“So, anyway,” Alan says. “Forget about her. McCreedy. What do we have to do to land that bastard?”
For the next half hour we hash out our plans to get Nelson McCreedy in the family. He’s got a lot of money to play with. We just have to show him where to invest it. Where to make it grow. He’s hardheaded, and been with The Monroe Group since dinosaurs walked the Earth, but after a few bad moves on their part costing him a few million, he’s looking to switch his portfolio.
Huffman Financial is just the place he needs to be.
He just doesn’t know it yet, but he will. They always do.
Raven would know my lap is where she needed to be, given the opportunity. Bouncing up and down. My cock is swelling just thinking about it, and I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. I’m completely captivated by a damn waitress. What the hell is wrong with me?
My breath hitches as she approaches, her hips swaying confidently from side-to-side. Dropping the check on our table without saying a word, Raven steps away, briefly catching my eye in a deadpan stare that’s as cold as ice, yet underneath it there’s a fire blazing bright in a woman that’s managed to consume my every thought in mere moments. Most girls I know gravel at my feet to make me happy. Not her. She’s confrontational. Sexy. A challenge.
Something I haven’t had in a long time.
“You paying?” Alan asks.
“Don’t I always?”
After flipping the bill for the fifty-five dollar tab with credit, she brings back my card and receipt and I take it from her. Brushing my fingers briefly with hers, I smile and say, “Thanks.”
“Sure,” she growls, giving Alan the fiercest glare I’ve ever seen.
I don’t want to say it’s her own fault, because I know the type of person Alan is, but dressed the way she is, and looking the way she does, she has to expect men to salivate from time to time. I mean her hair, those tattoos, her tits on display for all the world to see…she’s just asking to get hit on in this dive.
Putting my card back in my wallet, I remove a gold pen from my jacket and twist it open. Signing for the bill, I stare down where it says Tip and think on how much to leave her. Etiquette says the correct amount should be $8.25. 15% of the total bill.
The gentlemanly thing to do would be to just leave the tip and walk out.
But I was never one for etiquette, and no one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman. Not with a girl like her in a place like this.
Let’s have a little fun, shall we?
I scrawl something on the receipt and place it under my plate, grinning proudly to myself. Chances are I’ll never see this girl again in my life, but I’m not going to lie. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when she reads it.
Raven the waitress got exactly the tip she deserves.
“Come on,” I tell Alan. “Let’s go.”
He blinks and before I know it, we’re back in my SUV being ushered uptown by my driver. I stare out the window, completely ignoring Alan’s gibberish, because all I can think about is Raven’s breasts, and how much I’d love to suck on them.
God, April’s going to get the fuck of her life tonight.
- 2 -
Raven
I step off the tube and catch my shoe, falling head over heels to the dingy floor traipsed on everyday by thousands of New Yorkers. It’s bad enough I have to stand next to them on the subway. I don’t need a bird’s eye view of everything they’ve frolicked in all day.
But it’s indicative of how this afternoon has been.
Going in to work on my day off after Hugo called in sick. Again! I swear, that bloke is sicker than an Eli Roth movie. Not to mention all the guys I had to serve that couldn’t stop staring at my tits. They think they’re being all secretive about it. Stealing glances and being all fancy, but I know. I see them all looking. I’m not blind, and I know that’s one of the reasons Chase hired me. My tits and my British accent.
But the definite winner of the day has to be those two suits I served at lunch. They’re burned into my brain for all eternity. I know it’s just a job, and I shouldn’t care so much, but when you make your living relying mostly on tips, what they did to me was downright bollocks! I don’t care how good looking you are, and believe me, the guy who paid the check was a definite hottie.
He may have been checking out my tits, but while he was doing that I was busy admiring his chiseled frame. Every last inch of it poured like solid gold into that custom fitted suit of his. For sure. A suit off the rack doesn’t look like his did. This one was formed to fit his body. Accentuating every curve and bulge.
And his face.
My God, it was perfect. His lips, his brow, his nose. Peppered with just the right amount of stubble that feels good between the thighs.
But still, just because he looks like a movie star doesn’t give him the right to treat people the way he treated me.
Imagine, the nerve of him telling me that people don’t respect my tattoos. If anything, they respect me more for them. The people that matter do, anyway. Everyone else can just bugger off.
Do you know how much it hurts to get inked? It’s no walk in the park, let me tell you. And I’ve got two whole sleeves, not to mention the numerous ones placed elsewhere on my body.
And fun bags? Who calls breasts fun bags? Fucking Americans, that’s who.
I make my way up to street level and immediately I’m hit with the sights and sounds of the big city. I’ve been here two years and it still never ceases to amaze me how alive it is at every hour of the day. When I was a little girl growing up in London, I always dreamed that some day I’d make it to New York City. I don’t know why, but seeing it on the telly all those years ago—it just felt like home. Like I was born in the wrong part of the world and it was calling for me to come back.
Now that I’m here, I’m not as enamored with it as I was when I was five, but I still get a kick out of everything it has to offer.
Even if what it has to offer doesn’t tip me.
