Cruel Billionaire

by Luma Rose

  Ford shoves both his hands into his pockets. One thing I was always jealous of when it came to the Classholes was the way they held their confidence. “Would you have time to help out with my campaign?”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Depends on what you have in mind?”

  He smiles. “I’d like you to come on board and act as my press secretary.”

  “You realize I have no experience?”

  Ford rocks back on his heels. “I’m aware. But I also know that you volunteered at the NCAAP for the duration of your time in Washington and that you helped out with Senator Richie’s campaign. Not to mention some of the work you did at legal aid. All that makes me think that you’re someone who wants to make a difference in the world.” He winks, like he’s the change the city needs.

  He’s not wrong. Ever since the sex tape got leaked senior year, my sole focus has been to earn my law degree so that I can help those who can’t help themselves. I want to stand up for the little guy.

  “Ford, I’m getting nervous. Do you know what color panties and bra I’m wearing too?” I press my lips together. An uneasiness arises in my stomach that he was able to dig all that information up about me.

  He chuckles and his hands lift out of his pockets, crossing over his chest. “I could probably tell you where you bought them.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I do my homework. We’re good together.”

  “We are?”

  “Not like that. You’re not going to be my dirty little secretary, Isla. You don’t have the experience a seasoned press secretary would, but that works in our favor. Sometimes the problem with politics is that the approach is too political.”

  “I can’t disagree.” If my time in Washington taught me anything, it was that politics is about who you know and who has the money to make things happen.

  “Tell me you’ll be here through the election in May?”

  “Yes.” Mostly because I’ll be spending my time with my father, but he’ll never allow me to hover over him. If I do nothing, I’ll go crazy recalculating everything that happened in the past and how the outcome for my father in the future is out of my control.

  “I’d love for you to stay on after I win, but we’ll cross that bridge after my induction.” His smirk holds the arrogance of Rocky Balboa.

  “How very arrogant of you to assume you’ll be the winner.”

  “You’re on team Masterson now, no negativity.”

  “Did I miss the part where I accepted?” I smile and he laughs, putting both of his hands in the air.

  “Please, Miss Flores, speak your demands.”

  I don’t really have any other than needing some time off. As I wonder how to respond, he shows his true colors of hating silence. In high school, Ford would argue points with the teacher because he couldn’t handle not speaking for an entire fifty minutes.

  “I can’t lie and say that we won’t be busy—we have our work cut out for us—but there will be time for you to do whatever you have going on.”

  I chew on my bottom lip while I contemplate his offer. Being a press secretary for a mayoral election would be great experience to take back with me to Washington. This leaves one area that we need to discuss.

  “Do you still hang around the Classholes?”

  Ford barks out a laugh. “I haven’t heard that word since high school. But, yeah, I do.”

  I bite my lip harder until I draw blood and a metallic taste lands on my tongue. I release my lip.

  Ford steps forward, his hand on my forearm. I stare down at it and he retracts the touch. “Isla, no one felt worse about what happened than Asher, believe me. If we knew who was responsible for releasing the tape, we’d have taken care of it.”

  A shudder runs down my spine. There’s always been something inherently dangerous about Ford and all his friends, but he can’t be implying what I think he is.

  Nausea churns in my stomach at the idea of facing any of those guys again, but my therapist has been pushing me to deal with my past in order to gain closure. She believes it would benefit me and help me move on if I start trusting people again.

  “Have you considered that it could be a problem for you… having me work on your campaign?” My cheeks burn at having to discuss this situation. I could be putting myself and Ford in the path of a tornado by working on a campaign with my backstory.

  For the first time in our conversation, Ford wears no smirk or half smile. “Trust me, there’s been far bigger scandals in the time you’ve been gone. They’ll be digging up dirt about me anyway. And if something does come to the surface, we’ll deal with it. Besides, Lincoln took care of it. It’s no longer visible anywhere on the web.”

  Lincoln always was a genius with computers. Our freshman year, he hacked into our school’s mainframe and changed around the GPAs, so the named valedictorian was Michael Densmore, the guy who held the record for skipping the most days and was scheduled to repeat senior year in order to graduate. It took the school over four weeks to straighten out what he’d done. Of course, there were no consequences. So I don’t question Ford. Asher wouldn’t have wanted that tape out any more than I do.

  I clutch my stomach and inhale a deep, cleansing breath. The idea of dealing publicly with it all again sickens me. But I can’t continue living my life always afraid my past will rear its head.

  I push my hand out in front of me. “I’ll take the job.”

  A slow, calculated smile spreads across Ford’s face. “Perfect. This is going to go great, don’t you worry.” He winks.

  I return his smile, but I have to remember to keep my guard slightly up—everyone in Cherry Creek knows you can never trust a Classhole.

  3

  Chapter Three

  Garrin

  I sip my whiskey neat as my date, Melody, or at least that’s her name on the high-end escort site, continues to prattle on about the different types of squash. Apparently, Melody aspires to be a chef someday. As if I give a fuck about squash or what she wants for her life. All I care about is that she looks good on my arm, keeps her mouth shut when I converse with someone, and spreads her legs at the end of the night—if I want her to.

