The Billionaire and the Con Artist: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Girls Series Book 1) (2 page)

I
take
a deep breath as I exit my unremarkable, gray-stoned apartment building, unsure whether I’ll ever return to it or not.

I told my roommate I was going home to Nebraska for a few days—a total lie, of course.

I learned long ago it’s rarely beneficial to be upfront; in fact, the truth can and will work against you at every opportunity.

My roommate doesn’t need to know my true destination—if anyone comes looking for me for whatever reason, he’ll just end up sending them on a wild goose chase.

Haha!
Nebraska.

It’s my own personal little joke.

Anyway, he got last month’s rent from me, and I haven’t left a mess or anything behind so he’ll be fine if I never come back—I paid him upfront in cash for four months, first and last.

I just never wanted him to know my real name.

My sob story convinced him that I was in dire straits, a sympathetic figure that he was happy to take in, barely able to contain his surprise that a girl like me took up his Craigslist offer.

Once we met, it was all good—my assessment of him said I had nothing to fear of the shy-looking, pudgy nerd, and he was even more convinced of my damsel-in-distress state once he took in my petite, youthful form and the lost puppy eyes I gave him.

Plus being faced with a lot of cash can magically stop people from asking too many questions. Especially guys; girls tend to be way nosier.

The cash was courtesy of a GoFundMe campaign, by the way.

Look, if someone can raise tens of thousands of dollars on Kickstarter to make a bowl of potato salad, anything goes when it comes to crowdfunding, and you would not believe how many guys are supportive of boob jobs.

Thanks, pervy Good Samaritans!

I have no intention of getting a boob job, though, despite my fabricated A-cup sob story.

I did send my biggest backers a photo of a sexy nude rack so they could be happy they helped out a poor flat-chested young girl in need and jack off to the thought of their generosity and the lewd visual for infinity.

The before and after photos were more than easy to obtain, and anyway, none of it matters, ultimately—I got what I wanted, they got what they needed.

People love easy ways of feeling good about themselves, and I’m more than happy to give it to them.

My current trip is being funded by bleeding heart animal lovers who can’t resist the photo of a pretty young blond girl crying over her sick dog.

Thanks, stock photos!

I can’t just rely on GoFundMe and Kickstarters, of course—especially since it’s best to keep it moving; I’ll leave too many traces tapping the same pool.

I continue toward the bus stop, everything that matters to me in my nondescript backpack, but I halt in my tracks as an unexpected wave of joy and relief washes over me at the sight of a familiar ‘face.’

I watch Lorax as he (or she? I never figured it out) scuttles his fat body toward the nearest garbage bin, a large piece of donut in its tiny rodent jaws.

I recognize the rat by his sheer size at first—he’s practically the size of a cat—and then confirm identity by the dent in his tail.

I named him Lorax after the character in some book one of my foster moms read me when I was twelve.

Yes, I’m aware it’s a kids book below what should have been my reading level then, but I was only just learning to read at the time—my biological mom had home-schooled me, leaving out the whole literacy part, and then one day, she dropped me off at some fire station and I haven’t seen her since.

Oh, that’s where Nebraska comes in—the state had a Safe-haven law at the time, allowing people to drop off any kid under eighteen, so my mom got in there before they were all,
Whoops! Didn’t really mean for a bunch of toddlers, tweens, and teens to get legally abandoned.

The funny thing is, we weren’t even
from
there—she drove all the way there to do it.

But hey, when opportunity knocks, you better goddamn answer, am I right?

Anyway, the law soon changed to specify that only babies under a month could be given up, but by then, I had been returned to my state of origin to become a ward of
that
state, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Now that I’m heading to Vegas for the first time, immediate future unclear, I’m happy for the chance to say goodbye to Lorax—it gives me some sort of closure on this chapter of my life.

I suppose I’ve come to think of him as a pet I keep on a very long invisible leash.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” I say affectionately to him before continuing my path to the bus stop.

Trust me—it doesn’t matter if someone notices I’m not actually talking to a person, or even if they realize I’m talking to a rat.

This is Los Angeles—you wouldn’t believe how many people are here talking to themselves, blue tooth or not; in fact, forget blue tooth and inside voices accidentally becoming outside ones—with vagrants galore having a grand old time chatting up the air or a pipe in a wall, nothing to see here.

* * *

I
’m vibrating
with excitement as I head to the Downtown L.A. bus station.

It’s like my body is way ahead of my mind—like it senses something major about to happen, but in a good way, and I’m ready for whatever’s going down.

