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

  It was safe. It was kind and sweet.

  It was mind numbingly boring.

  I should have known that nice guys aren't my thing, but I was still surprised to see how little I enjoyed their company.

  And the guy last night? He looks like a bad boy, that's for sure. He talks like one, too, and from what little I remember from last night, he's certainly not a gentleman. But while he had a pretty straightforward way of talking to me, he treated me very nicely this morning. He made breakfast for me, and he made sure that I was feeling okay before he called a car to take me home.

  A truly bad boy wouldn't do that, would he? Unless he had some ulterior motives that I don't know about.

  He confuses me, and I'm shocked at myself for what I did with him. I pledged to stay away from trouble like this, and instead of keeping up my attempt at being good, I lose control all over again and end up stumbling into the end of the season with a blackout and a risky encounter with God knows who.

  I blame him for this. Despite his oddly caring behavior this morning, I don't feel like I can trust him. A nice guy never would have let this happen. A nice guy never would have taken a girl home when she was as drunk as I was last night.

  A nice guy wouldn't do what he did.

  This man screams trouble, and I vow I’m going to stay away from him.

  Chapter IX

  Sara

  "Finally!" Olivia comments upon my return, as soon as I close the door behind myself.

  I find her sitting in the kitchen, curled up in her usual corner on our bench, still wearing her pajamas. She’s mindlessly browsing on the tablet we share as she waited for me to get home. It was a Christmas present from both of us to both of us, since neither one of us was willing to save up long enough to buy one. It's probably the biggest investment we've made since moving in together.

  "You look terrible," she adds, raising her eyebrows and casting me a reproachful look.

  "Thanks," I reply. "Do we still have some aspirin?"

  Olivia shrugs and watches me as I open the cabinet next to our fridge to look for some.

  I sigh with relief when I find one last Advil in the bottle. Olivia's eyes are fixated on me as I proceed to get myself some water to wash it down. I know she's dying to hear my tale from last night.

  The good thing about not remembering most of it is that I won't have to lie to her.

  I'm met with her expectant face looking at me when I turn around and lean back against the kitchen counter.

  "Hung over?" she asks, even though the answer should be obvious.

  I nod. "I haven't felt this shitty since... well, ever."

  Olivia lets out a disdainful laugh. "Oh, Sara, you're so cute sometimes."

  I roll my eyes at her and take another sip from my water glass.

  "So, how was it?" Olivia adds another question, a rather intrusive one, if you ask me.

  I cast her an indignant look. "Nice. Nice enough. He made me breakfast."

  "Breakfast?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. "What a gentleman. And what a hottie! Damn girl, he looks hot! I'm not gonna‘ lie, I was a little jealous when I saw him. He looks like someone you can buy."

  She pauses and chuckles, shaking her head. "However, he did not look like the kind of guy who'd make you breakfast the next morning."

  "You saw him?" I wonder out loud, just now realizing that I can't remember how we left the club either.

  Olivia tilts her head to the side and purses her lips.

  "Yes, I talked to him," she says. "You were standing right next to us! You were about to leave the club, and I followed you guys to make sure you were okay. You introduced him to me, I exchanged a few words with him..."

  She stops talking, observing my face as she furls her eyebrows in suspicion.

  "You don't remember?" she asks, incredulously.

  Fuck.

  No, I don't remember. I don't remember anything about anything. And I can see that the same suspicion I had is now growing inside Olivia's head.

  "I drank too much," I admit. "I... I may have had a little blackout."

  "A little blackout?" she asks, her eyebrows still furled. "Are you sure he didn't put anything in your drink?"

  No, I'm not sure. I can't be sure of anything right now. But I want to trust him when he assured me that he didn't.

  "Pretty sure it was just the alcohol," I say, casting her a look. "The shots. I shouldn't have had so many shots, really."

  Olivia leans back in her chair and raises her hands up in defense. "Don't blame me for that!"

  It would be easy to blame her for making me drink this much, but I know Olivia would never have forced me. I could have said no, and she still would have been my friend, albeit my disappointed friend.

  "I'm not blaming you," I say. "I'm only blaming myself."

  "Well, I'm glad you're home and safe," she says. "And you did have a good night, didn't you?"

  I huff. "As far as I can remember, yes, I did."

  "Will you see him again?" Olivia wants to know.

  I shake my head. "I don't think so."

  "Why not?" she probes. "Are you just one-night stand material to him?"

  The disgust is audible in her voice.

  "No," I say. "But he is to me."

  "Oooh!" Olivia exclaims, her face changing to a wide grin. "Damn girl, harsh! I didn't think you had it in you."

  That's only because she doesn't know me as well as she thinks. If Olivia was aware of my erratic dating behavior, she would not be surprised at this as much as she is now.

  "Have it in me, huh?" I reply to her. "So, it's cool when I want it to remain a one-night stand, but not if he does?"

  She laughs. "Gender equality, Sara. You know how it works."

  I don't know what she means by that, but I let it go. I shouldn't be dwelling on all of this any longer. I have another performance coming up tomorrow night and need to be fit enough to head to the dance studio as soon as possible for practice. This hangover and everything that comes with it is the last thing I need right now.

