Billionaires and Bad Boys: The Complete 7-Book Box Set

by Nikki Chase

  Jessica

  There was this guy who was a regular at the Pussy Cat, a middle-aged man who kept his body in great shape, perhaps to make up for his receding hairline.

  He used to come every Tuesday night to talk about his marital problems for a few minutes. He’d pay me $100 to hear stories about how his wife never paid much attention to him anymore after they’d had kids.

  Many of the men who walk into strip joints aren’t just there for sexual gratification. They’re also after companionship, a little sympathy, or maybe some emotional connection. I’m not going to deny that, obviously, for a large portion of the audience, sex is the main appeal.

  I knew it wasn’t like that for Jacob. He didn’t fit the bill for the average strip club goer. He’s hot, for one. And he can be charming when he feels like it. A guy like that probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time.

  He’s only been in Ashbourne a couple of weeks, and a few women have already asked me about him, which annoys me for some reason.

  My point is, Jacob doesn’t need to visit a strip joint to get some female attention.

  I mean, just look at him right now. I’ve been doing just that for two solid minutes at least, standing here by my car as he works on his bike with his back to me.

  I haven't spoken with him since that little tiff we had on the porch a few days ago. But Bertha just told me that he’d changed her locks yesterday and now I feel like I have to thank him. I just haven't decided on a good way to start the conversation.

  It still boils my blood when I think about how he basically called me a promiscuous slut who deserves to have my home broken into because of the way I tease men.

  And yet, something within me stirs when I look at him, all big and strong and cocky. Like now. My eyes trace the curve of his jeans-clad ass as he crouches on his driveway, his white shirt drenched with sweat, allowing me to almost see his skin, his muscles flexing and relaxing as he works. His tattoos look like they're alive and dancing on his skin.

  He puts down his metal wrench on the ground with a soft clang and stands up. As he reaches his hands toward his back, I notice they're covered with a black, slick liquid. He grabs at the fabric of his shirt, leaving two perfectly clear big handprints. I guess that explains all the faded stains on his shirt.

  He starts to lift the shirt off and my eyes trace the ripples of his back, the curve of his spine. He stops to remove the oversized headphones perching on the top of his head before the takes the shirt all the way off.

  My heartbeat quickens as I study the lines of ink on Jacob’s back, remembering the way my fingernails dragged over his brawny shoulders all those years ago.

  “Enjoying the view?” Jacob says in a low, sexy voice.

  Shit. He just caught me in the act.

  My jaw must have dropped while I was watching him because my mouth is hanging open stupidly. Heat spreads across my face as I quickly try to regain my composure, put on a neutral expression. But it's too late. There's no denying that I was totally checking him out.

  “You can come over here and stick dollar bills in my waistband if you want to.” He pulls the waist of his jeans away from his skin. He has that annoying smirk on his ruggedly handsome face again, making him look like an arrogant douche bag.

  I try to keep my gaze on his smug face, but I keep getting distracted by the V-shaped shallow grooves below his sculpted abs that start from his hip bones and disappear into his jeans. I force myself to meet his mocking stare. “I just wanted to thank you for changing Bertha’s locks, but you didn't hear me.”

  “Okay, so you decided to just stand there and watch me until I take off my headphones. That makes complete sense.” His smirk widens as he adjusts the headphones around his neck.

  “Of course it does.” The moment the words leave my mouth I realize what a lame comeback it is. I walk toward the mailbox to hide my embarrassment. If I were to just go inside it would seem too much like I was trying to hide.

  I can feel Jacob's penetrating gaze on me, his desire searing into my flesh. I know this stare. I used to feel it all the time when I was dancing on stage with only a thong on my body.

  But it never made my heart race like this. It never caused tingles between my legs like this. If it did, everyone would be able to see a wet spot in my panties, all the way from the back of the club.

  “Any fan mail today? Maybe a love letter or two?” Jacob taunts. I can't see him I have my back to him now, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.