I think it means I’m going to make a buttload of money and won’t have to worry about my daily take for a while. I know there’s a huge concentration of potential marks in Vegas with the tourist turnover and other mega opportunities to score big.

Most people go to Vegas to gamble, right? One way or another—their sex life, their money, their career. They’re taking a chance.

I suppose that could be true of many other places, but Vegas is
the
place for dreams of scoring something huge.

I’m going there to gamble, too—but I don’t take my chances with poker tables and lever-operated machines.

My phone rings as I pay for my ride, and I know it’s either my best friend Taylor or spam that managed to find its way to my burner phone.

I answer it on the fourth ring as I settle into my seat.

“What’s up?” I answer, smiling because I recognize the number as Taylor’s after all.

“Dude, we’re so gonna clean up,” she says to me. “I’m over five thousand dollars already.”

“Five thousand dollars?” I sort of screech, earning the attention of several people near me.

I compose myself quickly.

I usually keep my cool pretty easily, but hell—that’s almost a year of rent for the apartment I shared in L.A.! Not that I’d actually stay there a year.

I’m hoping this Vegas trip gets me out of there and into a better one. With a damned dishwasher.

“Shit. Yeah, that’s definitely a good start,” I say. “How the hell did you do that?”

Seriously, Taylor just got there less than half a day ago.

At that rate, the week or so we plan to hang out there could set us up for a year!

Heck, if it continues going that well, we could stay for longer and really start squirreling away some safety cash somewhere.

“You know me,” she says, “a bit here, a bit there. We’re gonna celebrate the hell out of your birthday, girl. I can’t wait to see you. Love you.”

My excitement soars.

Taylor is like the big sister I never had.

Pretty much everything I learned about surviving on my own, I learned from her.

She took me under her wing when I was fifteen, and she taught me about making it out on the streets.

Taylor is my hero.

She once convinced an aged rock star she was one of his illegitimate kids—the result of some one night stand.

She told him she wanted nothing from him, that she only wanted to see for herself if she could see any of herself in him, and yet somehow, she still ended up with a chunk of guilt cash from him.

“I considered milking that cow a little longer but didn’t want to risk the whole thing unraveling—someone in his circle might insist on a DNA test or something.”

She said she might go back to him at some point—when enough time has passed that he’d be open to dishing out some more—but she probably won’t; Taylor keeps it moving.

I believe that whole thing was just a test run for her anyway—I suspect she has a major identity con planned.

She won’t run it by me or anything, though—when she’s all set to do something, she just does it. No need to involve another party who could become a weak link, a vein to tap.

I get it.

Anyway, I’m stoked Taylor thinks I’m ready to work Vegas with her; she’s a master.

I doubt Taylor’s her real name but I’m not even gonna try to get that one out of her.

She never even told me her real birthday.

She said January first eventually, but I don’t think that’s true. Not that people aren’t born on January first, obviously—it just sounds like something you tell someone who insists they should know something about you that you disagree they should know.

Taylor is determined to bury her past, and trust me, I totally understand the need to leave all traces of the previous you behind once you’ve decided to become something else.

Still, I’ve known her for five years, and she refuses to let me throw her a party or buy her a gift.

All I want to do is thank her for all she’s done for me.

I may carry around fake IDs, but I’m celebrating my real birthday this weekend, and since it’s clear Taylor won’t give me her real birth date, I’ll just share mine with hers.

No way I’m waiting for January first to come around again to try to get her something.

She and I are never around each other around that time anyway—far too many opportunities abound around New Year’s—people drunk on hope and happiness or just plain liquor, vulnerable as hell.

We can’t waste that kind of precious time on each other.

But my twenty-first birthday is coming up and it’s time to celebrate.

This trip is the perfect chance to show her how much she means to me, so I’m getting her a gift too. She’s all I’ve got.

No matter how much I fantasize about reuniting with my mother, or finding a hot, dedicated guy who accepts all of me and wants to marry me, someone like the dude I read about in some book I regret reading—part of a stack someone moving out of an apartment building decided to leave behind—Taylor is all I’ve got, and perhaps all I’ll ever get.

I
t’s
midday as I reach Vegas, and I start wondering where Taylor booked us for the night as I ride to the Strip.

I long to stay in one of the fancier looking places like Aria or Bellagio, but Taylor will get us somewhere cheap and practical, I’m sure. Somewhere inconspicuous.

Inconspicuousness is pretty much always key.

