Bad Boy of Wall Street: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
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Authors: Samantha Westlake
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Bad Boy of Wall Street - A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
Samantha Westlake
Copyright 2016 Samantha Westlake
All rights reserved.
Bad Boy of Wall Street
Book design by Samantha Westlake
Cover Image Copyright 2016
Used under a Creative Commons Attribution License:
http://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0
Adult content warning: All characters are legal and fully consenting adults and are not blood relations.
Dedication
For all my readers, both new and returning. I write it all for you.
Bad Boy of Wall Street
Chapter One
*
I peeled the sticky note off of my front door and sighed as I read it.
It didn't take much time to read the note, of course. RENT NOW!!! isn't exactly challenging, in a literary sense.
"Three exclamation points?" I asked aloud, rolling my eyes. "Come on, Hilda, there's no need to be rude."
I folded the sticky note in half, adhering it to itself, and tucked it into my back pocket as I adjusted my purse over my shoulder and headed down the stairs from my third floor walk-up. I felt a couple other slips of paper in my back pocket, and remembered that I'd been wearing these jeans for several days. I tightened my fingers around the papers and pulled them all out.
Looking at the sticky notes my landlord had left for me, I could sort them into chronological order. "April, just a reminder, rent's due!" read the first one, with a little heart drawn Since that first note, however, they'd grown more direct and picked up extra exclamation points along the way.
"I'd pay you if I had the money, Hilda," I muttered, shoving the notes back into my pocket. I'd deal with them later, I reassured myself. Any day now, I'd get my next scoop, write a big article that will go viral. Then, I could pay off my rent.
Oh, and also pay off my growing credit card debt.
And renew my lapsed renter's insurance.
And didn't I have a payment for my car insurance coming up? Speaking of that car, wasn't it running low on gas?
I groaned to myself, shaking my head as I pushed open the front door to my apartment building and stepping out into the bustle of people moving back and forth on the sidewalk. Why did I still own a car, anyway? It wasn't like I used it for anything in the city; I left it in place so I wouldn't lose the prime parking spot I'd managed to snag a few weeks ago. It was just another drain on my meager finances.
Still, I reassured myself, I didn't need to yet think about getting rid of my little two-seater Mazda. It was my last little act of rebellion, my last reassurance to myself that I wasn't yet going fully corporate, that I still had a wild side, an impulsive side.
Outside, blinking in the bright sunlight of the early morning, I paused for a moment to examine my reflection in the plate-glass windows of the boarded-up first floor of my building. Once, long ago, there'd been some sort of small little bookstore down here, but it closed down years ago, and hadn't been replaced. I didn't know why my landlord didn't just sell the place to some chain restaurant, but she instead chose to leave it empty, and even left the scattered bookshelves standing in the interior. Maybe she hoped that this whole movement towards Kindles and digital copies of books would end up being nothing but a fan, and physical bookstores would come back into vogue.
My reflection, gazing back at me in the windows, looked a few years out of vogue as well. I sighed as I brushed a few loose strands of my brown hair back behind my ears. They'd work their way free in mere minutes, I knew, but I still made the futile attempt. I adjusted my blouse, hoping that no one noticed the faint stain from tomato sauce on one of the lapels. I'd done my best to clean it off, but there was still a little orange mark left behind.
I really ought to go to the gym, get back in shape, I told myself. Or at least take up jogging again - that didn't cost me any money, did it? Although I did need a new pair of running shoes, and maybe some reflective gear so that I wouldn't be in danger of being hit by a car, and the little canister of Mace that I carried at the bottom of my purse had probably expired years ago and wouldn't do anything to a mugger unless I threw the can at him...
I shook my head. "Get it together, April," I commanded myself, pointing a finger into the window at my reflection.
A couple people, walking past me in their clean, starched, tomato-sauce-stain-free suits and business outfits, frowned over at the crazy lady talking to herself in the window. I thought about taking out my phone, pretending that I'd been using a hands-free ear-piece, but decided that no one would buy it. Instead, I just ducked my head and headed off towards work.
Great. April Carpenter, age thirty-one, about to be evicted from her apartment and still talking to her own reflection, trying to give herself pep talks. Yes, I'd definitely managed to make a success of myself.
I cast an eye sidelong at the little coffee shop on the way to my office, but I forced myself to keep on going and not succumb to temptation. My sad little bank account couldn't handle even the added expense of a nice cup of coffee, I admitted to myself. Besides, there was usually some free coffee brewing at the office.