Come on, you can’t tell me that guy didn’t have money. That suit, those looks. It was oozing out of every pore on his hard body. Not that money means all that much, but I’ve always believed that if you have it, share the wealth, you know? Especially to someone who serves your ass food for lunch. $8.50 for a tip isn’t going to break the bank.
Not his bank, anyway.
I’m still fuming by the time I get home, which is a little brownstone apartment building in Queens that I share with my roommate, Tito.
Out front on the steps, Ricky and his little sister, Sonya from 2D, are in a heated debate over Pokemon cards. I give both their heads a scruff as I step between them and make my way inside.
“Hey Raven,” they both echo in unison.
“Hi, kids,” I say, not bothering to turn around as the front door closes behind me.
Upstairs on the third floor, Tito is already talking at me before I can even get inside the apartment and set down my purse.
“Rave, you’re not gonna believe the kind of day I had. I got—”
“No,” I interrupt. “You’re not going to believe the kind of day I had.”
That shuts him up real quick. Normally I just let him go on and on while smiling and nodding, so when I have to interrupt his banter, you know it’s serious.
Puzzled, he cocks his head to the side like a Labrador. I reach into my purse and pull out a copy of the receipt suit guy left me.
Huffman, Grant. No idea who that is, but it even sounds rich.
Tito takes a look at it. Reads the note Grant left instead of a tip.
“Get rid of those tattoos and maybe people will respect you more?”
His eyes snap up and meet mine, which by this point are accepting, though I do raise my eyebrows. “Yeah,” I say. “Can you believe that?”
“Oh no he didn’t!” Tito shouts, checking the receipt once more as if to validate its authenticity.
“He did,” I say, brushing past him and heading for the kitchen. If there was
any day that warranted a drink, this was that day.
Tito’s hot on my heels, sitting me down before I can reach the fridge. “I’ll get it,” he says.
I laugh, loving how he knows me so well.
Tito’s a hoot. Totally gay, Spanish, with a heart of gold. I met him shortly after arriving here. We took classes together over at Columbia. Both going for our Bachelor’s in Art. I thought I wanted to be a graphic designer, and Tito thought he wanted to be a famous photographer. A year in and we both realized that neither of those things were what we wanted, so we dropped out and joined the working class citizens of the world. Now we’re both trudging through life until we can figure out just what is it we truly want. It’s a good thing I have him, too, because without him I don’t know how I’d be able to afford New York’s exuberant rental prices.
He lowers a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Watermelon Punch in front of me and I snatch it off the table to guzzle a quarter of it down. The alcohol warms my system. Calms me slightly. I put the bottle down and sigh as Tito takes a seat across from me, still holding the receipt.
“Huffman,” he says. “I recognize that name from somewhere.”
“Yeah, well, who cares, right? Story of my life.”
“Was he hot? I bet he was hot. No ugly guy would do this.”
“Yeah,” I smile and take another swig. “Totally hot. Like, monumentally hot.”
“Maybe you should track him down,” Tito grins.
“Are you kidding me? I’m not going to sleep with someone like that.”
“True,” he muses. “After doing something like this, there’s no doubt he’s probably selfish in the bed, too. I bet he’s never made a girl come in his life.”
“Tito!” I chide, but I can’t help but smile at his naughty humor. I’m the same way when I’m not exhausted and my feet aren’t aching from standing on them for six hours.
“I’m just saying,” he jokes. “Still, there must be some way we can get back at him.”
“Him? We? I don’t even know who he is, and besides, even if I did, what could I possibly do to get back at someone like that? You didn’t see this guy. He probably has more money than God. Blokes like that don’t give two fingers about what someone like me thinks of them.”
“Maybe not, but it’d still feel good, right?”
Can’t disagree with him there. I take another pull on the bottle and belch.
“At least post something on Facebook. That always makes me feel better.”
“Facebook. Everything with you is always Facebook, Facebook, Facebook.”
It’s true. He’s on there more than Mark Zuckerberg, I’m sure. Posting pictures of his food, writing status updates about how well him and his boyfriend, Frankie, are doing. It’s enough to make me gag, and not in the oh look, a big cock in my mouth, sort of way.
He runs out into the living room, snatches my phone out of my purse, and hands it to me. “Trust me,” he says.
“Fine,” I growl, yanking the phone out of his hands.
“Don’t forget to take a picture. People love pictures.”
I do as he asks, snapping a photo of the receipt. Then I write something to accompany it, click Post, and voila!
“Feel better?” Tito asks.
“A little.”
“Good.”
I finish off my watermelon punch and stand to bring it to the recycling bin.
“What was it you wanted to tell me, anyway?” I ask.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He excitedly jumps out of his chair and stops me mid-stride, the bottle still clutched firmly in my hand. He places his palms on my shoulders and grins the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. “You ready for this?”
“Yes!” I say, feeling his excitement.
But before he can say anything his expression of exuberance falters, and he stares past me into space. I turn to see what he’s looking at, but there’s nothing there.
“What?” I ask, suddenly worried that he might be having a stroke.
“I got it,” he whispers.
“Got what?”