Taylor told me to call her as soon as I got in, but she hasn’t been answering my calls and I hadn’t made plans outside of her. I was going to wait till we talked, then we’d split up or work together, but we were supposed to have a powwow first.

I finally just send her another text then start to wander the Strip like any other sightseeing tourist, knowing I won’t exactly get lost since I’m sticking to the boulevard, and the landmarks on it are pretty glaring.

I mean, can I really forget passing the metallic lion in front of MGM Grand? Can you miss the fake Eiffel Tower of the Paris hotel?

My eyes also scan the crowds out of habit.

So many easy targets here, I hardly know where to start!

A couple of guys with their wallets in stupid places here, a few women who neglected to close their bags all the way there…

I’m ramped up and ready to go in just about every way, and not because of the business cards featuring available women for sexy times just handed to me.

I left my apartment so early in the morning that my roommate was nowhere near getting up, so I left in disguise, and he was none the wiser.

I’m still in my chosen look now—brown wig with headband and bangs, dark brown contacts to cover my light eyes. I even added a few moles and a fake tattoo around one wrist.

L.A. is one of those places where it seems everyone and their dog has a tattoo somewhere so I’ve got a few handy.

Anyway, I look like a completely different person right now.

My roommate and I could have crossed paths as I exited the building and he wouldn’t have recognized me, despite knowing me for a few months.

It’s amazing what a change of hair and eye color can do.

I walk past a restaurant with outside seating and a couple suddenly catches my eye. I know the type—wealthy but casual about it. Between the body language and the small indicators of wealth, I refuse to ignore that nudge in my gut—the one that says,
here’s a valuable, easy mark; it’s worth the risk.

Although this is new territory, a plan starts to form immediately.

I’m glad I cooled my heels a bit—if what I have planned works, I can score big instead of a bunch of smaller hits.

I know it’s risky since all I know about Vegas is what I read on the net or watched on YouTube or in bootlegged movies and documentaries, but I think I know enough to pull this particular act off.

Plus I had plenty of time on the six-hour bus ride to figure a few things out. I researched Vegas even more on that ride—I rarely jump into something blind; some degree of casing is always necessary.

My quickie assessment: this older guy has money out the wazoo, a bit arrogant, probably feels he has the right to do whatever the fuck he wants, including having chicks on the side.

The woman with him is his wife, scored big marrying him, resigned to her filthy rich husband doing whatever—or whomever—he wants. No fairy tale kind of love going on here.

I have no doubt this guy takes mistresses, and his wife takes herself shopping often and drinks tons of wine.

She’s a bit more obvious about her status with that purse and that necklace, but even though he’s more plainly attired, he’s the one who really gave them away with that damned watch.

They’re chatting casually, but there’s a hell of a lot going on beneath the surface.

Either way, they are both sufficiently distracted, and it seems they’re almost done with their meal.

The server brings them their check and I whoop on the inside.

I better act fast.

I assess the dress code of the servers and improvise, then sweet-talk my way into using the restaurant’s bathroom.

Then I head for the couple.

“Can I grab this for you?” I offer as I slip up to them, indicating the check and the credit card while hoping my makeshift napkin-apron doesn’t fall off.

I’ve done this part before in L.A.

I walked around certain areas and noticed what the servers were wearing, particularly in the businesses that have an outside seating area.

I knew one well enough to slip inside, my true features disguised, fold a napkin over my all-black attire, just at the waist, and help out the couple I noticed were almost done, distracted a little by the argument they were having and trying to make it appear as if they weren’t having.

People give themselves away in so many ways, verbally, non-verbally—strained faces, folded arms, dirty shoes, expensive-looking watch…

There’s a slight nod as the couple continues talking to each other in deliberately even tones.

“And are you staying at the hotel? I can put this on your player’s card,” I say in my best server voice.

They sort of nod and wave me away.

I notice their ticket has a dessert on it which hasn’t arrived yet, so I know I still have a bit of time.

I take off with the cards, discreetly removing the napkin from my waist as I head to the cashier.

“Can I just pay now? I really have to go,” I say with a bit of whine in my voice, trying to look like I’m being as polite as I can while feeling impatient.

“Certainly,” he says, then runs the card.

I collect the receipts and cards and head straight to the hotel counter as fast as I can.

I pick the shortest line and it’s being headed by a plain girl with dirty blond hair pulled back into a bun.

“We need to add another room,” I tell her quietly, sliding her the cards.

“And some discretion needs to be involved,” I add, lowering my voice and giving her a pointed look. “So perhaps a different floor. Preferably facing the strip. I’m here as a guest of Mr. Bullock. And
only
Mr. Bullock,” I say with an edge, accenting my words with a slight toss of my hair as if I’m slowly ramping up my girly wiles to use later.

