, reverberating off the gleaming white walls. “How about me?”

  And silence rang out then. Because there was nothing he could do to make it right. What happened was sordid and disgusting, the billionaire’s betrayal shaking me to the core. And it hurt like hell too. Deep inside, my heart splintered into smithereens, the shards lodging in my gut.

  Turning shakily, I stumbled to the door, but not without one last jab. But this time, I was so cold that it was scary.

  “Goodbye,” came my dead voice. “You’re not the man I thought you were, Mr. Carlton.”

  And the words hurt him, for sure. The billionaire winced like I’d struck him in the face, pain evident on that handsome face. But he didn’t follow me, instead remaining rooted to the floor, hands in pockets. He stared, blue eyes filled with regret and a swirl of other emotions. I’d feel sorry for him if the situation weren’t so dire.

  Because it doesn’t matter anymore. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. The hard facts are that this man betrayed me. This is the man who played me like a silly fool, paying me for some photos in the name of “research.” Research, my ass. It was all for his boys’ club, those assholes trying to one up each other with their big dicks and bigger egos.

  And dully, I stepped into the elevator, seeing nothing. Hot tears made me squeeze my eyes shut, but they didn’t fall this time. Because I won’t let this destroy me. Even if I’m just a shell now, insides crumbling into dust, I won’t let him know. I won’t let Mason see how I’m breaking into pieces, how he’s destroyed my heart, my head and my life. I won’t. I can’t. It was me, Beth White, before, and I’ll find that girl again. I have to … because there’s no choice but to move on.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Beth

  Six months later …

  Six months without Mason in my life was forever.

  I couldn’t lie to myself about it. I missed him. A lot.

  My heart hurt. A hole ached in my soul each night, alternately making me cry and scream. He’d made me feel things I’d never dreamed of, anguished emotions churning in my stomach. And it wouldn’t stop. Every night, I twisted and turned in my lonely single bed, crying out, his name hoarse on my lips.

  Suddenly a beep interrupted my thoughts. Lifelessly, I stared at my cell screen.

  Hey, kiddo, the text read. Just got here. See you in a few!

  George and Lynne were supposed to be meeting me at the Figaro Café, but they were already half an hour late. Figures. Frankly, I was shocked he was showing at all, George can be pretty flaky. But now, here was confirmation, so there was no point in taking off.

  A shadow dropped over my head, and I craned my neck, squinting upwards.

  “Would you like something else, Miss?” asked the waiter politely. His face betrayed no emotion, but I could read his heart. What a sad girl. Sitting here, all alone, clearly waiting for someone who’s not coming. Just another plump pumpkin, stood up for the umpteenth time.

  I swallowed hard.

  No need to take it out on him.

  No need to tear my hair in a fury and scream, to protest the judgment.

  Because I was pathetic in a way. Really tragic, dreaming endlessly about a man who didn’t want me. Who didn’t even respect me.

  So I just smiled wanly.

  “Another Coke please.”

  The waiter nodded, turning silently, disappearing into the back.

  And blinking hard, I stared at my empty glass, eyes blurring.

  Because I did feel pathetic. The Figaro was packed today, lots of families milling around, waiting for spots. Most of the other tables had groups of people, extra chairs pulled up as parties laughed and talked. But here I was, one person taking up an entire table to myself, with nothing but an empty glass in front of me.

  Just go, I imagined the other patrons sneering. Go and let us sit down.

  But it wasn’t my idea to meet here. So I looked down at my phone again, pretending not to see even as people furtively eyed my table. I’m sorry, apologized the voice in my head. It’s my dad doing this. He was supposed to be here ages ago, and I’ve been waiting.

  Suddenly, the reverie was broken.

  “Bethy!”

  I looked up, squinting, and surveyed the crowd. Nope, didn’t see them. But then across the street at the red light, a skinny guy waved. A woman who was just as skinny waved to me too. She smiled big and friendly, like we were buddies. Finally, they were here.

  Tentatively, I waved back. George was here. He was actually here, and with his new wife too. When the traffic light for pedestrians changed, he grabbed Lynne’s hand and marched across the street, a big smile on his narrow, bearded face. He looked like an elderly rocker with colorful tattoos down both arms and silver rings on most fingers.

  Oh my god. My dad was embarrassing, but at least this was the East Village, known for its boho charm. At least George didn’t stand out, people are used to anything down here.

  “Hey, girlie!” Of course, he didn’t come into the restaurant the regular way. Instead, he jumped the short iron fence and Lynne quickly followed. They both looked like kids, teenagers almost, instead of people in their fifties. It’s really weird how some folks never grow up.

  But finally, Dad stood in front of me, grinning like hell.