  It’s not that I don’t want to be here. I’m happy to support Ford’s candidacy and donate money to the cause, but it’s likely that his father, Senator Masterson, will be here, along with my own father. And I do what I can to avoid those pricks.

  Polite murmurs become louder and the attendees glance at the doorway. The man of the hour hasn’t shown up yet, and the crowd is growing impatient. He’s just making his job that much harder by being late.

  He can’t be lost, what with the event being held at the Cherry Creek Country Club. Most of the potential donors here are members anyway, as is anyone with any real money who lives outside of the city. Even the Classholes and I are members, though none of us ever come. We have far better things to do than Fish Fry Friday during Lent.

  Asher and Ryker walk in the room, and I nod. They stop and shake hands, saying a few polite hellos to people as they make their way over to me.

  “Any sign of Ford yet?” Ryker asks.

  I shake my head.

  “What about Dick the Prick and Charles Manson? They show their faces yet?” Asher uses the nicknames for my dad and Ford’s in mixed company, more evidence for my theory that the way the left side of his mouth is tipped up in a perpetual grin says that the filled champagne glass he swiped off a server’s tray on the way over isn’t his first drink of the night.

  “Haven’t seen him.” I lift the glass to my lips again. “Where’s Lincoln?”

  Ryker shrugs. “Called him but he didn’t answer.”

  “I’m gonna hit the head. Be back in a minute,” Asher says and heads toward the bathrooms.

  Ryker and I share a quick glance, having a pretty good guess that he’s really going to shove some white powder up his nose.

  The voices grow louder, spurring everyone to turn their attention to the entry of the room. I have
to assume that behind the throngs of people, Ford is there with his staged smile and ‘you’re all my family’ handshakes.

  “Ford’s here,” Ryker says. We both watch for a moment. He has a better view. The crowd slowly parts, people milling back to small groups after they’ve welcomed the host. “Oh shit.”

  My forehead creases. “What?” I shift to the side, pulling away from my date, who’s clutching my arm like I’m the last Christmas cup at Starbucks.

  As the crowd thins, Ford emerges, and just as I assumed, he’s all smiles and handshakes as he glides into the room.

  Then my eyes slide to the woman on his arm.

  And I see her.

  The reason Ryker’s voice shook with worry a moment ago.

  Isla Flores.

  It’s been almost a decade since I saw her last. I’ve imagined what she might look like now, but my internal musings didn’t do her justice. As quickly as my appreciation of her more mature body hits me, red hot anger jabs me like an iron poker in the stomach.

  “No, man,” Ryker reaches out for me, but I shrug him off.

  I stalk across the room to where she and Ford stand side by side.

  I shake his hand and smile like I’m happy as fuck for him, but when I lean in, my voice is anything but joyous. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

  I draw back, and the surprise and hurt that flashes in Isla’s brown eyes says she heard me. Good. I don’t really give a shit. She flinches but quickly regains her composure, raising her chin in the air.

  “Garrin, you remember Isla Flores, I assume?” Ford gestures to her serenely, unfazed by my reaction.

  “I know who the hell she is. What I want to know is why she’s here.”

  He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, his eyes already on someone behind me. “Isla’s agreed to come on as my press secretary for the campaign. Isn’t that wonderful?” He sticks his elbow out to his side, and Isla takes his arm without hesitation.

  I scowl at him with the heat of a thousand suns, but he doesn’t even flinch, moving away from me to a cluster of guests.

  Bastard.

  “You couldn’t find someone with a better reputation to work on your campaign?”

  He stops and they both turn like Ken and Barbie dolls on a circular pedestal. “That’s no way to speak to a lady. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a room to work.”

  They walk over to the group of people and begin conversing as if our confrontation never happened.

  What game is he playing? Would he really bring Isla Flores back into our lives just because I took his date home last weekend?

  Asher comes over, another drink in his hand, smelling like a fucking distillery.

  “Isn’t that the chick I fucked senior year?” he asks and chuckles, the ice clinking in an empty glass.

  I toss back the remainder of my drink and stalk over to the bar. There’s not enough whiskey in this place to get me through tonight.

  Ford and Isla make their rounds around the room for the next hour. I’d like to stab myself in the eye with the small forks on the appetizer tray, because no matter how hard I try, I’m keenly aware of her every move, and the way she charms everyone she talks to. My fingers grip my glass harder every time a man glances down at her cleavage when their wife looks away. Red falls like a veil over my eyes every time Ford touches her or guides her by the elbow to the next group of people.

  She’s not mine, so I better calm the fuck down. I never owned her, and if I continue to act like some jealous prick of an ex-boyfriend, my friends are going to call me out on my shit. Not to mention, I don’t care. All Isla and I ever were was lab partners.

  Even as my date purrs in my ear, slides her hand under the lapel of my suit and digs her nails into the linen of my dress shirt, it doesn’t distract me.

  Isla’s wearing an indigo dress that’s molded to her body, showcasing her slender figure and the curves of her breasts and hips. It leaves enough of a hint of cleavage that I, and every man here, can imagine what they look like underneath. The four-inch heels she’s wearing highlight her strong calves, and her long brown hair, pulled back into a demure bun, just accentuates her neck.