“Grant Huffman, I remember where I’ve heard that name before.”
He runs into the living room and snatches his laptop off the coffee table. Rushing back into the kitchen, he sets it on the table and flips it open, leaving me standing next to him with the empty bottle still gripped in my hand. His fingers furiously tap at the keyboard and after a few moments he turns the screen toward me and asks, “Is this the guy?”
I look, and sure enough, there’s picture of suit guy staring back at me, looking as smug and handsome as ever.
“Yeah,” I scowl. “That’s him.”
“Raven, do you know who this guy is?”
“Sure,” I shrug. “Grant Huffman.”
“No, but do you know who he is?”
I shake my head.
“This is Grant Oliver Sebastian Huffman, and yes, his initials totally spell out GOSH, and for good reason. Forbes magazine listed him as one of the top billionaires under 35 in the country. He’s a financial mogul. Investments, stocks, bonds, trading, selling…you name it, and this guy’s done it. He owns Huffman Financial, and for a guy who deals in money, he’s not as stuck-up as you’d think. He’s trending all the time. Twitter, tabloids, New York Times, USA Today, TMZ. Women, money, power. He’s the total package.”
Tito sighs longingly at that part, staring at Grant Huffman’s impeccable picture. I don’t blame him. The guy is strikingly gorgeous.
But me? I stopped listening after he said billionaire. I knew this guy had a lot of money based on his suit alone, but a billionaire?
Holy shit.
Something in my brain clicks and I rush to grab my phone. Snatching it up, I head on over to Facebook with Tito looking diligently over my shoulder.
“Rave? What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? I’m deleting that picture,” I say frantically. “If this guy’s a billionaire, he could crush me under his thumb if he sees something like that.”
Tito grabs my hand, preventing me from doing anything with my phone. He looks at me, and I stare back at him as the corner of his mouth turns up into a mischievous grin.
“Tito…” I say wearily.
“Leave it,” he smiles. “Let’s see what happens.”
“Tito, no,” I protest.
“Come on, Rave. Have a little fun. When has a guy being a billionaire ever stopped you from being you?”
“I don’t know, and that’s probably because I don’t know any billionaires, and I’m not about to take my chances with this one.”
“Fine,” he dramatically relinquishes his hand. “If you don’t think this guy deserves to be reprimanded for the way he treated you, that’s fine. Delete it. But you’ll be setting back the women’s movement a hundred years, allowing any man with money to just walk all over your sweet ass, and the sweet asses of women everywhere without worrying about the consequences.”
I slump my shoulders and sigh. He does have a point. Guys like Grant Huffman are used to getting their way. Walking through life thinking they’re above the law. Untouchable. Facebook isn’t a court of law, and I’m not a judge, but maybe this lowly punishment will go a long way toward making guys like him see that not every girl they meet can be pushed around.
Besides, I have like, 200 friends on there. It’s not as if anybody of importance is going to see it.
“Fine,” I surrender. “I’ll leave the image and see what happens, but I’m telling you right now, if assassins show up in the middle of the night to off me, I’m throwing you under the bus and making a run for it.”
“Deal,” he beams.
He closes the laptop and takes a deep breath, and I remember that he had something to tell me. All this Grant Huffman mess left everything else by the wayside, and since Tito can be easily distracted sometimes, I nudge him a little back into the right headspace.
“So what is it you wanted to tell me.”
He thinks for a moment, and then that same, excite
d grin breaks out on his face as he remembers.
Taking my shoulders and spinning me to face him, he says, “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready, Tito. Come on, spill it.”
He bites his knuckles and squeals, “Frankie and I got engaged! I’m moving out!”
My face drops, and with it the empty bottle I’m still holding. It smashes on the floor, breaking into tiny glass fragments that pepper the linoleum and cut at my ankles.
Moving out?
Son of a bitch.
RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES!
TMZ
Oh My Gosh! What’s Grant Huffman Done Now?
NEW YORK POST
Gosh, Golly, Gee, Give a Girl a Break!
E! ONLINE
Gosh, What a Jerk
JUST JARED
Grant Huffman: Billionaire Playboy Exposed as a Billion Dollar Ass
RADAR ONLINE
Huffman in A Huff!
BUZZFEED
Grant Huffman Offered His Waitress a Tip, and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next!
PEREZ HILTON
Oh Gosh, Not This Guy Again
YAHOO CELEBRITY
What Grant Huffman Did Was Unforgivable
PEOPLE
Grant Huffman Shows His True Colors
- 3 -
Grant
Talk about your PR nightmare.
Sitting in my office, I stare at my computer. At the same image I’ve been staring at for the past week. The image that has caused me more stress than anything in recent memory.
Fucking Raven Young. I knew she was a vixen when I first saw her, but I just couldn’t help myself, could I?
Christ, who knew that going to a sports bar with Alan was going to land me in so much hot water? Sure, I didn’t have to write what I did on that receipt, but it was just some harmless fun. Now I’ve had to suspend Alan, feigning ignorance on the whole “fun bags” comment, and issue a public apology to the same girl I haven’t been able to get out of my mind all week.
Made In America Page 2