Wanted: Big Bad Brother: A Billionaire Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

by Knight, Natalie

  Even in the dark of the bar, I could see the blood rush to her face. At first, I thought she was embarrassed, and expressing it like a kid by blushing from her toes to the roots of her hair, but as the moment stretched I realized she was furious.

  “I haven’t told you what I know about you, Stanley,” she said.

  I was getting up from the table, but sat back down when I heard her.

  “I changed my name,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “I’m not exactly the first person to do that.”

  She nodded, smiling slowly.

  “Sure, Xavier, that’s true. People change their names and you absolutely look the part of a debonair business god throwing around his black card in a dive bar in the East Village. Xavier is something else, but Stanley is…nothing much.”

  I forced a laugh.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, taking care to keep my voice so low she had to lean slightly forward to hear me.

  A slight look of surprise flashed across her face.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  I smiled coolly.

  “To your house to grab your passport,” I said. “I assume you have one, Jane.”

  She looked me dead in the eye, and belted the last of her bourbon. A sharp nod and then she took off for the door.

  We didn’t talk much and then we both slept on the plane. I had the flight attendant bring out Dom Perignon and a bowl of caviar from the Caspian Sea. I told her to use the crystal champagne flutes.

  When sudden turbulence caused the plane to jolt, I watched Jane’s full champagne glass fly and smash against the side of the plane. I smiled and asked the flight attendant to bring her another crystal glass filled close to the rim with champagne.

  “Let’s try that again,” I said.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Rome,” I said.

  I watched her swallow the wine, the caviar in front of her untouched. She looked out her window and I, finally feeling calm, looked out mine.

  Once we landed, I deposited her in the penthouse of the Ritz. Then, later, I sent a chauffeured Rolls Royce to pick her up.

  I didn’t prepare her for the luxurious glamor of the dinner. I didn’t offer to buy her a wardrobe full of designer dresses. I was dressed impeccably, tailored suit, cufflinks, a square of silk tucked into my pocket.

  Now, she’s seated across from me in a dress that looks like it was bought in a Midwestern mall in 2003. She’s still beautiful, but she’s lost her cocksure attitude.

  “You’re not eating, Jane,” I remark, taking a sip of the rare vintage I ordered for us. “Is it okay? Should we call the chef over?”

  “It’s perfect,” she says, a note of bitterness obvious.

  I incline my head.

  She picks up her fork and puts it down again.

  “You’ve made your point, Xavier,” she says.

  I lift my eyes to hers.

  “Let me be very clear, little girl,” I say. “You may think you know me and understand some part of who I am or where I’ve come from. You learned I came from a small town, was raised by a single-mother. You might know every facet of my life, but I am and will always be more than you are: smarter, richer, more powerful, more accomplished. If you cross me, threaten me, follow me, I will—” here I pause and lean back in my chair for effect, “crush you.”

  I watch her wilt. I feel both shame and satisfaction.

  “Now,” I say, dabbing my lips with the napkin. “We have a few minutes before the plane will be ready to take us back home, should we get dessert?”

  I watch her as she lifts her head and squares her shoulders.

  “Whatever you like, Xavier.”

  Back on my plane, she’s staring out the window while I’m smiling to myself.

  Allie

  I’m not sure why I’m here again, sitting on the black leather chair in this stuffy, cramped waiting room. The guy sitting at the back of the room looks like the receptionist, but he isn’t.

  His name is Brock, a douchey name for a douchey guy. He’s the youngest talent agent in this three-person outfit and the one who didn’t get a private office with a door. Everyone who walks in and treats him as if he might be helpful in connecting them with another agent in the office is rudely and pointedly ignored.

  Or, if he’s in a playful mood, he looks you up and down and says something like: “My clients are all animals, but I might make an exception for you and your horse’s face” or “you and your bullfrog’s mouth” or “sloth’s hands” or “hippo’s grace” or “cow’s titties” or whatever animal part comes to his mind in the moment.

  The poor person who makes the mistake of thinking he’s a decent human being, mostly innocent teenage girls, blink stupidly at him, and then sink into the other chair in the room to wait for their actual agent to stick their head from behind the door and call their names.

  The smart ones, however, turn and take off, speeding out the door.

  You better run , I always think, but Brock never acknowledge their reactions and goes back to barking into the mouth piece on his headset.

  In all my years, sitting in this chair in front of his desk, I’ve never seen him meet with a client himself or close a deal. He must do something, though, because I’ve noticed his clothes have stopped hanging off his body. He looks like a man who eats good food regularly and he carries himself like a man who has a trainer, a masseuse, and a tailor.

  I know all this about Brock because I sit here forgotten for hours by my agent, Cheri. I know all this because years ago I was the green and hopeful kid, still sporting my cheerleader-perfect ponytail.

  The first morning I walked into this place, I was going to meet with my agent—my agent !—for the first time. I’d tied a red ribbon in my hair that morning, but before I opened the door of my car to walk into the building, I changed my mind. I pulled off the ribbon and slipped it into my black Longchamp bag, a present from my aunt on my nineteenth birthday.

