The Billionaire and the Con Artist: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Girls Series Book 1) (6 page)

* * *

D
epending on my mood
, I’ll go for a private or public playing spot, and I opted for a public spot this time.

Not surprisingly, it’s not long before feminine attentions are concentrated in my direction.

I can feel eyes on me as sure as a warm touch.

Sheer force of habit means I smile when my eyes happen to catch predatory feminine ones boring into me, but once they get bolder and start to approach me, I find myself brushing them off, cutting off eye contact definitively. 

Once I’m forced to awkwardly brush off a few, I stop encouraging them altogether, avoiding eyes whenever I can.

This is strange.

I figure the only thing making me do this is knowing I have Jewel nearby. It’s as if I want to make sure she doesn’t catch me flirting; I don’t want to upset her and jeopardize this thing we’ve started, whatever it is we’ve got going.

I know she felt it just as much as I did, and if we have a shot at something long term, I don’t want to fuck up out of the gate.

I’ve done that before.

I always considered flirting harmless until it got me in trouble with a serious girlfriend I had a few years back. She made her feelings about it pretty clear to me, but I ignored her, and then one day, a girl I had a longtime flirty dynamic with decided to kiss me.

It caught me sort of by surprise, and once my girlfriend found out, she never trusted me again and we broke up shortly after. She didn’t believe it wasn’t what I had been going for all along, and the girl who kissed me, well, she figured, that’s what I wanted. I couldn’t blame either of them. Apparently, flirting isn’t so harmless once it goes on longer than one or two times.

Soon, my laser focus takes over, and it’s only after a few successful rounds that I realize I’m now flanked by two incredibly hot chicks, their perfumes punching me in the face while they bask in my glory, hoping to get a chance to help me spend my winnings.

I let them hang there since I still have an image to maintain with my buds, but I don’t really acknowledge them at all. I just go with it—the general goodwill in the atmosphere, the dedication to having as much fun as possible.

Even if Jewel were to come down, she seems pretty good at reading body language; I’m sure she’d be able to tell I’m not into them.

She’d see the whole scene for what it is—that the ladies are simply part of a picture-perfect Vegas frame, a freeze-frame capture designed to mislead.

Like the family photo still sitting on my mom’s mantle.

It’s our final family photo, way outdated but probably never to be replaced since so many of the parts present then are missing now.

There we are, all four of us, my mom and dad looking like a perfect couple despite my dad’s countless affairs—but you can’t see those in the picture.

My mom looks happy, healthy, perfectly sane—not depressed and suicidal at all.

And my dad looks content—like he has everything he wants: a lovely wife and two strapping sons. Not like he has another family elsewhere he’d rather be with more than anything.

And then there’s my brother and me.

We’re all in shades of red as my mother insisted—she picked a different color each year up to that point for us to coordinate our outfits.

It was a compromise—we could wear whatever we wanted as long as it was on the spectrum of whatever color she’d chosen.

This time, that red was almost like foreshadowing.

Women usually choose less bloody methods to take themselves out, like poisoning or suffocation, sitting in a closed garage with the car on, or taking too many pills. Even hanging.

Not my mom—she went out in a splatter of glory.

So here I am on a picture-perfect Vegas sight. A young risk-taker flanked by gorgeous interested women, hoping to be chosen as a prize. Living the life, happy and carefree.

We all make a beautifully deceptive sight.

I’m in what appears to be an engaged, supportive room hoping for the odds to be in my favor, when in actuality, I’m a billionaire playing for cash I don’t need, surrounded by people waiting to pick at my flesh.

* * *

A
fter a few solid rounds
, I have to pretty much physically disentangle myself from those broads when it’s time to leave.

I’m gently removing feminine hands with slender fingers that have found my chest when I hear Pete say, "Giving up already?”

I have to quell a brief wave of resentment and remind myself he doesn’t know—neither Scott nor Pete knows about my brother yet—we haven’t gotten that close.

I told them I’m an only child, that both my parents are dead.

