The Billionaire and the Con Artist: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Girls Series Book 1) (3 page)

T
he party
always starts on the plane.

Since it’s a private aircraft, there are no rules to stick to save the ones I make, and the main rule is to have fun. To sit back, relax, and get pampered.

The food is top notch, the seating, plentiful and comfortable, some with massage settings, and the gorgeous stewardesses are available to take care of all my needs and the needs of those I’m traveling with.

Instead of flying to Singapore or Monte Carlo, we’re headed to Vegas, one of our more casual playgrounds, the flight there and back on my dime.

I know it’s kind of petty, but a wave of satisfaction washes over me again as I watch the guys and glance around the interior of my jet.

Here we are, in a spacious cabin with far more couches and lounge chairs than we need, large flat screen TVs playing images we never bother to watch, top alcohol and gorgeous willing girls within easy reach.

I can’t help thinking,
I made this possible
.

This trip to Vegas isn’t for any special occasion—I got bored and decided to bring some friends with me for a three-day weekend of fun.

Well, ‘friends’ is a pretty generous term—of the three other guys here, I can only call one a friend—my best friend, Nate, whom I’ve known since junior high.

Man, I used to envy Nate—he had a hefty allowance, parents who obviously loved each other, and his college funds were all sorted out before he was born, with a trust fund to boot.

He’s one of those kids who got access to a stable of European sports cars for his sixteenth birthday.

His family had a large house, a pool, lots of yard.

Nate always had a shitload of toys and games, the latest of everything, stuff I could only dream of.

I used to want to be him for years. Young me was able to sense the weight of all the advantages he had as a result of being so rich.

Not only was he rich, but he was good-looking and had the girls eating out of his hands.

I’m not exactly hideous myself, but there’s a different way chicks treat you once they know you’re loaded.

They came after me as a temporary thrill, but chicks flocked to Nate, trying to lock him down and get a piece of that pie so that at any given time, he had his pick who to sleep with.

Now I know firsthand what that feels like; in fact, my access is even greater.

Nate’s still loaded, but there are some women who wouldn’t touch him—those with money themselves looking for guys with even more.

They’re the ones I get that Nate doesn’t.

Nate is chatting with the newest members of our posse—Scott, a tow-headed Aussie billionaire I met at some celebrity party, and Peter, whom I recently met at another exclusive party he managed to crash.

Pete’s a software engineer, but because of his dark-skinned good looks and muscular build, he often gets mistaken for a celebrity of some sort—athletic or otherwise in the entertainment industry—and he just goes with it.

It’s pretty hilarious actually—watching girls actually flock to him because of his looks, and he never sees fit to correct them.

He goes along with their assumptions, pretending to be whatever they think he is.

It’s not his fault, right?

By the time they do research—if ever—he’s long gone.

And they never get his real name.

"Should I bring you another?" my brunette stewardess asks while another—a steaming hot redhead— heads to the other guys with a tray of drinks.

I’m a good host; besides the array of food and drinks offered, I always make sure enough girls fly with us for the guys to choose from.

The interior of the plane is arranged to accommodate all needs.

I offer a decent variety, and they take or leave them.

The girls all know why they were hired—for their hospitality skills, their willingness to serve.

The one staring at me now, waiting for my answer, is extremely sexy. 

She’s not particularly pretty—her face is attractive enough and nicely made-up but nothing special. She has a smoking hot body, though.

While they’re always available because of the job requirements, this brunette seems particularly excited about the possibility of sleeping with me.

I like eager chicks, but sometimes, it puts a damper on my desire.

I don’t feel a need to take advantage of every single opportunity, so unless I’m super horny at the moment, at times like this, I’ll pass.

Scott’s heading back to one of the rooms with the redhead, leaving Nate and Pete talking to each other.

I briefly wonder what they’re finding to talk about since they have so little in common. On the surface anyway.

Maybe they’ll run out of things to say or do and grab a girl just to fill the silence.

And now that the redhead’s been claimed, it leaves the curvy blonde and the slim Asian since the brunette with the Bambi eyes looking at me is off the table.

This girl knows not to offer herself to the other guys—not unless I’ve given the okay.

I don’t sleep with anyone the guys have taken to bed, and I hired this girl to take care of my needs, should a carnal one arise.

The guys may or may not indulge—it’s always interesting to see if they take up the offers.

I pay attention to any particular preferences, and so far, I’ve found none. Their dicks all seem to be equal opportunity, though I usually hire safe bets anyway.

My legal team hates all the people I bring in—despite the ironclad paperwork the girls have to sign and the extensive background checks, the more people I introduce, the more likely a leak of one sort or another becomes.

But I have people for that too—folks who silence anyone who might be too talkative.

I don’t have to worry about how; I don’t have to worry about much of anything.

These days, for the past five years, I can just throw money at a problem and solve it.

Mo’ money, mo’ problems? Ha!

Hakuna fucking Matata.

Right now, though, my dick’s asleep. Probably because I wore him out yesterday with a busty soap actress.

I give the brunette a regretful smile, as if the fact that the bedroom area is occupied now is the reason I’m not taking her up on her unspoken offer.

She nods, her eyes reflecting disappointment.

The brunette will have to wait for the return trip to ride this dick, and as I check out her firm ass again as she walks away, I look forward to it.

The sex is even better when you make them wait for it.