  “This place is nice, right?” He smelled like incense and patchouli. “The Figaro is nice.”

  Lynne smiled too and gave me a hug. She smelled just like my dad, with a handful of cinnamon and cardamom thrown in.

  So strange. I looked from one to the other, barely able to believe
my eyes. Usually, George and Lynne are traipsing through India, following the spirit of the Ganges, or at least living in a yurt in the New Mexico desert doing all sorts of chants with their guru.

  But I guess the spiritual stuff works because my parents looked great, really healthy and refreshed, years younger than their biological ages.

  “You look shocked,” said my dad with a grin.

  “I am... I don’t…um…,” I stammered at him. What to say to a guy who took off to “find himself”? It’s one thing when you’re an adolescent to take a gap year before college. But George was into his fifth decade, and he’d been wandering the globe for years now.

  So I just smiled weakly.

  “Welcome back stateside, Dad.”

  “Ha!” he barked a laugh. “With the way things are lately? Maybe we should have stayed in Guayabara, don’t you think Lynne? This country is going to the pits. Absolutely going down the toilet.”

  I cringed. Because yes, this is the boho part of town, but still, I didn’t want my dad busting out with some long diatribe on the state of American politics, or worse, the wars overseas. Oh god, no. Please no, not now. So I spoke quickly.

  “Dad, all I meant was welcome back. That’s all,” came my firm voice. “Wanna order lunch?”

  And Lynne leaned over, giving his hand a squeeze.

  “George, let’s get some sandwiches. That’ll be good, right?” She turned to me. “After six months of eating rice and beans, I’m looking forward to avocado toast. I hear it’s the latest craze. Green stuff from the earth filled with nutrients and good vibes, yum!”

  I smiled again. Even more than the zany talk about avocados was Lynne’s adept way at diverting George’s attention. Because I could tell that she too, didn’t want some loud outburst on politics right here in the café.

  So I nodded in agreement, grateful. Lynne is Lynne, and she was practically part of the scenery now. Although what exactly happened still isn’t clear, I think the blonde was part of the reason George decided to wander. But I’m not putting that on her. My father made his bed and he can sleep in it, he’s a grown man.

  But she proceeded with a firm squeeze to my dad’s hand. He actually looked embarrassed for once.

  “Sweetheart,” he began, still looking at the older lady.

  I gazed between the two of them. What was going on? Was this some kind of weird husband/wife telepathy thing?

  “Come on, honey,” my dad began, embarrassed.

  “Come on nothing,” Lynne admonished sternly, squeezing his hand again. “You know why we’re here.”

  I stared at them. This was beyond strange. “Why are you guys here?” I asked hesitantly. “What’s going on?”

  Of course, I wasn’t so silly as to think they were here to see me. But at that moment, the waiter came back, notepad out.

  “What can I get for you folks today? Drinks? Appetizers?”

  “Uh....” George looked at the menu for about five seconds, and then ordered some random stuff for him and Lynne. Actually, it wasn’t random at all. It was a mish-mash of all the healthiest things, from the prune sandwich to the arugula panini. After he finished, George turned my way.

  “Order whatever you want, Bethy. This lunch is on me,” he proclaimed with a grandiose wave of his hand.

  “Um, okay,” I murmured, staring at the menu. Because in truth, the Figaro was really expensive. I’d lost my job at Carlton Corp., or more accurately, never shown up again. And without the gig, it was back to eating ramen by candlelight, scrimping here and there, saving quarters for the laundromat. There were a couple times I’d babysat in the last month, but otherwise, my savings were disappearing.

  So I took advantage of the opportunity, shameless to the max.

  “Can I get the Philly cheese steak and fries please?” I asked the waiter. “And the cherry pie with whipped cream on top? Everything together is fine, thank you.”

  The dude was too professional to show his surprise at my mongo order, but he flicked his pen, jotting quickly on the notepad.

  “Of course, Miss,” were his words. “Right away.”

  I turned back to the stunned eyes of my parents. But Lynne recovered quick.

  “I love it. That’s one thing I’ve always adored about you, Beth,” she smiled. “You eat whatever you want and keep that sexy goddess shape.” She gentle pinched my arm with a smile. “I always thought George could use a bit of your hungry energy, he’s so thin these days.”

  “Not that thin,” interrupted George proudly, curling his arm so it bulged. “These biceps got us through that trek in the Himalayas. So it’s all muscle, baby, not fat.”

  Uck. It’s gross seeing old people flirt, but hey. It’s easier just to go with it sometimes.

  But Lynne continued.

  “George your daughter just eats life up. Why aren’t you more like Beth?” she asked playfully.

