Hunted by Billionaires Box Set

by Ryan Ramsay

  I turn and bid the driver farewell. He nods and waves, his little umbrella the only thing visible under the rain.

  I get on board, my hair and clothes slightly wet. The captain, thick, strong, and everything any girl worth her salt dreams about a man in uniform, hands me a towel and requests me to relax. I watch as the man shuts us in and heads to the cockpit. I flip around upon my heels and meet the strangest brown eyes staring back at me.

  “Oh, hi.”

  This explains the ‘us’ bit.

  **

  The man is a genius at flipping drinks around and making smooth cocktails. He tells me his name is Adan from a place called Kericho. I almost mistook it for Jericho, but he made sure I understood that he was from a far away land that grew mountains of tea and where the people smiled everyday.

  He tells me how much he misses the night life there, where it got so cold it was embarrassing to be seen outside after a certain hour.

  I ask him if he has a woman at home. He blushes, and then proceeds to sign to me about his wife and two kids, recently born and tragically twins. Oh yeah. He’s mute too.

  I laugh and sign back to him. I tell him how awesome his life so far must be back home. I tell him I’m a student struggling with tests scores with no time for any kind of hobby. He remarks. I ask him why.

  He tells me in his spare time he bakes for his family, more than he should. I ask him how it came to be that he got the skill, and he tells me his life story growing up in the backstreets of drinking dens and criminal gangs.

  He apologizes, telling me he knows it is quite cliché, but that it is his life nonetheless. I joke about it, letting him know that life is life. We all live it the way it gets served.

  He tells me more about his family, and how he got the job. He says there was a woman who approached him some years back while she was on holiday in Mombasa. He was a waiter. She was looking for a trusted man to assist her in some job she was doing. Turns out she wanted an informant. Turns out the woman is my sister.

  He lets the story die there, asking if I require more tea. I tell him no, and turn to the window. We are already high up, the clouds a dazzling white and grey. I feel like this is the kind of thing she would orchestrate to get me comfortable. I am all for it if that is the case. I feel like I made some really smooth conversation here. I am relaxed. I am in the sky. My novel is in my lap. One quick one won’t hurt.

  I excuse myself and walk to the spacious bathroom. The door is superbly finished, with a window to the outside right behind the cistern. I lock myself in, careful not to hurt myself disrobing. I put the book on the window sill, making it stable. I rush to sit on the warm and fuzzy seat, pulling my panties down to my ankles and gathering comfort with the clouds, high above the rain.

  There is no time for foreplay.

  I fib with my wet clit, rushing past it with the cleft between my fingers. It throbs in panic. I push my neck forward and straighten my back, angling the reach of my thumb and finger. They smoothly glide in.

  “Uungh.”

  My thighs clamp, or at least, try to. The seat offers the right resistance. My fingers rub faster. The smell of pussy rises and bathes the room. My arm swiftly pulls and twists to the very echoes and throes of my wanton lust. The heat bubbles inside.

  With every tiny pop I wish to get naked, to free my breasts, to feel gravity work against my body. The urge kicks in and I pull on my dress, just enough for my breast to go free. I feel the nipple roughly brush against the fabric. My cunt drips. My fingers squelch. My tongue dries up.

  “Oh God…”

  I throttle like a candy cane on steroids as the big one bursts. I bite my lips not to make any more sound than is necessary. I can almost taste my heart.

  It’s official. I just got into the mile-high club, single-handedly.

  No pun intended.

  Chapter 9

  Shem

  It must be a dream. It just has to be.

  There was a time when a man had sexual urges he could jerk one off to the magazine of his choosing. Things evolved. Time happened. We went to screens. No one wanted to even pay for sex anymore. Perhaps those with the need for the thrill would. But things are different now. People want more adrenaline. They want more rush. And clearly the demands meet that supply quite well.

  I haven’t had sex in years. It is quite cheesy, I know, but hear me out.