* * *

M
y casino host
took care of our rooms so it’s a relaxed limo drive to the hotel private check-in entrance before we waltz down to the casino.

It’s funny how quickly you get used to other people doing things for you.

I vaguely remember waiting while my parents checked us in at the counter at hotels for our few family vacations.

I can’t remember the last time I had to deal with someone directly like that; I can’t remember the last time I had to wait in line.

I let my host know when I’m heading down, and he makes sure my usual accommodations are waiting for me, amongst other things.

The rooms will be comped, as usual, and the other guys will share a multi-room villa while I get my own room—a west-facing suite, my favorite.

I don’t mean to be a dick about it—I just like my own space, and since everything we’re getting is on my player’s card, I have every right to carve out my own man cave away from home. It’s not like the guys will be far from me.

Besides, they’ll be staying in one of the best villas available—multiple bedrooms, way more space than they need, access to butler services, massage rooms, their own bathrooms with hot tubs, pools, gardens. A fully stocked bar.

It’s ideal, really, and if any of them don’t like it, they’ll just book their own room, but part of this whole experience is experiencing it together, and the three of them are more social than I am.

Therefore, I’m getting my own goddamned room.

My host greets us and prepares to escort us to our rooms, and I can tell something’s wrong immediately.

“So there’s been a slight snafu,” he says with a small fake smile, and I immediately go on guard.

My tolerance for snafus is pretty much zilch these days.

“The hotel was unable to hold the usual room for you… ”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say in a low voice as I glare at him.

His face flushes a bit.

I must be visibly furious because I feel a hand touch my arm in a sort of soothing way.

“Dude, it’s fine—you’ll just have to slum it for the night with us,” Scott says.

That almost works to break my foul mood and makes me laugh since they’re not exactly slumming it.

“We actually still got you booked in one exactly like it, set up exactly the same—same amenities, same size, same everything. It’s just west-facing instead of east…”

“But that’s part of the whole point,” I say, almost gritting my teeth.

I’m trying not to yell at him but it’s annoying me—I always get that room.

“Hey, Axel,” a soft low voice says as a hand simultaneously grabs my arm gently but firmly.

No doubt it’s Pete—that guy’s all about the calm.

I know I shouldn’t get so upset about a room, but it’s one of my homes away from home.

Plus the hotel should know better—I come here fairly regularly, so they know to expect me. Is it totally unreasonable I’d expect them to make sure it’s available when I get here?

My host looks nervous.

“Who booked it?” I demand.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have that information. ”

I get even more furious at being denied once again.

I don’t get denied—not these days. People give me what I fucking want.

I barely register another calming gesture on my arm, unable to see past my own indignation.

This place is supposed to fucking cater to me.

Who the hell did they think was more important?

“Did they specifically request this one? Think they’d be open to switching? I mean, if you’re pitching it’s virtually the same to me, why couldn’t that have been pitched to them?”

“Could you give me a moment while a make a quick call?” he says.

I nod permission, getting angrier by the second as I stand there.

“I can’t believe they gave away my fucking room,” I say.

“Come on, man—they had to do it,” Mr. Mello-fucking-yellow says. “You know how it is—a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush…”

“In Vegas?” Scott says jokingly. “It’s all about risking that bird for more bush—uh, birds.”

He chuckles and the other guys join in.

I turn away from Comedy Central, refusing to let their lightness affect me.

What the hell is the point of having all this money if you can’t get what you want?

My host is turning back to me and hanging up.

It can’t be because of the extra room this time, can it?

My previous trips, I only had the one room because it was just Nate and me, and I don’t mind sharing a space in that case. Nate I can handle.

“They’re, of course, going to comp both suites, and for the inconvenience, they’re giving you credit at the Versace store…”

He continues to yap on about a few extras thrown in to make up for this blunder, but I’m still furious. It’s the principle of the thing.

And I know my host will be working overtime to cater to my needs on the casino floor too, but there’s really not much more that can be done there; I mean, I already get all the free drinks and cigars and meals I could want.

What I want is my usual goddamned room.

My host is apologetic, and his eyes are practically pleading to be forgiving, but I see something else behind them. Not quite smugness, but some sort of defiance.

It’s like it’s taking effort for him not to say something, not to blame me.

And then it hits me—some whale probably got my room.

I’m a high-roller, but I’m pretty precise about my expenditures.

I take four gambling trips a year, and I carve out a specific amount to spend each trip so that my gambling budget never changes year to year.

Basically, I’m unusually careful.

Because I’m so careful, I’m probably not exactly what the casinos would call a whale—I won’t spend over a million on any one trip.

Therefore, when it comes to keeping me happy versus someone who will likely spend more than four times as much as me…

Yup, that’s got to be it. A whale is in the building, and they’ve given him my goddamned room because they expect him to spend a dick-load more than I will.

It’s sensible and logical, yet I’m still furious.

I always get what I want, and I don’t want some mirror image of the room I always get—I want the room I always get! I want the same view.

I know I’m being a brat, but damn it—this isn’t a good beginning to what’s supposed to be an easy-going trip.

This could put a damper on the whole experience.

And it’s certainly not the kind of energy I want to start playing with.

“It’s fine,” someone says as if they’re getting embarrassed by me.

I decide to play along, if only to stop whoever keeps trying to low-key calm me with their arm grasps.