  My dad looked at his wife with a scowl, but when she only stared back with challenge and sass, he grinned and turned to me. “I know I haven’t been so great with you, Bethy. Lynne here tried to make me see that for a lot of years, but now is when I’m finally understanding it.”

  “Better late than never,” Lynne added and patted my arm.

  I shrugged. Whatever was going on with George now didn’t have anything to do with me, I was sure.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “Sounds good.”

  That should make them happy right? Get them off my back?

  But George and Lynne were on a mission.

  “Not okay, Beth,” George said with a shake of that floppy graying rocker hair. “I know I hurt you. A shitty New York lunch won’t make up for it, but I want to try.”

  Wow. Was this my father? The same one who’d basically ignored me for the last couple years? Crikey! What was going on?

  I looked at Lynne and she just shrugged, smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary. “I’ve been working hard on him, honey,” she explained. “And finally, that hard shell cracked a couple weeks ago. We wanted to see you to make up for the years of absence.

  I goggled, so surprised at the turn of events. Really? Was this really happening? Why now of all times? All that bullshit about George’s shell finally “cracking” was a little strange, right? I mean, the dude’s almost sixty and appears just as self-centered as ever. So what was the real reason behind this gesture?

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, okay. Um, thanks. I’m just shocked is all.”

  “I know,” George said with apology. “Sorry it took so long for me to get it, Bethy. You didn’t deserve to take the fall for all my shit.”

  I shook my head, unsure what to say. But fortunately, the waiter arrived with our orders then, making it unnecessary to speak. So I dug in, my appetite back for the first time in months. The food was tasty and it was nice to talk with George and Lynne.

  They told me about their plans to move back to the city and open some sort of a tantric sex education club. They didn’t want me to be part of it, thank God, but they wanted to stay in touch, stay in my life and help fix the bad things that happened between me and George.

  It didn’t make everything better just like that, but I was happy to see them and have real conversation.

  “We mean it,” said Lynne seriously, taking my hand in hers and squeezing softly. “We want to be here for you from now on.”

  “Better late than never!” exclaimed George, picking at his teeth with a toothpick. “You can drop in on us all you like.”

  Okay. That was something, although I prayed that my parents wouldn’t be in some weird position if I happened to pop by their place. So smiling once more, I made my excuses.

  “I gotta head to school,” was my murmur. “See you later?”

  “You know it!” crowed George. “NYC baby, here’s where it’s at.”

  And with that, I took off. It was nice, looking over my shoulder to see George and Lynne drinking wine, lazing in the sun. They were good together and happy as lovebirds.

  I t
ried not to be jealous.

  Because who gets jealous of their dad?

  Especially an old rocker dude of fifty-five, with an old hippie wife who wears her hair in cornrows.

  But as soon as I hit campus, sadness crashed over my frame again, like a wave beating the shores.

  Snap out of it, a voice inside my head hissed. Mason isn’t moping over you. He could have contacted you, but he didn’t. So stop this now.

  And it was true, the realization bringing fresh tears to my eyes. Because after our incident at his apartment, I haven’t heard anything. No texts, no calls, no emails from the billionaire. I was as good as dead. Worse. I was alive, walking around like a zombie with leaden feet and a heavy heart. I might as well be dead.

  So I was here to speak with a school counselor again. Doctor Carrie Mableton’s been a part of my life for the past couple months now, and I hoped she’d help me get over Mason, or at least stop me from crying so much.

  But reality always intrudes.

  “That kegger last night was the shit!” came a hoot over my shoulder.

  A guy in a fraternity shirt bumped into my curvy frame and pushed past. He was yammering into a phone and didn’t notice that I’d practically been knocked off my feet.

  “Yeah, a lot of bitches came through,” he continued. “I fucked one of them last night. And then guess what? Yeah, her fugly ass friend tried to get on my dick afterwards. I had to say no, the girl was fucking disgusting, a total ho-bag.”

  The guy was walking pretty fast but I heard every vile word as it was uttered.

  But he was lost in his own world.

  “Shit no, you nasty fucker. Though maybe I should have. Next time. Yeah, I’ll get a bag ready and put it over her head, jamming that puss from the back. Hell yeah, next time.”

  The guy ran up the steps to a frat house, fist bumping another dude on the way in.

  I literally stopped in my tracks.

  God! Was that how all guys talked about girls with each other?

  So disrespectful.

  Like women were just vaginas with legs, no brains, no hearts, no nothing.

  But it seemed true. There were frat houses everywhere on this street, and they were probably all full of dudes being gross. The Gamma Phi Omega fraternity. The Alpha Kappa Kappa frat. The men’s varsity crew team. I guess guys never outgrew the need to talk smack about women. It was so disgusting, they needed sensitivity training stat.