Life in the Fast Lane: A BBW Erotic Novella (Western Romance, Billionaire Cowboy, Curvy Girls)

Copyright © 2015 by Cassie Laurent.

Kindle Edition

v1.0


Life in the Fast Lane
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or portions thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form whatsoever without direct permission from the author.

This book is intended
Only for Mature Audiences 18+
. It contains mature themes, substantial sexually explicit scenes, and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers.

UUID: 2813b88f-b4ee-4508-b8d4-7b1f502732f9

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It was just before sunup when we turned off of the main road, heading down a tree-lined path that led to a ten-foot tall wrought iron gate nestled between large columns. The columns were flanked by stone walls, which I could only assume stretched the perimeter of the property, though it was hard to tell in the dim light of morning and under the thick cover of trees.

Jim, my boss, punched the buzzer on a monitor just outside the gate.

“Who is it?” asked a gruff voice through the speaker.

“Jim Davies, the trainer,” he said.

I heard a buzzing sound and the gate started to creak open, allowing Jim and I to pass through in his dusty Chevy Silverado pickup. Once we were inside the walls of the ranch, the landscape seemed to open up a bit. Trees were sparser, there were rolling hills and a winding road that led to the main house and the stables.

Now that the sun was coming up, I could see things a bit more clearly. The stables appeared off in the distance, and behind them a gigantic mansion. The owner of that mansion was our new employer: Lane Matheson.

Jim hadn’t told me much about Mr. Matheson, but I’d heard stories about him from others. He was a temperamental man, intensely competitive and dominant in the boardrooms of the corporate world. He was the CEO and President of an oil company that he’d founded years earlier. After amassing vast wealth through enterprise, he’d decided to enter the game of horse racing.

When Mr. Matheson first met with Jim, he’d stated his goal was to win a Kentucky Derby within five years. Jim had laughed, but Mr. Matheson wasn’t kidding. He’d said it all with a straight face.

Jim said he could do it, but warned Mr. Matheson that it’d take a lot of resources. Of course, that was no problem; Lane Matheson had an estimated fortune of $3.6 billion. I thought about that sum as Jim and I drove along in silence.
Three point six billion dollars
. I couldn’t even fathom that amount of money. There seemed to be no limit to what could be done with a stash of cash like that.

As we approached the house, Jim started explaining a bit more about the situation with Mr. Matheson.

“You’ll probably never see him, but if you do, be absolutely as polite as possible. If he asks about the horses, only give him positive news. This could be a career-making move for me, and I don’t want to risk messing it up. We need to be on our best behavior at all times,” he said, his tone almost stern in its seriousness.

“Gotcha,” I said casually.

Jim was too concerned about these things sometimes. He was a phenomenal trainer, so I didn’t know exactly what he was so worried about. The particulars of our setup on Matheson Ranch were excellent, too. Each of us had a little cottage to ourselves. The rest of the ranch hands lived in small cabins scattered throughout the property.

Of course, even our nice quarters were dwarfed by the mansion itself, a sprawling three-story building with two separate wings. Rumor had it that there was a full gym inside, two movie theaters, and a ballroom bigger than a basketball court. Some estimated that there were over twenty separate bedrooms in the house; rather excessive for an unmarried man who lived alone.

When we finally came up towards the stables, we were greeted by a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His skin was tanned and healthy looking. He wore a cowboy hat and a plaid shirt tucked into worn-out jeans. He gave us a wave, indicating a parking area out back where we should leave our truck.

As soon as we got out of the truck, the man held out his hand to each of us in turn, giving us a firm handshake and introducing himself.

“Jim, it’s good to see you again,” he said, slapping him on the back. Then he turned to me.

“The name’s Don Simpson. You got any questions, I’m the man to ask.”

“Adelaide Parker,” I said. “Glad to meet you.”

Don nodded politely and then proceeded to give us a tour of the stables and the rest of the grounds.

Don Simpson was a man of old-fashioned know-how. He was responsible for all the different operations of the ranch. He had worked in the same capacity under the ranch’s previous owner, and when Lane Matheson purchased the ranch in 2007, Don had been the only staff that was kept on. Since then, he’d become one of Mr. Matheson’s most trusted allies.

Don was the type of guy who knew how to get things done. His combination of tough work ethic and laid-back Texas demeanor made him likeable to damn near everyone. When Lane told Don that he wanted to get into horse racing, Don had put the call out to his contacts in the area. Eventually, someone had recommended my boss, Jim.

A meeting was arranged between the three of them. It had gone swimmingly, and soon a contract was drawn up. Jim and one of his assistants would be responsible for training several horses over the next year. I was ecstatic when Jim chose me to go along with him.

The contract was a huge win for us, with an added bonus if we achieved Mr. Matheson’s stated goal of winning the Derby. It was also incredibly lucrative. The only catch was we’d signed a non-disclosure agreement. We weren’t allowed to speak a word about the operations of the ranch or our training regimen with anyone else.

All things considered, this probably wouldn’t be a particularly difficult task. Since we’d be living on the ranch, it was only on rare occasions that we’d even run into anyone who didn’t know about Mr. Matheson’s racing ambitions. Nonetheless, it added an aura of seriousness to our dealings at Matheson Ranch. I knew how crucial this contract was to Jim. There was a lot riding on it for both of our futures.

Don proceeded to give us a tour of the grounds. We stopped off at a stable packed with about twenty horses, several of them Thoroughbreds that we’d be responsible for training. As we walked through the stable, Don explained to us that there were a number of ranch hands who would take care of the horses that weren’t dedicated to racing. They would also handle the upkeep of the stable more generally. That was good. Being freed up from those tasks would give us more time to concentrate on our more crucial objectives.

Finally, Don led us to the most important horse in the stable. His name was Fast Lane, a not-so-subtle reference to his wealthy owner. Fast Lane was a beautiful horse with a rich, dark brown coat. His father had been a competitor, too, though he’d fallen just short of winning any of the major races. I didn’t know how much Mr. Matheson had paid for Fast Lane, but I couldn’t imagine the sum being anything less than $150,000.

That’s an absurd amount of money, but it was crazy to think that it was merely a drop in the bucket to someone like Mr. Matheson.

After touring the stables, Don led us each to our private cottages. The kitchen staff at the mansion would be making a run to the grocery store in a few hours. Don instructed us to leave a list of goods we would like purchased (money was no object, food and housing was included in our contract) and he would pass it along to the staff.

Each cottage had its own fully operational kitchen. If I’m being honest, it was actually much nicer that the one in my little apartment back home. All of the rooms in the cottage were nice, outfitted with expensive furniture and large televisions. Looking over the confines of my new home, I was very grateful that Jim had chosen me of all people to accompany him on this assignment. This truly was the opportunity of a lifetime.