Billionaire Romance: Club Billionaire (The Complete Series) Read online

  Billionaire Romance: Club Billionaire (The Complete Series)

  Lexi Duval

  ©2015 Lexi Duval

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 Lexi Duval

  All right reserved.

  First edition: January 2015

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  Also by Lexi Duval:

  SECRETS OF A BILLIONAIRE

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART ONE

  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.

  You've had a hundred interviews, Belle. This one's gonna be no different.

  The warmth hits me as soon as I enter. Above the door, a heater blows gently down, brushing off the winter cold and replacing it with a mild, spring heat. A few sets of eyes glance at me from various parts of the spacious room, and a light chatter fills the air.

  I keep on, moving straight toward the bar, and quickly catch the attention of the bartender. He's handsome, dressed all in black, and wearing a charming smile.

  “Yes Miss, what can I get you?”

  “Oh, no drink for me. I'm here to see Mr Lawson.” I can't help but be tentative when asking the question, my nerves already building. Being in Manhattan and, well dressed as I am, I feel a little out of place. Even the guy serving me makes me feel worse: smart, good looking, polite and professional. To say I have self doubt right now would be a pretty spectacular understatement.

  “Right, OK. Can I ask your name?”

  “Belle Parker.”

  “Right Miss Parker, just a moment.”

  The barman walks toward the end of the bar, where he picks up a phone fixed to the wall. He speaks for a few moments before putting the phone down and returning to me.

  “Mr Lawson is busy at the moment. Do you mind waiting for 30 minutes?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “While you do, would you like a drink?”

  I think of my purse, hardly overflowing with money. Right now, a drink from a place like this would pretty much swipe half my remaining savings.

  The barman seems to read my expression well. “It's on the house, of course,” he announces.

  Trying to stay cool, I order a gin and tonic. Usually, having a drink before an interview would be considered professional suicide, but right now my racing heart and shredded nerves are just about demanding one.

  The barman quickly prepares the drink like a master and passes it to me. “Please, take a seat while you wait.”

  I follow his arm toward a comfortable booth in the corner and move over to it. The deep red leather is surprisingly soft beneath me as I sit, and the gin and tonic in my hand the stuff of dreams. Soothing and delicious, I've quickly drunk half of it before I even realize.

  It's funny how time seems to speed up and slow down depending on your mood. Right now, it's pacing along like a snail, trickling and meandering as if the world is suddenly turning half as quickly. The gin, it's sole directive to help me relax, initially helps but ultimately fails in its role. After 20 minutes I'm feeling more anxious than ever.

  It's not just the grandeur of Manhattan and the strangely intimidating nature of this high class bar. It's also the feeling of anxiety that comes with last chances, with the thought that there's no option to fail. It's not like I'm a college student, casually searching for a Sunday job to give me some extra pocket money. I need to work to live, and if I can't pay the rent, I might just find myself out on the street.

  Naturally, therefore, this wait is all but killing me. I try to think of other things, but am unable to turn my mind from Kyle Lawson, a man I've never met and know nothing about, but who holds my future in his hands. As I sit, I carefully inspect the other waitresses. Each one is beautiful, efficient, and seemingly charming. They smile, speak back when asked questions, and draw some generous tips for their efforts. The sight makes me mentally drool, my mind quickly beginning to wonder how much an attractive waitress makes in tips in a place like this.

  As I ponder, the handsome barman appears suddenly ahead of me. “Miss Parker, Mr Lawson will see you now.”

  A sudden barrage of beats hits my heart and I stand gingerly and follow him toward the far wall of the bar. He leads me through a door, down a short corridor, and toward another door marked 'Manager'.

  “It's just at the end there,” says the barman. “Good luck.” He gives me a heartening nod before turning and making his way back to the bar.

  Chapter Three


  I knock, and wait in silence for a response.

  It comes quickly. A deep voice, commanding and assured, pounds through the door from the other side. “Come in.”

  I take a breath, twist the door handle, and step into the room. I quickly take in lavish ornaments, a deep brown oak desk, expensive paintings dripping off the walls. The entire space is dimly lit from crystal lighting fixtures above and a green shaded lamp on the desk. Behind it, sits the man I've come here to see: Kyle Lawson.

  “Miss Parker, take a seat, please.”

  He stands as I move forward, and I drink him in as I get closer. Trey told me he was quite young. He wasn't wrong. He looks not much older than me, perhaps in his late twenties. His eyes are a deep brown, dark and alluring and set deep behind his brows. His jaw is well formed and hard, like a model's, and sprinkled with dusty black stubble. His hair falls back behind his head, black as the night, short and perfectly trimmed.

  He's wearing a suit, dark gray and tailored, but without the jacket. His white shirt shows off the shape of his body, which looks lean and strong. His forearms, unshackled from his rolled up sleeves, ripple with sinewy muscle as he extends his hand.

  I step forward and take it, feeling my knees weaken in an instant as his firm grip envelopes my palm. His hands are large, owing to his height, which I place at about 6'2''.

  “I understand you're looking for work?” he asks, eyes hovering over me, checking me out. With most men I'd suspect they're doing it because they fancy me. With him, it's probably a natural part of the interview process. By the looks of the staff out in the bar, good looks are a prerequisite here. I hope I make the cut.

  I nod. “Yes Sir.”

  He smiles as I call him Sir, as if he likes it. “Do you have any experience working in a bar?”