  "I'm gonna‘ lie down until this Advil does its magic," I announce. "I've got to get to the studio today."

  "You'll be fine," Olivia says, her voice changing to a motherly tone. "You always are. The season is almost over, isn't it?"

  I nod. "Two more weeks."

  Olivia casts me a smile. "See! Soon you'll be able to relax, and we'll head out for another night of fun. Maybe not as much as fun as you had last night, though."

  She winks at me and my stomach turns.

  I leave the kitchen and grab my purse off the side table by the door on the way, trying to find my phone so I can set an alarm to wake me up in about an hour. But it's not there. My hands instinctively wander to my jeans pockets, searching there for the phone, but it's not there either. My pulse speeds up. Where is my phone? I can't possibly have lost it?

  There's one more option, and I head back to the hallway, rummaging through my coat hanging on the rack. My search remains unsuccessful, and my thoughts begin to race, tracing back through the morning as best as I can.

  Then it hits me.

  I left my phone in the robe I wore this morning. I completely forgot about it when I got dressed because I was in such a hurry to get out of there.

  My phone is with...him!

  Chapter X

  Lux

  I wasn't going to do it. I wasn't going to go after her. I'm no fucking Romeo who can be bewitched by some random chick that easily. Sure, it sucks that she didn't turn out to be who I was hoping for, a good little slut who bends to my will even though it disagrees with everything she believes in. But I'll be okay without her. There are plenty of other pretty girls just waiting for a man like me to break them in - and then drop them once he's done with them.

  But then her phone rings. I'm confused when I first hear the ring tone. Classical music isn't something that's played very often in my apartment, if ever. Even though the melody sounds familiar, I cannot place it, nor do I even know the source
of where it’s coming from at first.

  I'm just getting out of the shower after a hard workout when I hear the music coming from my playroom, the bedroom in which she spent the night. When I open the door and step inside the room, my confusion only grows once I realize the muffled sound isn't coming from any of my electronics, but from the robe I had given her to wear. She left it on the floor, right next to the bed I fucked her on. For a moment, I’m aggravated that she just dropped the robe on the floor and didn’t even have the courtesy to leave it on the bed. I pick up the robe from the floor and a phone that's definitely not mine falls from the pocket.

  I glance at the screen of the older model, rather beat-up, phone. Unknown caller appears on the lighted display. The musical ring tone continues to play. Once it finally stops ringing, I turn the phone over in my palm and find a bunch of girly stickers plastered all over it. How old did she say she was? Twenty-two? This phone looks like it could belong to a 12-year old.

  I sigh as I sit down on the edge of the bed, observing the phone in my hand. It's gone silent, and whoever tried to call her must have given up. Maybe it was even her. She must have noticed by now that she left her phone here.

  What a nuisance. Now I have to see her again.

  Maybe she left it on purpose? It would be the most pathetic attempt to see me again any girl has tried yet.

  I switch the screen back on to see whether she's smart enough to protect her phone with a PIN. I know I shouldn't be doing this, but once I realize I have access to a bunch of private information that's usually inaccessible to strangers, I can't help but dig for it. The obvious move would be to look for nudes in her gallery, but I'm not desperate enough for something that adolescent. However, there's one thing that pops right up when the screen lights up: her calendar.

  "Studio at 2," it reads for today, followed by another entry that is far more interesting.

  She has something scheduled tomorrow evening. It only says two words: Swan Lake.

  It’s one of the few ballets I'm familiar with, but I wonder whether she's attending a performance or participating in it.

  I get up from the bed, taking her phone with me. If what she told me about herself is true, the answer may only be a short Google search away.

  I don't even know what I'm doing, but I can't ignore the little leap my heart does when I sit down in my leather office chair and boot my laptop to life. Staring at my computer screen as the theater’s website opens, I realize she is indeed on stage tomorrow, and will be performing in one of the most famous ballet performances known to man. She's listed as a member of the corps de ballet, and while she only told me her first name, I'm relieved to discover there is only one Sara listed for the performance. Sara Crane.

  "Well, Miss Crane," I whisper, my lips forming a thin smile. "Seems like we're not quite done with each other."

  It's short notice, very short notice. But nothing is too short notice for someone like me. It's true that money can’t buy everything, but it can get me where I want to be tomorrow evening.

  The best part of the show, though, will take place after the final act -- when I pay a personal visit backstage.

  Chapter XI

  Sara

  We're nearing the end of Act II. I'm standing offstage, watching and waiting as the group of Swans finishes their dance. My heart is racing, pounding against my ribs, as it always does at this point of the performance. Act II, the fourth movement of number thirteen, the famous Dance of the Little Swans. Four identical-looking swans, moving in perfect unison, as they make their way across the stage, all eyes on them - and I am one of them. It's an honor to perform this dance, an honor I earned through years of grueling practice and hard work. A lot of sweat, pain, and tears have gone into this short dance, those ninety seconds in front of the spotlight.