  “Not today, Jacob,” I say in the coolest, least affected tone I can muster. I sort the mail into two piles—one for the recycling bin and one for reading. To change the subject, I ask him, “So what's wrong with your bike?”

  “Nothing. It's in great condition. I just changed the exhaust and the muffler to make it quieter. Apparently, I was not being a good neighbor.”

  I swing around to look at him incredulously. “You didn't have to do that.”

  He waves a hand. “Nah, just pulling your leg. It's better for my hearing.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely.

  “Yeah. Although, at the volume I listen to music, I’m probably going to lose my hearing anyway. These new noise-cancelling headphones are great. And now your house parties won't bother me again.”

  “It was hardly a house party.” I roll my eyes as I throw the flyers into my box of paper trash.

  “Hey, wanna have a listen? The sound quality is great,” Jacob says, his voice low and inviting.

  My heart jumps in my chest. I’d love to get closer to that vision of hotness. It wouldn't hurt, right? I’m just going to have a listen to his music. Not like he's asking me to come test his mattress.

  “Sure,” I say as I saunter over to his driveway with the rest of the mail in my hand. Our eyes meet and I give him a small smile.

  “Here you go.” Jacob steps closer, invading my personal space and making my heart race faster. He raises his hands over my head and puts the headphones on me. His fingers almost graze my cheeks.

  He places his phone in my hand. It's still warm from being in his jeans pocket. He stands a little behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

  He's so close I can feel his bare chest on my back, his hot breath on my neck. With one hand over mine on the phone, he navigates to the song list.

  This feels intimate, although we’re not doing anything risqué. I’ve always felt like phones are really private things. Although you see them out in the open all the time, you don’t really get to touch or play with someone else’s phone. It’s like an extension of your person, in a way.

  I pick a song and the little speakers play Adele’s Skyfall. Not something I expected a guy like Jacob to be listening. It sounds good, but to be honest I wouldn't know the difference between these headphones and my cheap $10 ones.

  As Jacob goes back to working on his big bike, I realize I miss his closeness. He wipes the exhaust with a rag and looks up, catching me looking at him. I immediately try to look busy by opening my mail, but not before noticing his lips pulling upward into a self-satisfied smile.

  I set the letters from the bank and the power company aside. One letter has caught my attention. There's no company logo or any writing at all on the envelope. It’s probably some kind of mass-produced brochure stuffed into as many mailboxes as possible. I tear open the envelope, pull out the letter, and unfold it.

  I almost scream when I see the message on the single piece of paper. I clasp my hands over my mouth.

  Jacob must've heard me dropping the rest of my mail onto his driveway because he rushes to my side and takes off the headphones. He asks, “Is anything wrong?”

  When I hand the letter to Jacob, I notice my hands are shaking. He grabs the letter, stares at it with an angry frown on his face, and looks at me with concern. “What the fuck is this?”

  My heart is pounding against my rib cage and blood roars in my ears. I can't think so I just shake my head.

  “Who the fuck would send something
like this?”

  I shake my head again. “I don't know,” I say softly. All my energy has drained out of my body, leaving only fear. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been through, I’m right back at square one again. Just a prey being hunted. With resignation, I say, “Just throw it away.”

  “What do you mean just throw it away? This is serious,” Jacob says, holding up that horrible piece of paper for me to see.

  I’ve been trying to tell myself this is not really happening, but there it is. Little cutouts of alphabets from glossy magazines arranged on a normal piece of paper. If it weren’t for what the letters spell, it would almost look like an elementary school student’s art project. My vision blurs as I read the words again.

  RUN, WHORE

  Jacob

  “Okay, we’ll file a report,” the cop says with a bored expression, like he’d rather be at the station stuffing his face with donuts.

  “That’s it? You’re not going to, I don’t know, actually try to find the person who sent this?” My voice sounds louder and harsher than I intended. Blood rushes through my veins, making me restless, making me want to do something, run somewhere, punch someone. And if this cop annoys me any further, that someone could very well be him.