  Three years ago I was acquiring this ranch in Milwaukee. I was younger, more brutish, and quite into farmhand redheads. Anywhere I went, whether for the cattle or the business expansion or the liquor, I always found my way with a redhead. I guess it was the color of fire that really churned me in.

  But I think it was their eyes. They always, always, had the sharpest eyes.

  So there I was in the Bunchalero Motel, getting my dick sucked by the most gorgeous redhead ‘sisters’. It was my first time paying for it. I was lonely anyway, and I needed to know what the thrill was like having some stranger(s) make me squirm. I wasn’t really there. I never have been anyway. But that’s a story for another time.

  So these two girls’ tongues were slobbering over my cock, and my hands were behind my head, tied by red boxing gloves, upon request, and my eyes closed —obviously — when I felt the cold metal pressed against my neck.

  They were robbing me. Well, one of them was. The other made sure I watched her pump my cum out with one hand while the other held the knife in place just under my ribs.

  It was all very confusing. And yet, I came. Hard, actually.

  I never pressed charges. I never wanted to figure out who they were, knowing that it was all an act and they had wigs on.

  It simply hurt.

  And now here we are, on the eve of a spectacular event. A virgin, unaware of who is on his way towards her, unaware that the man who will win will have his way with her indefinitely over any amount of time they both see fit.

  I take the beer in slowly this time, handling the barley taste through my teeth, up my tongue and through the back of my cheeks. Its icy flavor fizzes upon my tongue. I swallow it. I take another.

  We’re going to Italy.

  And we’re going to get so twisted it’s insane.

  “Told you it wasn’t terrorists,” says Arnold comfortably with his feet up.

  In his hand is a can of beer. Beneath his feet are several cans of beer.

  “I am in no way comfortable with this arrangement,” confides Peter. “They still have those clips or videos. We have no idea what else is in their possession that is damning.”

  I gulp down the barley and lean forward. The car hits a soft bump, making my stomach flop slightly. I put the can in the holster and pat the man on the knee.

  “You haven’t had a vacation in a spell old friend. Consider this a write-off on your expense account. And,” I add, “You never know how lucky you could get. This is, after all, a game. When was the last time you flexed your muscles?”

  “He’s right you know,” says Arnold smugly. “You’re always cooped up in that office of yours. Either that or in a meeting somewhere in the building. Chill out, alright?”

  Peter nods half-heartedly, and I know his mind is still unfazed. I have to agree with the man. We have no idea if Mia was just a softener for us, to ease us into the whole process. The only way to know whether this is all legitimate is by getting there. And by the looks of it, through the thickly tinted windows, we’re closer than ever.

  The white private jet is already spinning its engines when we arrive. I look around and only see brown grass for miles on the tarmac. The sun is still up, and we’ve been driven around for hours, maybe six. We’re still in the States. That’s good. For now.

  The engine goes off, and we wait in silence for a solid ten before the door is opened from the outside.

  The driver wordlessly stands by the steps leading up the plane, her demeanor hauntingly riveting. The boys start, our luggage already packed up in the carrier side of the metal bus. I hold on to the metal railing a bit longer. My insides f
eel assorted and shred up.

  “You will be fine,” the woman says softly to my surprise.

  She smiles at me.

  “You should do that more often. When you can, of course.”

  I walk up to the end and get past the heavy door. The captain is silent as he locks up and smiles at us, before heading to his cockpit and locking himself in.

  I face my comrades one after the other.

  “This should be fun,” says Arnold with a shot glass already primed in his hand.

  I couldn’t agree more with the man.

  Chapter 10

  Peter

  I am conflicted.

  When we arrived in Italy, I wanted more than ever to agree with my friends. To play the game and get involved as much as I possibly can.

  They are right, you see. I have not had any sort of fun for a while now. I choose not to. The amount of pain it brings me is incomparable, the very act of giving myself over to a woman.

  For years I have contemplated the art and act of loving. It feels foreign now. I don’t blame them.

  Asuna was the love of my life. Note on ‘was’. She was my high school sweetheart. We vowed to each other to always find one another regardless of which part of the world we were in.

