Billionaire Romance: Club Billionaire (The Complete Series)

Lexi Duval

©2015 Lexi Duval

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

Chapter One

Sometimes life gives you a bit old shit sandwich and
forces you to wolf it down. Every. Last. Bit.

And just when I thought things were beginning to turn
around for me, suddenly I'm back at square one. Out of the job. Not
quite destitute, but certainly poor. I'm on my last legs, running on
fumes, and frankly, I can hardly see a way out.

My boss, or should I say former boss, has just issued me
my marching orders.

“
Belle, I'm sorry, but I can't afford to keep you on
anymore. You've been great, really, but there's nothing I can do. I'm
sorry...”

It's not the old guy's fault really. In this economy
we're all struggling to make ends meet and I was deadweight. It was
either fire me or fire his son. I guess he had no choice.

I step out of the little corner shop which had been my
sanctuary and into the cold night. Above me a dark storm seems to be
brewing, mirroring my feelings. In a flash, rain begins pelting me
from above, soaking me to the skin in seconds.

I quickly skip toward my car, parked around the corner,
and drop inside. It's a rusted old banger, but it gets me from A to
B. Really, it's about all I've got left in this world of any real
value. And it's not even that valuable.

When I turn the ignition, the car splutters to life,
angrily cursing the world just like me. It chugs and spits and
belches out black smoke, pouring from the exhaust like an exploding
volcano.

I say a quick prayer, put the car in gear, and gently
rumble out onto the road, silently hoping that it doesn't give up and
die just like every other part of my rapidly shrinking world.

It doesn't, but keeps on chugging.

Small graces.

My apartment in Queens is small, grotty, and shared with
a couple of stoners who think they're going to become the next great
rock band. In reality, all they ever do is talk about it, a symptom
of the lazy and apathetic. It's the same with the whole of my damn
generation, thinking everyone owes them a buck. That they're somehow
entitled to success without ever fighting for it.

When I get back, fighting through the rain and
constantly praying for my car to make it, they stare up at me from
the sofa. Eyes red, hair lank and greasy, inane grins on their faces.
They're nice boys really, but feel intent on dulling their minds with
that stupid fucking bong.

Trey and Glenn, brothers from Brooklyn living off the
good graces of their parents. I suppose that's the thing about having
wealthy parents who are happy to feed your habit. How could they ever
develop a strong work ethic with a mother who mollycoddles and
pampers them through their entire lives?

I retreat straight to my room, escaping the fumes from
their bongs and spliffs, and shut the door tight. Only then, when I'm
alone, do I let the whole fucking mess that is my life overwhelm me.
It's like I've reached a breaking point, and the dam is about to
burst. So, right on cue, my eyes start streaming, my breathing turns
shallow, and I bury my head so deep in my hands I hope I'll never
find my way out again.

Lost in self pity, I cry long and hard until my eyes are
red and my entire face drenched. When I finally lift my head back up,
I see Trey and Glenn ahead of me. Their grins are gone, replaced with
looks of concern.

Both of them quickly move forward, sit either side of
me, and put their arms over my shoulders.

“
You alright Belle?” I know they're being nice when
they don't call me by their usual nickname – Bellend, a British
insult that basically means I'm a dickhead, something they got from
some English TV show. They mean it endearingly, of course, but both
know now's not the time.

“
I'm fine,” I sniff, my cracked words completely
betraying me.

“
You don't sound fine. Come on, tell us, we'll help
you...”

“
Thanks Trey, but it's OK really.”

“
No, no, you're living in our apartment now so you
have to live by our rules,” adds Glenn. “That means telling us
the truth.”

I turn to face each of them individually and try to look
past that drug haze that covers their eyes. Behind, they both look
sincere and sweet, as I know they are really.

Knowing there's no point in lying, I belt out the truth.
“I lost my job.”

“
Ah Belle, that's alright. You'll find another one,
surely?”

I shrug, knowing it's not quite as easy as that. I've
been through many over the last few years and they rarely stick.
Without any real qualifications or a college degree, it can be really
hard to find anything long term. Of course, these two don't get that.
All they do is live off their parents' wealth. When their parents
finally get wise they're going to be in for a rude awakening.

“
Maybe,” I say, completely unenthusiastically.

Inside, I know my savings are almost out and, next
month, I won't be able to pay them their rent. These two fools, sweet
at they are, essentially own the apartment, bought for them by their
parents. My rent is partly what funds their excessive weed habit.

“
What sort of work are you looking for?” Trey, who's
slightly older than Glenn, at 19, asks. Glenn is 18, I think.

“
Anything,” I say honestly.

“
Well that's fine then,” says Trey. “We'll help
you. Our father knows lots of people, we'll get you something.”

I look at him, half expecting it to be the drugs
talking. But he seems genuine. I can only hope that tomorrow he
actually remembers. Frankly, these two aren't exactly the sort to
trust to follow through with their promises.

But what choice do I have?