  “Sir, our resources are limited,” he says without even taking his eyes off his stupid fucking notebook where he’s scribbling useless shit. What’s the point of taking notes if he doesn’t plan on doing anything about it?

  “Yeah? What big crimes have been committed in Ashbourne that are keeping you busy? Jaywalking? Bike thefts? Teenagers smoking pot?”

  “Please calm down, Sir.” The cop keeps his head facing down while glancing up at me from beneath his unibrow. He’s getting annoyed. Good. “We don’t even know if a crime has been committed here. So someone leaves a note in Miss Lake’s mailbox. She’s unharmed. It could’ve been a prank. Maybe a friend actually thinks she should take up running for health reasons. Maybe a student has a crush on Miss Lake and his girlfriend leaves her a note out of teenage jealousy. Maybe it’s a new viral marketing campaign. It could be anything.”

  “Are you being serious right now?” I glare at the cop, but he just shrugs without meeting my eyes. I can’t believe this.

  I throw my hands in the air and glance at Jessica. Poor girl. She looks pale as a sheet, just sitting there on the railing of her porch while Mr. Busy Cop and I talk on her driveway.

  I should at least try again. “Look at that woman right there. She’s scared shitless. And you’re going to tell me you’re not going to do anything about this?”

  “Miss Lake told me herself it’s probably nothing. The only person pressing the matter is you, and you have nothing to do with it, do you?” The cop flips the pages of his notebook. “According to my notes, you’re just a neighbor. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say begrudgingly. I have no idea why Jessica is acting like this is the end of the world, and yet wouldn’t tell the cop to work on the case.

  “And you didn’t see anybody approaching Miss Lake’s mailbox?”

  “No.” I shouldn’t have been wearing those fucking noise-canceling headphones. I would’ve been more alert without them. I could’ve caught the guy who did this to Jessica.

  “Then we’re done here,” the cop says as he closes his damn notebook with finality and flashes me an infuriating satisfied smile.

  He waddles to his patrol car, where his partner has been sitting and twiddling his thumbs the whole time. Limited resources, my ass.

  Ah, fuck it. If they're not going to do anything, I’ll take care of it myself. What can the cops do to protect Jessica that I can't anyway?

  Although technically, the cop was right. I'm just a neighbor. A strange letter in my neighbor’s mailbox shouldn't bother me this much. So why is it that all I want to do is hunt down whoever sent it and beat him up?

  My footsteps make hollow sounds on the wooden floor of the porch as I approach Jessica and sit down beside her on the railing. She's still shaking, her green eyes staring so intently at the floor I have to check if there's anything on wooden planks. She doesn't even seem to realize I’m here.

  What is she so afraid of—or rather, who—and how do I get my fists on his face? Why doesn't she want to tell the cops anything?

  Is this why she has moved here to Ashbourne? To run away from something?

  What kind of dangerous shit is she involved in? What has she done to get herself in this situation? Is the reason why she says nothing to the cops, because she's committed a crime herself?

  I have so many questions.

  I study Jessica’s face, seeing the worry in her eyes, the lines on her forehead, the way she’s biting the insides of her cheeks. Her hands grip the railing so hard her knuckles are turning white. Her spine is curved, her muscles tense.

  On impulse, I put my arm around her shoulders. She gasps in surprise and snaps her head around to look at me. I pull her closer and stroke her arm.

  She’s cold, but I’m going to warm her up. I’ll fix it for her. Just like I’ll fix this situation for her. Who cares why? All I know is I can't just do nothing. I can't just sit here and watch her suffer.

  “Are you okay?” As I continue to stroke Jessica’s arm, I feel her start to relax into me, placing more of her weight on my chest.

  “Yeah.” She nods.

  “Who's doing this?”

  “I don't know.”

