BARRED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance (Billionaires & Bohemians Book 2) Read online

  Sure. That's my biggest concern right now: being able to drink more.

  "I'm sorry you worried," I say. "I texted you, though! Just like we said we would."

  "Yes, yes," she says. "But have you seen your texts? They're all over the place with typos, so unlike you. I tried to call you like a billion times. Seriously, I was this close to calling the police!"

  I grimace at her overreaction. "The police? Why?"

  "This is so... unlike you," she says, worried."You've never just gone home drunk out of your mind with a random guy. Who says he didn't kidnap you and was the one typing those texts?"

  "Olivia, your fantasy..."

  "Whatever," she says, adding a sigh. "I'm just glad you're alive. Where are you at? Where is his place? Do you know how you'll get home?"

  I have no idea. I have absolutely no clue where I am or how I will get home.

  "He's taking me," I lie. "After breakfast."

  "Uuuh," Olivia pipes. "He's making you breakfast? Fancy! I need to hear all about this!"

  "When I get home," I appease her. "Later."

  "Bye, girl," she says. I can practically see the grin on her face just by the lilt in her sassy voice. Olivia will be all over me once I step inside our apartment, I can be sure of that.

  I sigh as we end the call, absentmindedly putting my phone in one of the robe's pockets.

  This is a fine mess. How can I not even remember this guy's name? And how can I ask him without coming across as the stupidest slut alive?

  What must he think of me?

  How could I let myself go like this? Why did I drink so much? Why did I go home with him in that messed-up state?

  Maybe it wasn't all my fault? Maybe he drugged me? Who knows, maybe he slipped a roofie in my drink when I wasn't looking?

  However, he doesn't strike me as a guy who'd have to resort to this method to get a girl to go home with him. Far from it. He‘s insanely attractive, and judging from the looks of his penthouse, he's pretty wealthy, too.

  Whoever he is, he's waiting for me, and I'm not making things any less awkward by lingering in his bedroom while he's out there waiting for me with breakfast. I place my hand on the doorknob and slowly turn it, unsure what way to go once I leave the room. I pause for a moment, looking to my right. There's nothing there but a hallway with a lot of closed doors on both the left and right. I decide to turn left, and realize there's a staircase leading down to another level. My breath catches when I reach the top of the steps and am confronted with the most beautiful view. The open stairway leads down to a gigantic open living space with cathedral ceilings and a floor-to-ceiling window extending the entire length of the farm wall with a panoramic view of the city skyline.

  Beneath me, I can hear him rummaging around in what must be the kitchen. I know I'm gawking as I slowly make my way down the stairs, but I don't care. This is insane. How loaded is this guy? What kind of job must one have to be able to afford a place like this in a city like this?

  It's hard to turn my attention away from the window and the magnificent view. When I finally shift my attention to my right, I find him standing behind a bar-like island separating the open kitchen area from the living room pouring coffee.

  He glances up at me, raising a handsome eyebrow.

  "Couldn't find your way?" he asks.

  "I'm sorry," I mumble, approaching him.

  I feel so shitty and look so bedraggled, and he's looking all clean and coiffed and way out of my league. Why am I still here? What does he want from someone like me?

  It appears he's prepared some eggs, bacon with toast, all the food plated on the counter in front of him. He's pouring me a cup of coffee, beckoning me with his eyes to sit down at one of the high stools in front of the bar.

  I woke up in the most beautiful home I've ever been in, slept with a man who's exquisitively handsome, and who is acting like a gentleman the morning after, greeting me with a much needed breakfast.

  I fit just weren’t for these splitting headaches and that feeling of shameful regret.

  Chapter VII

  Lux

  Well, this is a first. Me preparing breakfast for one of the girls I dragged home from the club. I don't know if my parents would be proud or appalled at this.

  Or if they would even care at all.