  That was years ago—how many? Seven? Ten? Who knows. That was the last promising day of my career. Since then I’ve wasted days of my life on this black plastic chair watching people walk past me with big confident smiles and leave with watery eyes.

  Those of us who are veterans of this life will nod at each other. I’ve watched so many of them change from having that snappy walk of an eager dreamer to the more measured clipped movement of the determined, to the resigned forward motion of the person trapped in a tortured loop.

  There’s nothing glamorous about this life.

  Today, for example, I’ve been waiting for an hour and forty minutes to see a woman who won’t look me in the eye for the whole of our 15-minute meeting. She won’t waste her words on me or help me when I tell her that I haven’t worked as an actor in months. I’ll tell her that I’m starting to lose my will to go on.

  I’ll tell her in no uncertain terms, that I wish I was with an agent who took time to work with me or send me to auditions for interesting roles, and she’ll nod along, all the while shifting piles of papers from the left side of her desk to the right. A headset will hang around her neck and she’ll smell like Chanel and stale cigarettes, and I’ll leave without a job and get into my car and drive to Eastern High School where I’ll put in a few hours as the assistant cheer coach.

  I shift in my chair and the plastic sticks to the back of my legs. I’ve been here too long, I think. I’m hungry and will be late for practice, so I grab the handle of the old Longchamp bag and get up just as Cheri sticks her head out the door and says, “Allie?”

  I lift my hand in greeting, but it feels like sign of defeat. She opens the door a little wider, enough for me to slip around the door into the room filled to bursting with boxes and papers. She gestures at the chair.

  “It’s good to see you,” she says to me, but doesn’t look up from her computer screen.

  “You too,” I say flatly.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Well, I wanted to ask you,” I say,
bending forward with my elbows on my knees trying to get her attention, while glancing at the computer screen.

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “Go on.”

  “I haven’t been out for a real audition for a while. It’s been more than two months. The last one was for the commercial for the body spray, remember? Remember, I was allergic to the spray and broke out into hives? Ruined my chances to go out for anything for weeks, but I’m better now.”

  I pitch my voice lighter and say lamely, “Look at me; hive-free!”

  Cheri doesn’t look at me. She speaks a “ha” sound, because it was a lame joke but she can’t be bothered to pretend to laugh.

  “Anyway,” I push on. “Is there anything else? Anything at all? I need to work—things are a little tight right now.”

  The noise of keyboard keys being tapped grates on my already frayed nerves.

  “I’m just checking something,” she says to me. “There was something I saw and thought of you right away. Ah, yes, here it is.”

  She turns her chair and, finally , glances my way. I sit up straighter.

  “Have you heard of Hard Pressed ?”

  “The cat-list people?” I say, confused.

  “Yep,” she says, “same folks. The company is owned by that guy Xavier Baldwin. Super rich and slightly brilliant when it comes to the Internet. For the past couple years, they’ve been in the process of expanding their media brand from cat-lists and clickbait to quizzes and news, and now they’re doing video content. A lot of video content, actually.”

  I nod, but I’m not sure what I’m nodding for.

  “They’re going to start doing things like humor shorts and entertainment news clips, but they’re also looking for someone to be the face of their new food show. They say it has the potential of being a regular gig, which would be great for you. Tons of exposure and a hot brand behind you, the whole bit.”

  “That sounds great,” I say, trying not to get excited. I’ve seen too much disappointment. “I don’t know a ton about food, but I’m a Top Chef super-fan.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cheri says. Now she’s the one nodding.

  “Great,” she says, “that’s super. Maybe draw on that enthusiasm when you meet with them, if you meet with them. But from what they tell me, this gig is going to be less about ‘preparing food’ or ‘cooking’ per se and more about eating stuff. Remember this whole thing is about getting Millennials to click on the videos and share them across their TwitterBooks or SnapGrams or whatever the fuck they care about this week.”

  “Okay—”

  “And if you can get in front of this market and if they like you, you could become a sensation. You know, like the kid that went to the dentist and came back high? Remember that? He kept asking about real life or something?”

  “Sure—but he was a child and became an actual meme,” I point out. “Are you saying I’m auditioning at Hard Pressed to be a meme? Can companies engineer memes even?”

  “First of all, you’re not auditioning. I told them you’d take it. But they are taking you on as a trial run. If you do well, there’s the potential for a regular gig or maybe another viral content nonsense thing.”

  “Cheri, I don’t know—”

  “What’s the problem exactly? Is it the paycheck or the possibility of a regular paycheck?” Cheri pushes herself to face the screen again and begins typing.

  “I was hoping I would get a chance to go out for a role. You know, to act again?”

  “This is acting, kiddo,” she says. She faces me and looks me in the eyes for the first time all morning. “The segment is about eating and talking about gross-out foods—worms and crickets and Soylent, monkey brains and lizard eyes. Shit like that. You’ll eat them after being adorably horrified or whatever the director wants.”

  “Cheri—” I feel panic starting.