  In many ways, she looks the same as she did in high school—big brown eyes and olive skin—but she carries herself with more confidence now. Back when she was an innocent teenager solely focused on her GPA, her shoulders would slump over as she walked through the halls like she was trying to be invisible. Then again, my eyes always seemed to track her movements. But I was such a naïve teenage boy letting his hormones rule him.

  “Well, this is boring. Let’s go,” Melody says in my ear above whisper level.

  Isla glances over the shoulder of the person she’s speaking with and our eyes lock. When I wrap my arm around the waist of my date and pull her in closer, Isla returns her attention to the man she’s speaking with. From the smile on her face, one might think she wasn’t affected when she looked at me, but then again, she always was good at faking her emotions.

  “Garrin.” The quick snap of my name and the deep rumble of his voice still makes me tense like I’m five years old and was too loud coming down the stairs.

  I turn to look at him, my expression blank. “Father.”

  He pins my date with a dark stare. “Take a walk, sweetheart.”

  Melody glances up at me, and I nod. She looks over to my dad and, seeing that he’s still looking at her as if he could turn her to stone with one look, she scurries off.

  “When did you get back into town?” I ask, my eyes not straying far from Isla and Ford.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all week,” my dad says.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” He looks in the direction Melody just disappeared.

  I say nothing. Whatever his agenda is, and he always has one, he can spit it out. I’m not going to beg.

  “We need to discuss the vote that’s happening at the next board meeting.”

  “I’m here supporting a friend. We’ll talk in the office tomorrow.” I sip from my glass.

  “Your friend is fine. Look at him. He’s just like his father, born to sell shit to a horse stable.” He turns his attention over to Ford, who’s just taken the stage along with his mother and father, as well as Isla and another man I don’t recognize.

  Isla walks up to the microphone and clears her throat. “If I could have everyone’s attention, please.” She waits for the noise from the crowd to die down. “I’m sure we’re all anxious to hear from the man of the hour, so I’ll waste no time in introducing you all to Ford Masterson, soon to be the next mayor.”

  The crowd claps and cheers, and Ford’s smug face smiles as both his arms fly up in the air to wave. He hugs Isla, kissing her on the cheek, sure to search me out in the crowd when he does. My fingers grip my glass so hard that my knuckles turn white.

  What the hell is he up to?

  “Thank you, everyone. I appreciate you all coming out tonight.”

  Ford continues to speak, but my dad leans into me and interrupts. “Who was that woman who introduced Ford?”

  I square my jaw for a second before responding. I could feign ignorance, but he’ll find out from someone. “Isla Flores.”

  “Carlos Flores’s daughter?” It’s clear in his voice, his interest is piqued.

  “That’s her.”

  “The girl who screwed Asher in that sex tape?”

  I give him a side glance and inhale before I hit him. I hate that fucking tape. “I wouldn’t try to tap that, Dad. She’s all grown up now.”

  His eyes never leave hers, and I’d like to drop-kick him to the floor. “I can see how grown up she’s become.”

  Rather than respond, I turn my back on him and stalk off for another drink. Asher and Ryker both lean against the bar, listening to Ford’s speech—each taking turns making fun of him.

  “Still no Lincoln?” I ask.

  “Nope.” Asher tosses back whatever was in his glass and slides it back to the
bartender. “Another, please.”

  Ryker and I share a look. “That a good idea?” he says.

  Asher scoffs and rolls his eyes. His pupils are already the size of silver dollars.

  “So that’s her, right? The girl I banged back in high school for twenty points?” Asher asks with a nod to the stage.

  I run my hand through my hair. We were such a bunch of punks.

  There’s a reason the six of us were referred to as the Classholes. Because we were rich assholes with nothing better to do but make up a list of shit to do for points. One of them being to fuck the good girls.

  Our classmates idolized us. Although it was our own little system with the points, rumors were spread and some of the good girls would ask how many points they were worth. We ruled Forest View Academy no matter what we did. Pathetic, really.

  “Looks like her,” Ryker says.

  “It’s her.” My voice is cold and detached.

  “She got better with age. Maybe I’ll see if I can hit that again.” Asher takes the drink from the bartender, pulls a twenty out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and tosses it onto the bar.

  “You can’t even get it up right now,” I say.

  “Pfft. Don’t you worry about me. I can get it up for someone as fine as her.” He downs a healthy sip of his drink and sets it back down on the bar.

  “You should get off that shit,” Ryker says.

  Asher’s usual easy-going demeanor morphs into agitation. “You two need to lighten up. What’s the point of having more money and power than God if you can’t enjoy yourself?”

  I turn to step away when my sister approaches.

  “Damn, baby Stone is looking good these days,” Asher says with zero thought to self-preservation, his eyes are zeroed in on her cleavage like a pilot to a fog covered runway.

  “Jesus.” Ryker shakes his head at Asher.

  “Hey, guys.” She gives each of us a quick hug, and my gaze is like a heat-seeking missile to make sure that neither of my friend’s hands stray anywhere they shouldn’t during the exchange.