  She comes fragilely down the stairs looking like a lost doll. She’s wrapped in my robe that I left for her on my bed, her hair still rumpled and make-up smeared from last night. It‘s no longer disguising her porcelain skin and emphasizing her delicate features, only blotches of it remaining from our wild night. She gawks at my living room as she descends the stairs, quickly entranced by the view from my panoramic window, and it takes her a minute before she finally turns around and sees me. Even without judging her by her clothes, her instinctive reaction to my home tells me enough about her background to know she wouldn't be considered a suitable match in my family's eyes.

  "Couldn't find your way?" I ask her.

  She purses her lips and shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

  I beckon her to sit down at the counter and place a mug of steaming coffee in front of her.

  She sits down on the high stool opposite me and assesses the food, the coffee, and then her eyes find me.

  "Did you drug me?" she asks hesitantly.

  I furl my eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

  "Did you drug me?" she repeats her question, now placing both her elbows on the counter. "Did you slip me a roofie or something?"

  Her question disgusts me. Who the hell does she think she is? She drinks herself into a stupor, suffers a blackout from her irresponsibly stupid behavior, and then she dares to accuse me of drugging her so I could bring her home with me?

  "You're welcome," I say, glancing toward the breakfast in front of her. "And no, I told you before, I didn't fucking drug you. That was all you, young lady."

  Her eyes flicker and she reaches for the coffee, bringing the mug up to her lips without losing eye contact with me.

  "You poisoned yourself, and if anything, you should be grateful to me," I add. I place a plate and a cup of coffee for myself at the seat next to hers, and then walk around the corner of the bar to sit down, deliberately touching her slim, muscular thigh in the process.

  "Eat," I tell her.

  She sighs, but reaches for a slice of the buttered toast.

  "Not the healthy ballerina choice, I know," I say. "But you need something real inside your stomach to soak up that residual alcohol."

  "No, it's great," she says, turning to me. "I bet I could surprise you. Dancers actually eat a lot more than most people think. We work out a lot and need the fuel."

  I smirk at her. "You're right, you do surprise me."

  She smiles, a genuine glow sparkling in her eyes.

  "You surprised me, too," she says, nodding toward the food. "I mean really, breakfast? That's a lot of effort for a one-night stand."

  "Who says this has to be a one-night stand?" I ask her.

  She looks at me in surprise, her eyebrows arched, as she slowly chews on a bite of toast. "It's not?"

  I shake my head, acting as if her assumption is absolutely ridiculous, which of course, it's not. Had things gone differently, I would have long ago sent her home without even bothering to remember her name. One night, one fuck - that's usually enough for me. There have been a few girls worthy of a second and even third time, but they were sent off quickly thereafter. I enjoy the hunt too much, the chase, the conquering, the long dance leading up to a heated exchange between strangers. Second and third dates only made sense for the good girls, the girls who'd bend to my will, who shivered with the need to drop down on their knees in front of me, eager to please, eager to obey.

  Eager to submit.

  Sara may have this eagerness, but it's hidden beneath a lot of sass, a feisty attitude, and a strong will. All of this I can only assume, as she was too drunk to truly be herself last night. Last night, she was nothing but an easy fuck. Too easy, too quick. And she cannot reme
mber anything.

  I may have fucked her, but I don't feel as if I've had everything she can give me, and I need to find out all she can offer.

  I need her to find out how much I can give as well. It's frustrating to fuck a girl and then not have her remember anything. I can't leave things like this.

  The pursuit is not over with her. That's why we're having breakfast, that's why she's still here, and that's why I will ask to see her again before I call a car to take her home.

  "One-night stands are not my thing," I lie. "It's cheap and unsatisfying. I would like to see you again."

  I pause, catching her blue eyes with my gaze, before I add, "I want to fuck you again. And this time, you‘ll remember."

  She blushes at my words and reaches for the coffee mug, as if it was a lifeline.

  "I... I don't know," she stutters. "I don't have a lot of time, and the season is not over yet, and-"

  "The season?" I ask.