Half-lies. Or half-truths. However you want to look at it.

Only Nate knows the real deal, so he would never pressure me to continue, not even jokingly; in fact, he was against my first trip to the casinos after my brother’s disappearance.

But since then he has relaxed.

I don’t mind the ribbing from the clueless new guys, but I’ve been sitting here for a while, and I actually made a lot of money this time around.

I certainly don’t need it, but just because I’m loaded doesn’t mean I throw it away needlessly either.

Though I still play with fire, knowing what happened to my older brother helps keep me in check.

I have fun with what I’ve got, but my brother was all the cautionary tale I needed, so I’m listening to that little voice telling me my luck’s run out in this spot for now, regardless of peer or pussy pressure.

Speaking of pussy, I let the easy lays next to me do their usual pouty schticks as they try to get me to stay and hang out or take things further, but I disentangle and toss them a chip as I head away from the table.

They’re slightly disappointed, but I’m sure they see the bright side of getting a handout without even having to give it up.

I’m happy to head back up to Jewel to celebrate my winnings and satisfy any other needs.

I find myself smiling as I make my way to our suite.

What a night this has turned out to be; I’m not sure how it can get any better.

I
examine
everything Axel left behind.

What a nitwit.

I can’t believe he left me in here with this stuff!

Just kidding—I can absolutely believe it. Men aren’t too smart once their cocks take over.

Axel thinks he fucked me so good I’ll be here waiting for more, trembling in anticipation of his return to ‘my’ room, my heart pounding.

Ha!

I won’t lie—the sex was amazing, and I actually do wish we could go for another round, but if there’s one rule of this game one must stick to, it’s to get out while you can, particularly when you sense the gig’s about to be up soon.

I could definitely milk him longer, so to speak, but it’s too risky to hang around longer in this borrowed room, especially since he has seen my real face.

I’ve had my fun—way more fun than I expected—and now it’s time to go.

I examine the watch I relieved him of as his clothes started coming off.

It looks promising as hell—pretty expensive.

I have no idea of its actual worth—never heard of the brand—but it’s definitely worth a lot; guys like him don’t wear just any watch.

Maybe Taylor will know more.

At some point, I’ll google it to get a better idea of its value so I don’t pawn it for too little; I don’t want to get jacked. Then again, I can’t put up too much of a fight—the less visible or memorable, the better. Either way, between the watch and a roll of Benjamins he had on him, I’m pretty set for a while.

I’ll have to disguise myself to hide my trail a bit—Axel already knows too much about me. He knows what I actually look like head to toe, my real hair color and length, my real eyes.

If Axel goes looking for his watch, some blonde won’t be dropping it off; I’ll probably throw on the red wig and shades for that trip. The longer I can stall the sucker with misdirections, the faster and further I can get away.

You know, I shouldn’t be so hard on Axel— poor guy had no chance against a pro.

He did what guys tend to do and let himself get swung by batting eyelashes.

Plus he let his guard down because he thought he was dealing with someone close to his level financially. Why would a rich girl rob him?

Guys are generally pretty easy anyway, even without an elaborate setup, like impersonating a rich girl.

When I bump into them, they’re usually more concerned about having almost bowled me over since I’m so tiny, and by the time I flash an apologetic “I’m such a klutz” endearing smile, they’re in a fog over the whole “Hey! A pretty girl collided into me and smiled at me like she didn’t mind I had to hold her up for a second!”

They never suspect their wallet’s gone until it’s far too late.

Even then, I doubt they suspect me at first.

I have what Taylor calls an innocent face.
Angelic,
she even said, but I’m pretty sure it was part of her buttering me up to work with her.

I realized she was right, though—I do have an innocent face. Child-like, even.

Sometimes I play it up since there are times coming off as a teenager is super beneficial, but for the most part, I use being legal to my advantage.

The best part about actually being of age and on the market is that I never have to go hungry.

The bad news is having to endure a date with some schmuck whenever I feel like eating more than cheap fast food or frozen dinners.