  “Sorry, Allie, I have another client coming in. The shoot starts today.”

  I hear the ping of an email from the phone tucked in my bag.

  “I just forwarded the information.”

  I get up and mumble thank you. I make my way out of the building into the parking lot wondering what I did to deserve this life.

  Xavier

  By the next day, I'm deep into work again, observing what’s transpiring in one of the smaller studios at Hard Pressed. We’re growing fast, and we now have quite a few studios here as we continue to produce a variety of media projects. I built this company from scratch and now it’s a fucking empire. Anybody who’s lucky enough to catch a break here will have a major highlight on their resume.

  Part of why I’m down here is I like to know what’s going on in all areas of my company. The other part is I know new models have come in today and I want to check them out for myself.

  Not only because I want to have my pick and fuck one lucky winner later tonight, but also because I like to think of it as quality assurance. I want only the best of the best in here.

  Naturally, I know what will happen with the girls. I'll have one of them on my arm by nightfall. It’s always the same. Just like it was with Jane the other night. I don’t have to do much—fucking anything, really—to have the flavor of the day, then move on.

  But that's beside the point.

  What matters is that my company stays on top. I worked fucking hard to get here. I used to be somewhat of a nerd with too much knowledge for my own good. I kept my eye on the prize, though, and was determined to make it big.

  And here I am.

  I'm the boss, built like a gladiator. All eyes turn toward me as I walk deeper into the studio, making my presence known. I'm used to the attention.

  I look over the new recruits and I'm happy with what I see. They're gonna give Hard Pressed a new angle, a fresh edge.

  This is a small video shoot, something about food, so it's not essential to the brand but it's still important that all the models look good.

  I look for the camera crew to go over the details. What can I say? I'm a control freak and I like it that way.

  That's when I see her.

  Jesus Christ.

  It's Allie fucking Baldwin.

  No fucking way.

  The girl from my past, the girl whose betrayal motivated me to become even more of a success, is here in my studio?

  I'd know her anywhere. She's the girl that broke my heart, the one that got away. She and I have a sordid past but today she’s right here in front of me,. She looks even better than I remember.

  This girl jaded me when we were younger. She took my virginity, and I supposedly took hers. But afterwards, I found out from this girl named Becky that Allie had an STD and didn't tell me. Luckily, I came out clean but it was a close call. What really hurt about that shit, though, was that she lied to me. Said I was the only guy she’d ever been with. That it was special.

  I trusted this girl. Allie and I were friends and I thought we had something real. Sure, it was a high school thing, but that kind of stuff sticks with you. It’s sure as fuck stuck with me. It’s formative, really.

  Looking at her now in the middle of all her model friends, just laughing and enjoying life, my cock stirs just like it always did. I feel attracted to her despite myself. I also feel extremely angry.

  I've always resented what she did to me and though I never thought I'd see her again, now that she's here in my very own studio, I can't not want her.

  I just keep watching her and even though she sees me too, I feel sure she doesn't recognize me, or even remember me if the way she treated me was any indication. I was a nerd in high school.

  I've changed a lot, so much that I’m likely unrecognizable. I went from being a nobody with an ingenious mind, to a billionaire somebody.

  I've definitely made something of my life. I used all my genius and filtered it in the right ways. I own this company, and it’s a fucking media empire. Allie really lost out when she betrayed me.

  I walk up to the videographer and ask him about the new girl. I have to make sure it's her. Although who can mist
ake that fantastic body?

  She was a cheerleader back then and fucking stunning, I guess she's trying to make in the modeling world. I imagine it's not a smooth transition; the competition's tough out here. I just can’t believe that she’s not only in Manhattan, but in my studio.

  "Who's the new girl, Mario?" I ask him.

  "Which one? We have so many, per your request," he says.

  How could he not know who I'm talking about? Allie is obviously the most beautiful of all those models. Her blonde hair is flowing over her shoulders and she has a tight little body that I'd love to pound my cock into.

  Despite all my aggression towards her, I still want to fuck her into oblivion, just to make her understand what she's missing. I want to make her the one that leaves with me tonight. I want to fuck her. Then I want to walk away and make her the one who lost out.

  She can have me for a night or two but that’s all. I’m just not that way with women. I won’t let myself get involved beyond that. Especially not with Allie.

  In fact, she should be honored I even want to go to bed with her. After what she did, she doesn't deserve a second glance from me. But she's so gorgeous I just can't resist taking one more taste of her.

  The photographer looks over his notes to find out her name.

  "Um, the blonde one, let's see, her name is Allie. She’s an up-and-coming model and it doesn't look like she's done anything significant. She works for the agency called The Galaxy."

  She works for The Galaxy. That's an agency I've never heard of which, means it must not be that important. I know all the big players in town and that company's definitely not on my list.

  It makes me think that she's a struggling model. She's an unknown. And I actually wonder how she's able to afford to live in New York City without proper representation.

  My eyes are on her and her eyes are on mine. There’s an almost tangible connection energizing the air between us. The difference is, I know who she is and she obviously doesn't remember me.