Table of Contents
How to get the Bonus Epilogue
Soundtrack
One - Sebastian
Two - Brett
Three - Sebastian
Four - Brett
Five - Sebastian
Six - Brett
Seven - Brett
Eight - Sebastian
Nine - Brett
Ten - Sebastian
Eleven - Brett
Twelve - Brett
Thirteen - Sebastian
Fourteen - Brett
Fifteen - Brett
Sixteen - Sebastian
Seventeen - Brett
Eighteen - Sebastian
Nineteen - Brett
Twenty - Sebastian
Twenty One - Brett
Twenty Two - Sebastian
Twenty Three - Brett
Twenty Four - Brett
Twenty Five - Sebastian
Twenty Six - Brett
Also by Mickey Miller
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Boss with Benefits
Mickey Miller
Edited by
Danielle Beckett
Miller Media, LLC
Copyright © 2017 by Mickey Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Soundtrack
1. One - Sebastian
2. Two - Brett
3. Three - Sebastian
4. Four - Brett
5. Five - Sebastian
6. Six - Brett
7. Seven - Brett
8. Eight - Sebastian
9. Nine - Brett
10. Ten - Sebastian
11. Eleven - Brett
12. Twelve - Brett
13. Thirteen - Sebastian
14. Fourteen - Brett
15. Fifteen - Brett
16. Sixteen - Sebastian
17. Seventeen - Brett
18. Eighteen - Sebastian
19. Nineteen - Brett
20. Twenty - Sebastian
21. Twenty One - Brett
22. Twenty Two - Sebastian
23. Twenty Three - Brett
24. Twenty Four - Brett
25. Twenty Five - Sebastian
26. Twenty Six - Brett
27. How to get the Bonus Epilogue
Also by Mickey Miller
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Soundtrack
Just Friends - G-Eazy
Tequila Makes her Clothes Fall Off - Joe Nichols
Meant to be - Bebe Rexha and Florida Georgia Line
Motivation - Kelly Rowland and Lil Wayne
Hypnotize - Notorious B.I.G.
Mo Money Mo Problems - Notorious B.I.G. ft P. Diddy & Mase
Monster - Kanye West
Give Me Some of That - Thomas Rhett
One - Sebastian
Some sons of bitches just don’t know how to close a deal.
I’m not one of those people.
I built Blackwell Industries from the ground up. They used to call me “The Finisher” as a matter of fact.
Today, however, I’m in the middle of finishing someone else’s business.
“Who the hell is holding up the Shallowater Distillery?” I bark loudly into my speakerphone.
“Someone named Brett Blue is the problem. Won’t sell. Dad’s land, that kind of thing.”
I fume as I stare out the window of Blackwell’s tallest building. When the first of the Blackwell linage arrived to this town years ago, their industry of choice was well-digging.
My business does everything.
“Completing the land sale is the key to this whole damn operation, John!”
“I know,” he says nervously. “I just didn’t close. I even offered the price you said.”
“A half million. You offered the Blue family a half mil and they said no?”
“Didn’t even flinch at the price,” John answers.
“The Blue Estate isn’t even worth two hundred thousand anymore.”
“Brett Blue said, and I quote, ‘That’s not even in the ballpark of what I’ll accept from Blackwell Industries, you rich pig.’ End quote.”
I furrow my brow. Brett Blue. Where do I remember that name from? I’ve met thousands of people over the years in the Blackwell area. Done business with hundreds of them. Didn’t I know a Blue from back in the day? I rack my brain, but draw a blank.
“So this Brett Blue literally called me a ‘pig?’” I growl, running my thumb and forefinger along my forehead.
“Spot on,” he says, and I hear the sound of a car door slamming.
I rake a hand through my hair. Why does that name sound so damn familiar?
“Look John, we need this house to close or else the entire development for Blackwell Ranch is falling straight to shit. Do you understand that?” There’s venom in my voice. John knows he failed. But he’s my number one sales closer. If he couldn’t get the job done, there’s only one other option.
“Shit, you’re right. I’ll go back in and see what I can do.”
“No, don’t bother,” I breathe, taking him off speaker. “I’ll get it done myself.”
“But Sebastian, I can handle-”
“If you could handle this, you would be driving back here with the deed in your hands to the Blue property. Just….meet me there. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“It’s an hour away,” John quips back.
“I know.”
John’s a nice guy. A good guy. He doesn’t get that speed limits don’t apply to me.
“Well alright then,” is all he says.
I slam down the phone, grab my keys and sunglasses, and basically sprint out the door.
“Where to, Sir?” my secretary Fiona asks me as I rush out, tipping her head up toward me.