Every Friday night I treat myself to hearty steak or lobster or whatever I’m in the mood for that I refuse to pay for myself, and every Friday night, I’m pulling off the act of a girl who might be interested in a little more than dinner so I can chow down and have awesome doggy bags to take home.

I might even go on a second date with the guy, depending on what I’ve gathered.

There are guys who front like they can afford to provide dinners like that all the time, and there are guys who actually can.

Guess who I might even go home with?

There’s never a doubt my date wants me in bed—that’s the whole point—and if I sense I can get more from him by going home with him, I’ll do it. But usually not for the reason he wants; I’ve just decided I can get more from him faster, and the next time he wakes up, he might find some shit gone.

As I count the hundred dollar bills, it strikes me how lucky I really got.

I stuff Axel’s belongings into my bag, trying desperately to ignore the tiny pang of guilt shooting through me.

It hits me every now and then, but since Taylor scolded me about it the first time, I’ve become pretty good at hiding it, and these days, I don’t feel it as much.

But I was young and new the first time scored pretty big, and Taylor had to pause her celebration over what I’d obtained when she saw my face…

"
Y
ou’ve
gotta learn to rein that in," Taylor said.

"What?" I looked up, wondering what she was talking about.

She shook her head, her eyes roving my face.

"That too—you have to learn to control your facial expressions, April; I can see clearly you feel bad about robbing him. But you shouldn’t. It’s all about survival. In most cases, what you’ve done is exactly what they’d do if they were in your shoes. People just get to act all high and mighty when they’re charmed. When they don’t realize how good they’ve got it. They think because they haven’t been in your shoes, they have the right to judge your actions and reactions. But most people are shit, you know," she said. “They put up a good front, and everyone would like to think they’re a good person—some of those delusional dickwads actually believe it—but they’re not. If given the opportunity, the majority of people will screw you over because, in the end, everyone’s selfish. You have to be, in order to survive and get along. Nobody likes to own it, but it just is. One selfish decision after another leads everyone to where they are…”

I
feel fortified
as I remember her words, heroic even.

This is a victory for the poor and unlucky.

What I’m taking, it’s probably nothing to Axel—like flicking a penny into a wishing fountain.

People like him really make me sick.

How much does it cost to stay in this room? Is it really necessary for you to spend that much on a goddamned hotel room? Isn’t there some charity you can donate to?

I think about people I’ve met who have to think hard about how to get fed the next day, and I get even madder at his flaunted wealth.

People like Axel don’t like thinking about feeding the poor and are worried about entitlements, but man, the things they feel entitled to.

I bet his wealth is blood money. It usually is.

I zip up my bag, fully packed.

Once I’m all set, I grab my phone and give Taylor a ring.

She tells me she’s in the middle of a job but gives me the motel and name she’s checking in under, and we arrange to meet up later.

I double-check to make sure I’ve got everything, then take one last look around my surprise accommodations, a gift that kept on giving like some golden egg-laying goose.

I feel a small wave of sadness at having to leave it behind so soon, although better sooner than later. Staying here will only get riskier.

I also feel bad about leaving Axel behind—he was really good in bed. My body misses his hard cock already.

Plus, part of me wishes I could see his face once he realizes he’s been had.

Hey, look on the bright side, bud—at least you get your precious room!

I giggle at that.

What an adventure.

I can’t wait to tell Taylor.

As I head down Las Vegas boulevard, the Bellagio fountains grab my attention as one of the water shows start. 

The fountain show looks like a party—bright lights and confetti on my behalf.

The display is accompanied by one of my favorite songs—"Time to Say Goodbye" by Andrea Bocelli and Sara Brightman.

My mom got me into songs like that—she loved opera and she herself had a beautiful voice; it haunted me a long time after she left.

I pause a moment, a swell of emotion overtaking me as I let joy run through me over my successful first day.

Vegas has welcomed me beautifully with a buttload of cash off the bat, a sweet lay, and the promise of meeting my mother again.