  See, she was an exchange student. I was head over heels in love. But then I caught her in the janitor’s closet with a random senior on prom night.

  Okay, okay. That was casual. We were young and allowed to make mistakes.

  How about Jenny from three blocks down? She was alright, wasn’t she? We dated, actually dated, for two years. I was on the verge of breaking the bank and proposing to her on the night of our college graduation. Turns out that was the same night she wanted to dump me for some guy in the Arctic. It was the same old ‘it isn’t you; it’s me’ kinda crap.

  I was torn. The ring was in my back pocket. I had promised father I would join him on his business trip with a surprise plus one by my side. He didn’t laugh, no remarked at my aloneness.

  He simply put it aside and made the trip business as usual. I never thanked him for that. Perhaps I’ll send more flowers to the home when I get back, and pop in for a bottle of his favorite yogurt.

  The third one, however, that one took the cake.

  I don’t think about her too often nowadays. The boys gave me the intervention of a lifetime. It took three years to get over her.

  Maria was her name, and if you’re thinking of a hot sunny afternoon down in yellow Mexico, a couple of beers and desert lizards roaming about, a run down kiosk with only three things on the menu, some old toothless but heavily bearded proprietor, with the sexy, long-skirted brown-skinned hazel-eyed beauty acting as the waitress… you’re not wrong. That is exactly how we met.

  A cartel deal, a grumbling father and an overjoyed mother later, I was accepted into the family as a farm hand for my tenure as the local youth researcher. I wanted to understand what made the folks down south need to travel, or stay at one particular place, despite the harshness of conditions.

  It was personal research for the company, and none was the wiser. I had shaved it all back then. Right now my beard makes life a lot easier to go off the grid.

  Maria helped with the research. We walked all over the laughter-filled and anxiety-riddled streets of Culiacan by day and traveled to the border for drinks by the night. I speak eight languages fluently. She spoke ten.

  I fell in love with the first night she beat me at chess. We were on the roof of her father’s house when the inevitable conversation sparked.

  She asked if there was anything we could be, more than what we were. I said yes. I don’t know who initiated it, but in moments we were on the roof, tearing the clothes off our backs and digging nails into skin. I had enough for my research. I was to tell her father the next morning who I was and what plans I had for Maria.

  The local cartel got wind of the matter since there was more than one love interest in the girl’s life. Apparently she was titled and slated to be married to one of the general’s men. I was fucked.

  Running was the only option. I called home and ordered a jet to one of the landing strips. I was going to run with her.

  I got to our hiding place late that night. The shack was well hidden underground, close to one of the tunnels that run the drugs from state to state.

  She was asleep. I knelt down and moved to wake her from the peaceful slumber. She wouldn’t wake up. She never did again.

  The men had her poisoned for falling for a foreigner. I had to leave, or else I was next. I vouched to die too, but Sheila pulled me back. She made sure I got past the border. She made sure the boys were there to receive me at the airport.

  It is tough reliving memories like these. I stand here on the balcony, overlooking beautiful blue-green water and my two friends swimming at the pool downstairs, drink in my hand. It’s harder still to try and not cry for the past.

  I am glad it happened, that I am.

  Shem has been right for a while now. It has been years now. I need to move on and find some sort of love. I need to heal. I need to find a way to make the pain my own and move on.

  Well then, I can try. Paying for sex from women who look like Maria won’t cut it. Jacking off to videos of said women does not ease the burdens of life. I’m just hurting myself.

  Maybe this game Mia wants us to play will make it all better. Just in time for Christmas, like she says, and maybe forever.

  Perhaps it will be worth it in the end.

  Now?

  Now I go take a shower and head downstairs for some chow, that’s what.

  And if I can, a proper drink.

  Something Irish that packs a punch.