“
Ah, that'd be amazing,” I say. I hug him, and he
grips back tight, pressing his chest against mine. I pull away quick
enough though. These two both fancy me. I know that much. When I came
to interview for the room they didn't even ask me any questions. All
they did was ogle my tits and snake their eyes up my body, jaws
hanging slightly loose. It got me the room, though, so I'm not
complaining. I'm fairly certain they dropped the price a bit too.

Ah that things your body can buy you...

Chapter Two

I wake the next morning, head aching from dehydration
caused by my excessive crying. I suppose the fumes from the living
room, which always tend to creep into my bedroom, can't have helped
either. Or maybe it was the bottle of wine I sunk before going to
sleep? That may have contributed...

The storm that was raging last night, however, has
ended, and light is cruising in through the curtains. A look at my
cell tells me it's nearing late morning. Rare for me. I'm usually an
early bird.

When I skulk out into the kitchen, hunting a glass of
orange juice to soothe my dry throat, I'm surprised to see that Trey
is already up and running for the day. Glenn, too, appears to be up,
currently occupying the shower.

“
Feeling better this morning?” asks Trey, frying up
some bacon and eggs.

“
A bit, thanks.”

“
Thought you might be hungry.” He nods at the frying
pan. “There's plenty for you too.”

I smile, and give him a sisterly pat on the shoulder.
“That's sweet Trey, thanks.”

My gratefulness seems to please him. The giddy smile
sliding up his lips tells me that.

“
So, I talked to dad earlier. You know, about your
situation.”

I almost spit up my gulp of orange juice. “Really?!”
I'm amazed at how quick he went to work on it.

“
Sure. He said he knows a guy who's looking for
staff.”

“
Oh, great! What sort of staff?”

“
Er...” He seems to be trying to recall, his face
screwing up as he rubs his temple. “Serving staff I think. Like
waitressing. You've done that before, right?”

“
Yeah, a few times. That's great Trey, thanks so
much!”

“
No problem. Just make sure you give me and Glenn free
drinks if we ever come down, right?” He smirks and flips some
bacon.

“
GLENN...FOODS UP.” He shouts, suddenly, calling to
his younger brother through the door to the shower. Then he proceeds
to dish up three plates of delicious looking bacon and eggs. The boy
may not have many skills, but he knows how to fry food, that's for
sure.

Over breakfast, he gives me a few details of the guy
who's looking for staff.

“
His name's Kyle Lawson. I think he's quite young,
owns a few bars here and there. Father's rich, I think.”

I nod, taking mental notes as I eat.

“
He's got a bar in Manhattan, near the Southeast
corner of Central Park. Apparently he'll be there all day, so just go
along and he'll see you.”

“
Oh Trey, that's amazing, thank you!”

“
Don't mention it,” he says, blushing slightly as I
kiss his cheek. Glenn looks a little jealous, so I offer him the same
affection.

“
The bar's called
Lawson's
. Makes it easy to
remember his name!”

It does, not that I'd forget. One thing I do have is a
good memory, which can be both an asset and a major liability at
times. Especially for someone like me, who's led a life full of loss.

After breakfast, I spend some time getting myself
looking as good as possible. Other than his name, I know nothing
about him except that he's 'quite young' as Trey told me. But
whatever his age, he's a guy, and flashing some flesh is always a
good way to get a leg up in a job interview, particularly with
something like bar work.

It's early afternoon when I set off from Queens, making
the short trip across to Manhattan. The day, like my mood, has
brightened considerably. Birds tweet in the trees, light, fluffy
clouds roll by on the light breeze, and the sun beats down on the
back of my neck, taking away the need for a scarf. A beautiful
winter's day, which will hopefully only get better.

By the time I reach the bar, my heart is beginning to
pace. The grandeur of Manhattan has always intimidated me a bit,
growing up in its shadow. My entire life has been spent living in the
various boroughs around the towering island, always looking at it
from afar but rarely venturing in. And today here I am, as central as
you can get, staring at an impossibly lavish and modern bar across
the street.

Lawson's
looks like the sort of night spot a
celebrity might be seen at. Through the glass walls of the exterior I
can see inside. The blood red booths. The long, marble bar. The
staff, impeccably dressed, smart, and by the looks of things, highly
professional. It's not busy inside. Not yet. But the few customers I
can see look sharp as a razor blade. Suits that could cut stone adorn
slim and trim bodies. Dresses that wouldn't look out of place on the
red carpet at the Oscars cling to tall, elegant frames.

I suddenly feel a little stupid for wearing what I am.
The low cut top, happily displaying one of my best assets – my
ample tits – seems excessive and overly slutty for a place like
this. The skirt I've got on under my coat rides a little high on my
thighs, showing too much leg. I've come accentuating my curves, which
is always great, but I've done it in the wrong way. I look more like
a hooters girl than the type to work here.

Thankfully, however, my coat is covering it all up, so
as long as I keep that on, I won't look too ridiculous. With that in
mind, I take a deep breath, straighten myself out, and walk in as
confidently as I can.