Ooh, and maybe a donut, I thought, brightening. Didn't Ricky from the graphic design team sometimes bring in a box of donuts for the office? If I walked quickly, maybe I could snag one before my coworkers had eaten everything except the apple cinnamon twists.
I really didn't want to lose my apartment, in part because of its proximity to my office. Barely ten minutes later, I stepped into the lobby of Grit, smiling and nodding to the elderly security guard who stood near the turnstiles that led to the elevators.
"Morning, Bobby," I said to him.
"Good mornin', Miss Carpenter," Bobby replied, reaching up and tugging on his cap with his gnarled fingers. "Gonna find a story today?"
"I hope so," I replied, fighting back the urge to sigh. Even the security guard at my building knew that it had been a while since I'd last published an article! I really was in trouble.
One elevator ride later, I stepped out onto the twenty-second floor, the level of Grit's main offices. I breezed past the receptionist, not even glancing up at her as she sat in front of the massive logo of our magazine.
"April," the woman called out in her syrupy sweet tones as I passed. "Hold on, darling!"
I cursed violently inside my head, but forced my feet to reluctantly stop. "What is it?" I asked, plastering a fake smile across my face as I turned towards the woman.
I honestly didn't remember the receptionist's name. We got a new one every couple of months, and I'd long ago given up on trying to keep their names straight. All of them seemed like they'd been stamped out of the same basic model: long legs, dyed blonde hair, fake tits shoved up almost all the way to her chin, lips puffed out into a permanent pout, and with about the same level of intelligence as an overweight hamster. It didn't take a genius to see how Sandy, my boss, picked them out.
Now that she'd captured my attention, the blonde bimbo frowned, as if she'd lost track of her next line in the script. "Um," she said, glancing down. I wondered if she'd ever considered putting notes on the shelf of her cleavage.
"Does Sandy want to see me?" I guessed, after a couple seconds of silence.
"Oh yeah, that's right!" Receptionist Bimbo smiled up at me, happy that she didn't need to actually remember anything. "Sandy wants to see you."
"Great." I didn't bother to hide my eye roll this time; Receptionist Bimbo probably wouldn't understand the meaning of the expression. "I'll be right in to see him."
"Should I go tell him, or will you-"
I hurried away from the bimbo's desk before she finished asking the question. If I made it to the break room, I thought hopefully to myself, I could at least grab some coffee, maybe a donut, before Sandy started shouting at me.
I swung past my desk, dropping my purse on top of my closed laptop computer and my coat on the back of the chair. I didn't stop, however; Sandy would soon be out on the hunt, prowling around the office in search of someone to yell at, and I didn't want to make myself an easy target.
Two cubicles down from me as I headed towards the break room, I heard Teddy angrily growing into his phone. He lowered his voice at the sound of my approaching footsteps, but relaxed when he saw me pause at the entrance to his little personal space. Teddy knew that I wasn't a threat to his stories.
Not that I'd want his stories, anyway, I told myself. Teddy wrote the really hard hitting pieces, the exposes on drug dealers and finance kingpins, pulling back the rug to expose corruption and graft and bribery everywhere. He didn't consider a story a success unless he received at least half a dozen death threats over it.
No, thank you. I'd stick with my fluff pieces, even if they never brought in the same level of online exposure and didn't earn me nearly as much income. At least no one threatened to violently murder me over my mocking commentary on how to properly please a man in bed using nothing but a microwave, a blindfold, and a grapefruit.
I ducked around one last corner and breathed a sigh of relief as I reached the break room. No box of donuts sat on the slightly lopsided table in the middle of the room, unfortunately, but I did smell the unmistakable scent of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. In addition, someone had grabbed a stack of the day's newspapers and left them in a pile next to the sink.
Fishing a mug out of the cupboard, I poured myself a cup of hot coffee and set it on top of the stack of newspapers. I reached out and pulled open the door to the office fridge, hoping to find some half and half that hadn't yet passed its expiration date.
"Carpenter!"
Attempting to shoot upright at that angry voice, I whacked my head on the top of the fridge. "Dammit," I grumbled to myself, rubbing the back of my head as I stepped back and stood up. "Sandy, don't you know not to sneak up on people?"
My boss glared up at me, his hands planted on his hips. Papa Smurf just found out that he'd been ripped off in a recent deal, I thought wildly to myself as I looked down at the diminutive head editor. Sandy insisted on dyeing his hair and short-cropped beard pitch black, but paint his skin blue and put him in a red cap and he'd be all set for Halloween. I focused on keeping my expression straight.