“Cancel all my appointments today. Something urgent came up and I need to take care of it.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Fiona smiles, flashing her bright white teeth at me as I head to the elevator and press the button to the parking garage.
I regard my reflection for a moment in the stainless steel of the elevator. I’m not going to lie, I’m a handsome dude. And I don’t say that in a cocky way.
Well, actually, fuck that. I do say it in a cocky way.
My dad was a blue collar hero to me—he ran a shop for thirty years before he finally retired to the farm. He didn’t teach me much about the kind of business I run, but he did teach me the value of ironing your shirt and looking like a million bucks every day.
My suits are all custom tailored, like the dark navy blue one I’m wearing today, with a white shirt. The color contrasts nicely with my dark brown eyes.
Ever since I was born in Blackwell, almost thirty years ago, this town has never known what to do with me; they called me a ‘big fish in a small pond.’
Whatever that means. I don’t consider myself a fish, nor do I shoot for small ponds. I aim to be the deadliest shark in the biggest ocean.
And Brett Blue, you just fucked with the Great White shark. This guy has no idea what’s coming for him.
I don’t lose deals. Not my thing.
The elevator hits the parking garage and I stride toward my personal spot, painted black. I turn my key in my Harley, pump the throttle a couple of times, and head out into the ebbing Blackwell summer.
Thirty-five minutes later, I roll up to the Blue Estate and put my motorcycle in park along their gravel driveway. I have to smile a little bit just looking
at the place, as it’s so classically homely. One side of the residence is lined with cornstalks as far as the eye can see, and the other side is a grove of apple trees. The main house in the middle is an old, colonial style build; big with two stories, and the house itself is an appropriate color given their family name: blue.
I walk toward John, who leans against his grey Honda Accord.
Even without my suit coat, I’m sweating just the slightest bit in the hot Blackwell summer sun.
“They know we’re here?” I ask John as we shake hands.
“If they didn’t before, they damn well do now. You can hear that motorcycle of yours for miles in all directions.”
“Oh, right,” I say, and rake a hand through my hair as I stare down the front door.
As I’ve built my fortune over the past decade, the element of surprise has come to be one of my favorite weapons. Usually it works in my favor, because most people have no idea what to make of me. Am I a suit? A country boy?
Nobody knows.
Hell, sometimes I don’t even know myself. Although I’m Blackwell born and bred, I have enough attitude that I tend to do just as well with those city sharks. Which is fine, because I have to deal with a lot of assholes in my line of work.
“So where’s this Brett guy? He heard me roll up, and he’s just gonna cower in the house all the same?” I scoff.
“Uh, Sebastian, Brett is a—”
“Clown who wouldn’t know a good deal if it hit him in the face,” I cut him off as we traipse together to the front door. “I know. I feel you. Sometimes it just takes the Boss’s presence to help a man understand what a good deal he’s getting.”
John seems like he’s got some other bullshit on the tip of his tongue—as usual, since he’s a chatty sales type—but I’m not about to listen to any more of his excuses on this piece.
He lost the deal. Now I’m swooping in to close the deal. Simple as that.
Once we take the few steps up onto the porch, I reach for the old fashioned knocker on the door, but before I do, the door swings open.
And a girl in a Blackwell University baseball cap answers.
She’s so gorgeous, I have to fight to keep my jaw from dropping.
Strands of long blonde hair fall to her shoulders, her hair is a golden hue that nearly matches the yellow “B” of her hat. She’s short—five feet tall maybe. And I can’t stop staring.
“Hi, there,” she says in a thick rural Blackwell accent. It’s a little bit of southern, a little midwestern, and a lot of sweet and sexy sounding. “Can I help y’all?”
I swallow. Her eyes are a deep sea blue. She’s got on denim short shorts, boots, and a white t-shirt. Dirty blonde hair falls just past her shoulders.
John says something like he’s about to butt in, but I cut him off.
“Hello, Miss. I’m looking for Brett Blue. Is he available?”
I look over at John, and he’s got a frightful expression on his pale face. Like all the blood has run out. He starts to say something, but I shoot him the look of death and he shuts his mouth.
The lovely lady cocks her head to the side a little and puts her hands on her hips, like she’s amused. She turns her head a little, like she’s going to call out the name to her household.
Behind her, going along the staircase, there’s a shotgun hanging on the wall.
Damn. Doesn’t get any more Blackwell than that.
With a devious smirk, she turns her head back toward me. “Hi. I’m Brett Blue. Now what can I help you with?”
My skin tingles and my heart flips. I flash a close-lipped smile.
I look her up and down, then turn to John.
“This is Brett?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. This is Brett.”
I whip my glance back around, my eyes wide.