  Her eyelashes flutter as she looks at me, still holding the coffee mug up to her face.

  "Ballet season," she says. "I still have performances."

  "So?" I say. "I'm sure you're not on stage every single night."

  "No, but-"

  "So, then, you want this to be a one-night stand?" I interrupt her, trying to remain calm and not let her see the frustration that's boiling up inside me.

  She starts nibbling on the bacon and averts her eyes from mine.

  "It's not... no, I don't know," she mumbles. "I just expected it to be."

  "You don't even remember having sex with me last night," I say. "I'm surprised you're not even curious. According to your memory, this,“ I motion back and forth between us with my hands, “never happened. Maybe it didn't."

  She frowns at me. "So you're lying to me?"

  "No," I say, shaking my head. "But I could be."

  She huffs. "Maybe it just wasn't memorable enough."

  Rage is playing havoc with my insides. If I didn't have to worry that it might scare her away, I'd grab her right this instant, pull up that robe, and expose her tight, tiny ass for a spanking she could never forget, sober or not.

  I'm not going to beg, or even ask, to see her again. I've said everything she needed to hear, and she'll either bite or she won‘t. I'm not going to woo her. It’s long past that. We did all of this at the bar. This is the moment where she's supposed to jump at the tiniest opportunity I give her. It's her turn to want more, to beg, even.

  "Finish your breakfast," I hiss. "I'm going to call you a car once you're done."

  She casts me a confused look, but obeys, turning her attention back to the food in front of her. There's no asking, no begging, no exchange of information until I send her off, convinced that I will never see this girl again.

  Chapter VIII

  Sara

  I'm sitting in the car that he called for me. There was no point in arguing, and he made a very good point when he said that I don't even know where I am. Besides, it's so comfortable and convenient to be driven home like this, a luxury I don't usually get to enjoy – actually, a luxury I never have enjoyed until now.

  The crushing pain in my head is torturing me, even though breakfast helped a lot, a reminder of last night.

  He may be a nice guy, nicer than I first assumed. But of course, I'm running away from him, too.

  I made a resolution to myself not all that long ago, to stay away from the bad ones. The bad boys who I have always been attracted to, drawn in by their tattoos, their fuck-it-all attitude, their rule breaking and rebel actions.

  They are the exact opposite of my everyday life, my routine, my job, my passion. Ballet is strict, rule-oriented, with its movements not allowing for even the slightest misstep. It fascinates me, and there's something oddly reassuring and relaxing about it, both at the same time. I've been drawn to dance since a very young age, and the strict rules and thought-out sequences were part of the reason why.

  But it wasn't enough for me. I didn't just want to follow the rules and bathe in their comfort - at some point, I started wanting to break them. I wanted to be a rebel, or at least be someone who knows that she could be a rebel, if she wanted to.

  I needed an escape, a dark secret dangerous enough to give me a much needed thrill, but still safe enough not to endanger my big dream of becoming a professional dancer.

  I didn't want to become a bad girl, but I wanted to be close to someone who knew how to push the limits in a way that I could never do. That's why I started to go after them, the bad boys. I was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. But I lacked the time and the freedom to date as I pleased. Most boys who crossed my path were fellow dancers, and they were just as goody-goody and well-behaved as I was. Plus, I had a reputation to maintain.

  Olivia was the one who introduced me to a different lifestyle. She's a theater actress and moves in a different social circle than I do. When we became roommates a few years ago, we were in a similar situation, at the start of an artistic career and both struggling financially. Not a lot has changed in that regard, but we both have different ways of handling the stress that comes with our careers. She parties and drinks a lot - I dance and date. However, the latter is a secret of mine.

  The first time I went out with her, Olivia introduced me to the world of dating apps.

  "It's so convenient," she said. "Especially for us girls. You can get a date, hook-up, and if the guy‘s not what you're looking for, it’s not a big deal if doesn't turn into anything more serious."