  Chapter 11

  Ashley

  The grand entrance to the hotel is not all it seems in the movies or novellas. I highly doubt it’s all it’s mucked up to be even in dreams, or nightmares. But this…

  I am in an exclusive hotel suite. A girl can tell these things by the treatment one receives at the reception. The bellhop wasn’t even the one who took care of my luggage. The concierge personally made it his burden to bear. Not that I have more than two bags, but still.

  Royalty, bitches!

  He swiped a card from his inner breast pocket and ‘pushed’ the button on the side panel. We went up. I say ‘pushed’ in figurative quotations since we really don’t push anything on a screen, do we? Our fingers touch the screen configured to respond to us, and a random clump of pixels does all the work. Sorry, I get like this when I’m excited.

  The man walked me through the sweetest blast of fresh conditioned air that has ever hit my face. Bright but soft lights hit my eyes hard.

  The lush bed, curved to appear like a kind of mathematical marvel, was at the front and center of the room. The walls were painted to seem like flowers bloomed from their epicenter, and the carpet was tiled and carpeted at just the right spots.

  I’m not even going to get into detail about the bathroom.

  It is safe to say that I am in heaven, and I only have one person to thank.

  There is a note on the pillow right next to the white rose covered in baby’s breath and mint chocolate.

  “Downstairs in twenty. See you then. M.L.”

  **

  I feel nervous seated here, watching the entrance like a fucking dunce. Couples. Families. Singles. All walk through the doors weary and are greeted by the man in the blue and yellow tight suit, with pure white socks riding high and tight up his claves. The men, women and children who walk in seem to carry with the stories, some burdening, some not.

  One thing I can tell about the whole troupe is the weight of it all. The need to feel free. To be free.

  The night is as young as the night sky. The salty oceanic spray hits my nose playfully from here on this gray couch. Why did I not head to the bar first? I could sure use one virgin mojito.

  “You look like you just woke up. Bath salts?”

  “Not really. I always look this way. International waters agree
with me that way.”

  I pause, my knees balancing the shifting weight of my body. She stands before me hands folded, elbows tucked to her sides. Her face looks experienced. Her hair is changed; short and kept.

  Her eyes, contacts? Definitely had a breast reduction there. Height is still the same, so I’ve got the clear disadvantage there.

  “Hey Mia.”

  “Hey Ash. It’s been a minute.”

  Finally. It begins.

  **

  “Tell me everything,” she says.

  “Where do I start? After high school or when I left the country?”

  “From the beginning. It’s been four years. I’m sure there’s plenty.”

  I sigh and gulp down some wine.

  “Okay. No interruptions?”

  “None,” she promises. The wind blows her hair lightly. And I begin.

  “So after the fight with mum and dad I used the money I had saved up to apply for a passport. I got the scholarship based on merit and got in. The weeks leading up to it were bliss, in a way. I had this amazing secret that I could not tell anyone for my own good. I felt powerful in a way.”

  “Then the day came. I did not know how to let the news go, and so, knowing the backlash would be interesting, I drafted a video letter explaining everything. I left it in your room with that little post-it note, remember?”

  She nods and plays with the wine glass.

  “I left, cutting off all communication with the entire family. Missouri did not make sense anymore, you know? Mum and dad had their differences in who we would turn out to be. I had my own ideas.”

  “The first year of college was a bitch. My lecturers were tough. My roommates were tougher. It was hell trying to juggle three jobs and an Ivy League education. But I did it anyway.”

  “In the three years past I have not mingled with anyone who is not in my class schedule. The closest thing to a friend I have are two people; my roommate Sandra, who is a bit too much of a nympho for my personal liking and kind of an invader of my space but I deal, and this local waitress called Jass. She’s pregnant, Jass, that is, not Sandra. They provide the necessary drama that fuels my quiet life. I eat and drink normally. I hate working out. I find television so mundane to watch that I stick to the library and the theater as my only source of entertainment. Oh, and there’s people watching of course. That’s slowly becoming part of my routine nowadays. I have exams extending into the next three weeks, so… I’ll just assume this is a gentle reminder to slow things down and enjoy the little things.”