This girl is the one who’s preventing me from completing my dominion west of Blackwell?
If she’s two inches over five feet tall, I’d be surprised. She aims her chin toward me.
Her gorgeous chin.
“Can I help you?” she asks bitingly, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “My name’s Sebastian Blackwell. How are you today?”
I extend a hand, but she doesn’t budge.
“I know who you are.”
“Oh, good to hear. Would you mind if I come in? It’s awfully hot outside.”
I smile the same charming smile that helped me close my first deal, and every deal thereafter. She pauses and tosses her hair, not saying anything.
Even though she doesn’t say anything, I move to step inside.
Rule number one of closing a deal: Assume the sale.
“Na ah ah,” she says as she presses her palm against my chest, stopping me from entering. She’s stronger than I thought she’d be. “I didn’t say come in.”
“But you didn’t say no,” I argue. “Where’s your Blackwell hospitality, anyway?”
She chuckles a little, unflustered. “Now look here, Mr. Blackwell. Hospitality is something I give very freely. But not to men who want to come inside my house without even making their true intentions known. You want to buy this place. You want to close the deal that your little assistant couldn’t.”
I hesitate. This girl clearly has a no-bullshit tolerance. What else is a guy to do? I tell her the truth.
“Fine. You know why I’m here, so why don’t I just put all my cards on the table. I want to buy this house. And this property. You’ve sold most of the acreage. Why not just finish it off?”
She holds her smile and cocks her head a little, her hair jostling to the side. “Let me ask you something. Do you see a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of the place?”
I take a deep breath. “No. But--”
“Glad you understand. My grandfather built it with his bare hands. It’s staying in the family.”
“How much did John here offer you?” I ask.
She keeps her lips locked tightly, and my heart starts to hammer.
I can’t tell if it’s because I might actually lose a deal for once, or because Brett Blue is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
And there’s just something about seeing her in her natural element, with a baseball cap, in boots and short shorts that has me thinking about things I should never consider with a client I’m buying from.
Or should I say potential client.
“How much?” I repeat.
“You know what, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t sell this place for a million bucks. Have a nice day you two. And don’t come back. Else I might be forced to take that thing off the wall.”
“What thing?” John butts in.
Brett smiles and shoots a glance behind her at the shotgun.
“Have a nice day, gentlemen.”
She slams the door in my face.
Two - Brett
I shut the door when the two men leave and take a deep breath. I lean against the door, my heart thumping like a tribal drum.
What the hell just happened?
Did I really just tell off the richest man in Blackwell?
I’m about to set my mug on the coffee table, but I hesitate when I see this year’s edition of Forbes Thirty Under Thirty richest people list.
And guess who is on the cover?
Sebastian Blackwell, that cocky asshole.
He was expecting a man. He apparently didn’t even remember me from my first job, years ago.
I sure as hell remember him.
I thumb through the magazine and read the blurb about him.
Sebastian Blackwell
The small town, homegrown businessman is famously known as the “Blue Collar Billionaire.” Born into a poor family in the small town of Blackwell, he made his first million in his early twenties. After high school, with nothing but the work ethic his dad instilled in him and a one way bus ticket, he moved to an oil boom town. In Louisiana, he worked eighteen hour days of hard labor as a hand. He even claimed that for months at a time he would sleep on friends’ cou
ches or the streets to save every penny. After that, he moved back to his hometown and made a series of investments, each one more spectacular than the last, and was an early investor in cryptocurrencies. His net worth is estimated to be close to three billion.
So what are his next moves? Mr. Blackwell says he wants to take on an ambitious schedule of constructing both a world-class ranch and a distillery in the land around his hometown, Blackwell. He says it will bring jobs back to the area and restore the heartland.
I hear my mom’s steps, as she traipses down the stairs. “Who was it, honey?” she asks, her voice raspy, as she’s still waking up.
“No one,” I croak. “Just some traveling salesman.”
“A traveling salesman?” she asks as she gets to the bottom of the stairs. “What were they selling?”
“Rugs,” I say quickly, the first thing that comes to mind.
“Rugs?” she parrots. “Well, we could use a good rug in the living room to tie the place together.”
My mom’s voice is soft and kind, but she still seems out of it.
She hasn’t been the same since my dad passed away earlier this year.
Neither have I.
“But honey, you know we don’t have the money for rugs. Oh dear me, you didn’t buy one, did you?”
“No, Mom,” I swallow. “I know that money’s tight.”
A woosh of butterflies overtake my stomach.
“We’ll make it honey,” she smiles warmly, and her optimism is contagious.
“I know,” I say, and resign myself to the fact that the little thing that happened this morning will have to go into the category of ‘what Mama doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt Mama.’
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