  She was drunk when she first showed me, and we were swiping through a ridiculously long list of boys on her phone, giggling and judging. I only installed the app because she made me, but I never told her how much I've used it since then.

  Because I feel ashamed about it.

  I feel sick at the thought of it. I've dated more guys than I'd ever be willing to admit, and I've done some very questionable things, just to get that short-lived rush. It wasn't even about the sex. It was more about doing something that was different, naughty, and something I'm sure most of my friends would never expect me to do. It was fun and it was easy. I don't have a lot of extra time to date, and I could never commit to a serious relationship, so it was perfect for me.

  But it also made me feel bad about myself. Not while it was happening, but afterward. It was a weird circle. I’d be feeling lonely and in the mood for an adventure, so I’d pick a guy who I wanted to accompany me on that adventure, meet him, fuck him—maybe once, maybe twice, sometimes more than that. Some of them turned into flings that I could call up almost any time, that is until one or the other of us got bored with the whole thing and was ready to find someone new.

  I always picked a very specific type. Nice boys don't do this kind of thing, so the guys I went for all had this taste of wrongness about them. They'd all be considered terrible boyfriend material, which was fine by me. They were rough, bruised, fucked-up just enough to still be okay, but not entirely sane. The sex with them was often brutish, sometimes boring, and sometimes so violent that I started to doubt my own sanity for liking it this way.

  But it was all okay, it was fun, it was intense, it was my dark little secret.

  Until one of them hurt me. Physically.

  It wasn't intentional, and I think he was the one who freaked out more about it than I did. He was one of the roughest guys I had ever slept with - and one of my favorites. He always left bruises all over my body, and he enjoyed working with a body as small and lightweight as mine. He grabbed me, held me up, and threw me around while we were fucking, as if I was a ragdoll - and I loved it.

  However, one of those times, he threw me a little too far and used too much force. His intention was to throw me on the bed, but he underestimated his strength combined with my light weight and instead of landing on the mattress, I crashed right against the bedpost. I hit my head and scratched my leg up so badly that blood was gushing all over the covers. I almost ended up breaking my wrist as I tried to cushion my crash on the floor, too.

  I
will always remember that night. The fall, the bone-crushing pain, the horrified look on his face as he realized what had just happened, the blood all over the floor and the sheets...

  He was an ex-convict and on probation at the time. Of course, he thought I'd accuse him of raping me, hurting me on purpose, and he’d get sent back to prison. He was the perfect mix of being fucked-up with a resentful heart, packaged in a ripped body of someone who wanted to do better, to be better. And then that happened.

  It's been months since that night, but I still choke up at the memory. My eyes are glued to the streets outside the window as the car travels along unknown roads on the drive home. I try to blink away the tears.

  I never blamed him. I knew it was an accident, it could have happened to anyone.

  But it didn't happen to anyone. It happened to us, an ex-convict who couldn’t control his own strength and a young girl whose entire life plan was built on maintaining her strength. It was only a scratch, a deep one, but nothing more than superficial injury. My wrist didn't break, but it still hurt for almost a week.

  Worse things could have happened. And they almost did. He could have broken my wrist, or my ankle. I wouldn't have been able to dance for weeks. It happended during the middle of ballet season. How could I have been so reckless?

  I almost let something as minor as sex endanger my career because I insisted on sleeping around with guys like him. Guys who know nothing but how to be rough, who would fuck me in a way that I needed, but who also failed to control their strength, because it was driven by aggression and a deeply seeded fury.

  I couldn't go on like this.

  That's why I stopped - or so I thought.

  This season had been going very well in many aspects, and I ascribe some of it to the fact that I no longer followed my bad dating habits. I hardly dated at all, but when I did, it usually just involved having an innocent drink with another dancer. I've only had sex twice this season - until last night that is - and in both cases, it was a very vanilla version of my previous encounters.