I can tell she’s trying not to look judgmental.

But she’s a professional and I can see her trying to work something out as she fixes her brown eyes on the screen, studying it intensely before relaxing a bit.

She says something reassuring to herself under her breath then looks back at me with a bright smile.

“Here are your cards, and here are the key cards for your room. Right beneath Mr. Bullock’s.”

Is she being a bit snarky? Whatever.

“Thank you,” I say like the unashamed fake mistress I am.

I’m guessing the booking won’t show up anywhere, at least nowhere Mr. Bullock can see, not yet anyway. He won’t know the hotel handed him another suite in time to do anything about it, and I get a free awesome room.

It’s perfect.

I hurry to return the receipts and cards to him before heading to my new room.

* * *

A
t times
, I still find myself thinking,
I can’t believe that worked
.

No matter how much I expect it to, or how many times a tactic worked before, when I take things up a notch in some way and it still works, I end up pretty damn impressed with myself.

I almost laugh like a lunatic when I get a load of the suite I got.

It’s huge as fuck—like, thousands of square feet, probably.

A fairly quick exploration reveals two large bedrooms with king-sized beds and flat screen TVs in each one, a full dining room and kitchen with a frickin’ dining table that could seat ten, two and a half bathrooms, hot tubs, a fully stocked bar area, a piano, a fireplace… I mean, what the fuck?

I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but when you actually see this shit up close it’s unbelievable what a different world some people live in.

I’m usually dancing for joy if I happen to rent a motel room where a roach doesn’t make an appearance for the night.

This extravagant bullshit helps to remind me that some of the people I pilfer from—well, they won’t miss what I’ve taken for a second.

I return to the lounge area, surveying the breadth and scope of the suite again.

Happy Birthday to me!

Chances are, if I’m wrong about the old couple and they’re more diligent than I thought, I can pull out my innocent ‘this is all a mixup’ wide-eyed act and fool anyone who checks up long enough to slip away.

I hop on the huge bed and hesitate briefly before figuring what the hell—might as well go for it all.

I order room service.

I kind of want to invite Taylor over, but part of me is enjoying the extended solitude.

Before I start partying it up with Taylor, it’s nice to have a quiet celebration for myself—sipping champagne, laying out on a soft, king-sized bed surrounded by creature comforts and luxuries, lazily flipping through the channels… I actually can’t think of a better birthday present to myself.

All that’s missing is some hottie warming my bed for a bit, someone who can work my body on this king-sized bed that I can kick out the next morning.

Instead, I get to work out a plan for my other goal—to reunite with my mom, whom I tracked down here.

She doesn’t know I’m coming, and I haven’t told Taylor about it, but I’m trying not to make a big deal about the whole thing; I basically just want to say hi.

I figure it’s been almost ten years, and I’m a grown woman now, so she’s free of any responsibilities.

But maybe she wants to know that I turned out okay.

Plus I’d like to refresh my memory of her face, her form, her scent.

I don’t remember when the details started fading away, but without seeing her and no photos of her left with me, she’s disappearing in a way, and I don’t want that to happen.

Abandonment aside, even just the memory of her, the recollection of her pretty blue eyes brings me comfort sometimes.

I know she exists, and she’s still alive, so I’m never totally alone.

I head for the bathroom, trying to decide between hitting the shower or the Jacuzzi first.

* * *

A
s I’m exiting
the bathroom with the dumbest smile on my face, wrapped only in a towel with damp hair cascading down my shoulders, I suddenly hear a knock on the door of the suite.

Practiced caution leads me to double check who’s there, and when I look through the peephole, it’s not some guy in a penguin suit with my lobster and shrimp and chocolate cake.

The agitated dude standing there is quite possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.

He’s tall with chiseled features and flashing green eyes, and a mouth hanging open a bit I’d love to cover with mine.

Instinct takes over, and though this hottie doesn’t look the least bit approachable in his grumpy state, unless he’s gay, I can distract him enough for my purposes.

He doesn’t look like he’s with law enforcement, so it’s time to turn that sexy frown upside down. Opportunity is literally knocking.

As far as I’m concerned, the angry hottie’s another surprise birthday gift.

Thank you, universe!

Maybe my mom wasn’t a complete loon about that visualization stuff.

I make sure I look as alluring as possible—not hard considering my attire or lack thereof—then I open the door with my most disarming, innocently seductive look.