What a birthday this is turning out to be.

For once in my life, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

* * *

I
t strikes
me for the first time how much older Taylor looks.

She’s only about ten years older than me—not that I’ve ever been able to confirm it—but something about her face has changed, it seems.

Guess it’s just stress.

If someone were to see us together as we sit here on this motel bed, they could take us for cousins, maybe, or a much older aunt. Maybe even my mom.

Not that we look anything alike in our natural state—her lips are thin, whereas mine are on the fuller side. My skin is smooth and blemish-free, and she has that scar on her cheek.

I have honey-blond hair and blue-gray eyes which can look either blue or gray at any given time, and her eyes are hazel. Her hair… I’m not actually sure what her natural hair color is, but she tends to go with red outside of the wigs, despite telling me blond is generally best to go with.

“You could go a little lighter,” she’d said, “but that’ll work. Plus you’re lucky you’re blue-eyed. That particular combination disarms most people. Don’t get me wrong—this combo works pretty well too,” she said, pointing to herself. “That is, before this happened, of course.” She frowned as her finger traced the scar on her cheek, which she told me she got while fighting off a sexual assault.

The guy hit her and happened to be wearing a ring that ripped through her face.

She says her suddenly-bleeding face gave her the opportunity to escape since it distracted her attacker momentarily.

She does her best to cover the scar with makeup, but anyone within a few feet of her can see it.

I sense bitterness from time to time about the blemish, which I can’t blame her for—it has made the hustling game a bit harder for her since she now has a very identifiable mark, but she still manages.

What am I saying?
Manages
is an understatement.

The thing is, just about everything can be turned into an opportunity.

She has an angle for the blemish now, and though she doesn’t exactly troll boulevards with a sob story and a cup, she has formed new characters to play.

I try to read Taylor’s face before she says anything and before she can mask how she really feels.

"How did it go?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Didn’t quite work out as I’d hoped, but when one door closes, another opens."

"Tell me about it. You won’t believe what just happened."

Her eyes quickly go from looking sort of distracted to arresting me with interest.

"Whatever it is, looks like good news," she says with a slight smile.

"The best. So I hit up this older couple, got their shit and end up in this huge hotel suite."

"That was dangerous. Way too high-profile, April."

"I know, but I didn’t plan to stay there long. Anyway, I’m hanging out when I get a knock, and, thinking it’s room service, I open it. It’s some guy who usually stays there apparently, and guess what—he’s super hot. So I fuck him because, why not? But also, he was ripe for the plucking—he’s obviously totally loaded. We made plans to ‘hang out again,’" I say with air quotes, "but, of course, I just took everything he left behind and got out of there. Some things, he didn’t even know he left behind,” I say with a grin, producing the watch.

I hold it up by my index finger, wiggling my eyebrows.

"Wow," Taylor says, eying it. "I wonder what it’s worth?"

"Me too. I was hoping you’d have an idea, but I’ll just google.”

"I’m impressed, April! You got hella lucky, but you maximized that luck. As for me, even with one plan falling through, I’ve still been cleaning up so far. We’re both killing it, and since your birthday will be here soon anyway, this definitely deserves a toast.”

She heads to a bottle of champagne and two glasses, pours them, and heads back.

She hands me one.

"Cheers," she says.

We clink our glasses together and both take a sip.

"So tell me more about this guy," she says. "You can’t leave out the best parts!"

I am only too happy to indulge.

First I describe his looks—his height, his build, and those muscles rippling beneath his casual clothes.

But then I find myself describing the richness of his voice, the way his smile lights up his face in a way that makes him look unbearably boyishly cute.

I don’t mention the way I trembled beneath his touch, the warmth that ran through me while looking into his eyes.

Eventually, I start feeling about drunk, and while this isn’t exactly my first time drinking, it usually takes more that what I’ve had for my brain to feel fuzzy, for me to feel dulled.

"Do you remember the first night we met?" Taylor suddenly says with sort of a sly look on her face.