  I pause to suppress my anger that's flaring up. I don't want to make her feel worse, but I need to know who's doing this to her or I have a feeling they may hurt more than her feelings next time. “Do you think it's the same guy who broke into your home?”

  “I don't know,” she insists.

  I pull away just far enough from her so I can put both my hands on her shoulders and level my gaze at her. “Jessica. We both know that's bullshit. What are you not telling me?”

  “It's none of your business.” Jessica leans back further away from me until I remove my hands from her shoulders. Storm brews in her green eyes. She's obviously troubled, so why the fuck is she playing this game? Why is she being so fucking stubborn?

  “I’ve made it my business and there's nothing you can do about it. I don't care if you don't want my help. I'll fix this and you’ll just have to deal with that.”

  “Why?” She frowns at me, confusion written all over her face.

  “Fuck if I know.” I shrug. “Does it matter? I'm here to help you. Use me.”

  “You could be one of them for all I know,” she says. The surprise that registers on her pretty face tells me she didn't mean to share that bit of information with me.

  “Who’s ‘them?’”

  “Forget it.” Jessica takes a deep breath and looks away at the street that runs in front of both our houses.

  “No, fuck that. You could be in real danger here, can't you? I know you hate me, but this really isn't the time to argue.”

  “I don't hate you,” she says softly, keeping her gaze on the street.

  “Just let me help you. Okay? You know you can't handle this on your own. That's why you're so scared.”

  She turns to look at me, doubt reflected in her startlingly green eyes.

  “You know you’ll feel better if you’ve got someone on your side,” I say. When I hear no reply from her, I repeat my question. “Do you know who's doing this to you?”

  “No. Like the cop said, it could be anyone.” She's starting to annoy me with her lies and I’m about to get really angry when she continues, “It could be the owner of the Pussy Cat.”

  “The strip club where you worked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You pissed off the guy and now he's coming after you?”

  “You can say that.”

  “What did you do exactly?”

  “I don't want to talk about that.”

  “Okay.” I wonder if he's another one in a long list of Jessica's ex-lovers.

  This is why women shouldn't sleep around. Not because of mo
rality or religion or anything like that, but because the more men they see, the more likely they are to come across some crazy motherfuckers. These nutjobs would rather kill their women than see them with other men.

  “He's in jail, so it's definitely not him personally. But it could be someone who works for him,” she says.

  “Like who? Do you know?”

  “There was this guy I went on a date with just before the break-in. Although now that I think about it, it couldn't have been him who broke into my house because he was with me when it happened.” She pauses and thinks. “I got a weird email yesterday from some guy I don't know. But the sender doesn't seem like the kind of guy who’d hide his identity.”

  “Anyone else? Anyone you can think of?”

  “Well…” Jessica finally looks at me. She gives me a wry smile. “There's you.”

  “Me? Why would I want to break your lock or send you a weird letter? What good would that do me?”

  “I don't know.” She shrugs. “You asked for anyone I could think of.”

  “Fair enough. I promise you it's not me. But then again if I were the culprit that's exactly what I would say.”

  The corners of Jessica's lips pull upward. Her smile turns into a grin, which turns into laughter. I don't think I said anything that funny, but maybe she needs to laugh to get rid of her anxiety.

  “Stay at my place tonight,” I blurt out.

  Jessica

  “Stay at my place tonight,” Jacob says. “Your house is not safe. You’ve had one break-in and one threatening letter in the space of, what, two weeks?”

  I avoid Jacob’s intense, questioning gaze. Instead, I take a good look at my house. The black front door that was wide open when I got home from the date. The mailbox at the end of the driveway where a threatening—not to mention insulting—letter was placed for me to find.

  Jacob is right. I don’t feel safe here. Not anymore.

  “I can’t,” I hear myself say.

  I may have said it in a half-joking manner when I told Jacob it could’ve been him who’s responsible for the break-in and the letter. But there’s still a little voice in the back of my head that tells me not to trust him.