  I can't believe I almost endangered having my chance at this opportunity with my stupid behavior. Adonis or not, good boy or bad boy, it doesn't matter. He shouldn't matter. I still can't remember most of our night together, but the guy is still trapped inside my head. I left my phone at his place – so stupid of me – and I've tried to call several times in an attempt to get it back, but he never answered. I sent text messages, too, but he never responded to those either. Does he intend to keep my phone? Has he even found it? He can’t be a thief, can he?

  Well, wouldn't that be a new low? Getting drunk out of my mind, spending the night with a complete stranger, and then being robbed by him.

  The idea doesn’t make sense to me, though. From everything I've seen, it's safe to assume that he's insanely wealthy. Why would he steal an old phone from some nobody girl like me?

  Why would he? It seems that I have quite a few questions about this man starting with those exact words.

  I shake my head, trying to get rid of him--thoughts of him, the image of him, the smell of him, his gorgeous eyes.

  I need to focus.

  We're standing in position, waiting our turn, and I know that the other three girls feel exactly the same as I do right now. We're all part of the corps, and this is the one performance where we have a chance to stand out, to put ourselves in the spotlight, front and center, and bathe in the kind of attention that is usually reserved for soloists.

  I love it. I live for these moments, for these ninety seconds. But they're also the most challenging ninety seconds of the entire performance.

  "Ready," Isabella whispers. She's standing to my right and will be the first to enter the stage, I’ll follow her next, and then the remaining two swans, Lisa and Sophia, come last.

  I've looked up to Isabella ever since we started with the company. We're the same age and the same level, but somehow I've always felt inferior performing next to her. She's so talented, so elegant, and rather tall for a ballerina, which doesn't help with my feeling smaller next to her. It's a surprise they let us dance so closely to one another, as the height difference alone between us disturbs the synchronous unity between our group of four.

  Odette and Siegfried finish their beautiful but sad dance together, and as they leave the stage, we wait for our cue to enter. Once Isabella is taking the first step, me following right behind, it seems like there’s a switch turned on inside my head. I’m no longer aware of anything but the music, the stage, and the four of us. The rest of the swans are lined up next to us in one of those excruciatingly strenuous standing poses that’s so hard to maintain, yet receives so little appreciation. We take position, connected to each other by holding hands, our heads turning right and then slowly moving to the left in a big circle, as our feet take us to the right in perfect unison. Almost perfect, I should say. I'm sure no one in the audience notices, but there's always a little something that doesn't go exactly as planned. Someone moving a leg too fast, turning a head too slowly, or sometimes too much distance between two of us, when we should always remain in line, moving at the exact same pace.

  Minor errors like these are hard, if not impossible, to eliminate. Tonight, I'm the one messing up at one point. When I almost meet the eyes of Lisa, the swan to my left, I realize that the circle of my head movement was too fast.

  I hate when these little mishaps happen, but I've learned not to dwell on them, especially while I'm still on stage. Our magical ninety seconds feel as if they last for an eternity, and yet they're over way too soon. Before I know it, I find myself on one knee, elegantly leaning forward, stretching my arms as far forward as possible. The tension runs all the way up to my fingertips, even though it appears that I’m displaying an effortless elegance. Nothing about ballet is effortless, but we have to make it look that way.

  As we stride off the stage, our arms still extended like the wings of the beautiful swans we’re embodying, I can't help but smile. My heart is racing and sweat is running down my neck, my small chest heaving beneath the tight and uncomfortable costume. My muscles are trembling from exhaustion, the chronic pain of continuous stress traveling through my legs and feet - but I couldn't be happier. Nothing is easier than exhibiting a gor
geous, flying swan when I'm feeling as high as I am now. Nothing in the world can give me this feeling, and I feel sorry for those who never get to experience it.

  We retreat behind stage and catch our breath, as the next group of swans enters for their performance. We're only about halfway done with the performance. I always get a little sad once the second act is done because it is by far my favorite. I love our costumes, and I love the role of the swan, preferring it above almost every other role I've ever played.

  Of course, my repertoire is still rather small, especially because I've only ever been part of the corps. I have yet to be cast in a role as a soloist, and I cannot wait for that day to happen.

  Act III and IV pass by, and by the final bow, I'm breathing heavily, sweating profusely beneath my heavy make-up and extravagant costume. We're a sea of white, an ever-moving group of skinny girls in white tutus, white feathers gracing our heads. The headpieces are my favorite part of the costume. I love how the pure white color clashes with my black hair, making me look and feel like an actual swan.

  "That went well," Isabella pipes next to me as we disappear backstage, our tutus rustling in the crowd of ballerinas.

  "I skipped a beat in Act II," I say, trying not to sound too whiny because I know that Isabella hates self-pity.

  "No one noticed," she replies, tapping me on the shoulder.

  "You did," I say, winking at her.

  She huffs. "I was dancing right next to you, how could I not?"

  "Sara!" I hear a voice calling out behind us. "Sara! Sara Crane!"

  I turn around, confused as to who'd be calling for me here and now. I see Miss Bellaforte, the conductor’s assistant, waving for me from across the hall. She's taller than most of us dancers and sticks out, as she's the only one not dressed entirely in white, or in a tutu, for that matter.