Big Brother Billionaire (Part One) (2 page)

I flicked on the lights to my condo, wrestling with that idea. It was dark outside, but if there had been some light enough to see, I’d have a stunning view of the ocean. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the eastern portion of the sitting room, affording any guests I cared to host an incredible show come sunrise—or any time of the day, really.

I rarely had anyone in my home—not even Faith or Sol.

Fine wicker furniture dotted the floor, and the kitchen I never used was filled with state of the art appliances, all the best that money could buy.

I toed my shoes off and picked them up, padding across the cool concrete floor to the bedroom. I could spend all of my time in my bedroom and be perfectly happy, I’d decided a while ago. The bed was far too big for just me, and the closet was obnoxiously large. All the better to hold my wide collection of shoes and clothing.

Clothes were my passion, I guessed, if anyone would ever ask me what I was passionate about. I loved fashion, adored updating and organizing my wardrobe. I could probably go whole months without repeating outfits and shoes. My closet was my domain.

If I ever did have someone living here with me, though, he’d have to get his own closet. This was my space, and mine alone.

I expelled a breath in an exasperated laugh, carefully returning my heels to their designated cubbyhole.

I would never share my home with just anyone. There’d never been a man I’d been willing to take into my life like that, not ever.

Which was, of course, a lie.

There was a man, but only one.

And the only man I had ever loved, could ever love, was the only man I could never be with.

My stepbrother.

My eyes fell on a large black box on the very top shelf of the closet. I’d placed that box there on purpose. If I wanted it, I’d have to drag out a stepladder, which was located in the utility closet on the other side of the condo. I didn’t want that box to be convenient for me. If I were a stronger woman, I’d throw the thing out.

However, I wasn’t stronger. The strongest thing I could manage to do was make that box difficult to get to. I never forgot about it. I thought about its contents more than once a day. When I was here at home, it was almost a living, palpable presence.

I scowled, frown lines be damned, and flicked the closet light off. I needed a distraction in the worst way. I couldn’t do this tonight; I couldn’t wallow in the past, in the things that could never be.

I unzipped the back of my dress and let it pool at my feet, stepping out of it. I kept the stockings on—understanding the power of thigh-highs and a garter very well—and slipped into a black negligee. Relief from my torment was just a phone number away.

“Parker.”

“Armando.” I studied my reflection in my bathroom mirror, smudged a little more eyeliner on, and reapplied my red lipstick.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” His accent was so musical, but his words weren’t what I was most interested in.

“I think you know what,” I said, lowering the tone of my voice. “Are you available?”

“For you, Parker, I am always available,” he said. “Are you at your condo? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“So eager,” I said, knowing full well that I’d be rewarded in spades for how worked up I could get him by the time he arrived.

“Always, beautiful,” he said. “Always. I’m getting in the car now. Will you be ready for me—already wet, your legs spread?”

“Of course,” I said, continuing to play the game. “Should I leave the door unlocked for you? You can just come in and take me.”

“You tempt a man, Parker. I’ll be there. Ten minutes. Now let me focus on the road. You make it hard to drive.”

“I hope that’s not the only thing I’m making hard,” I said. I’d been playing this game for a long time now. I knew what to say to get the best reactions. I knew what I needed to do to take my mind off of impossible things.

“If you’re not careful, I’m not going to make it to you before I explode,” Armando warned.

“If you’re not fast, I won’t make it, either.” I, of course, meant that I’d probably drag the stupid ladder across the condo, get the box down, and lose myself to the past, but I could let Armando make his own assumptions as to my meaning.

“Wait for me, beautiful.”

He drove fast. He always drove fast for me, excited that I entrusted him with the task of getting me off whenever I requested it.

Part of me wished that I could be excited, too. Maybe there was a time when I did feel that emotion, did yearn for his touch, felt even a percentage of what this poor man must feel for me. It would’ve made me feel more human, but now I could barely pretend that I was passionate about this.

It was just an itch I had to scratch sometimes. That was all.

True to what we had agreed upon, I left the door unlocked. It was a gated community, and the guard at the entrance knew Armando by sight. One word from me and Armando would be banned from this place, forbidden from ever seeing me again. Sometimes, that was what I wanted—particularly when I was weak and saw him more than I wished I had to.

I used to have more men at my beck and call, but it had become more hassle than it was worth. Men needed more emotional attachment than they liked to admit, and there was only one man I could give my heart to. There wasn’t any left over for anyone else.

I reclined on the bed, wondering what it would be like to do this for my stepbrother, to play this game of attraction, to be passionate about the physicality of it, to look forward to the rush of orgasm and beyond, that post-coital bliss of resting in the arms of the man I loved more than myself, more than anything in the entire world.

I heard the door unlock, heard the footsteps across the concrete floor, and closed my eyes, imagining that it was my stepbrother coming for me, willing it to be so even as I knew it wasn’t. I smelled Armando’s cologne, as he entered the room and stopped by the bed.

“Hello, beautiful.”

If only he wouldn’t talk. Maybe I could make that a new game: that he simply drive over here, keep his mouth shut, help me get past my latest physical weakness, and simply leave.

“Take me,” I murmured, not opening my eyes.

It was the best and worst kind of thing, twisted and layered with so many conflicting emotions it was hard to keep them straight.

I didn’t want to have to need this physical release.

I wanted to be attracted to Armando emotionally.

I wanted it to be okay to desire my stepbrother like this.

I didn’t want to love my stepbrother anymore.

I inhaled sharply as he took my legs and parted them, sampling the wetness between them.

“Just as you promised,” Armando breathed.

“Stop talking.”

He slipped my panties down my legs, stopping at the knee to caress the newly revealed skin, before removing them completely. Those broad hands could be anybody’s, and tonight, I was choosing for them to be my stepbrother’s.

Those hands explored everywhere, darting up to stroke my cheek before creeping under the negligee I was quickly deeming a barrier to my pleasure. Fingers found my nipples, teasing them to hardness before traveling elsewhere, massaging my shoulders, tickling my thighs, touching me everywhere until I was a mewling mass of nerve endings—but always managing to miss that one crucial, throbbing area that demanded the most attention.

“Do it—now!” I snapped, mildly surprised that I still had the ability to speak.

The sound of a zipper going down was like music to my ears, and the feeling of the head pressing against me, asking permission to gain entrance, was a welcome sensation.

I could be patient. All shrewd businesspeople had to have that quality intact. However, in this very old dance, I could never be. I wanted what I wanted, when I wanted it, and there was no room for delayed gratification.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled for all I was worth, dragging the cock inside of my body, eliciting a sharp gasp that I matched with my own. Hands that had been previously exploring upon a whim took on new purpose, securing my waist, driving me down with an ever-growing pleasure.

I seized one of those hands and redirected it, pushing the pad of the thumb against my clit, circling that sensitive nub over and over again in rhythm with the thrusting, over and over and over until I was finally free of the confines of my body, out of the confusion and conflicts of my mind, flying on the wind of an explosion, only vaguely aware that the man who caused such an escape had joined me in that other place.

And that the man was not my stepbrother.

Too soon—always too soon—I drifted back downward. I settled back within the worries and distractions of myself, feeling sated but still hungry, knowing that I could never call myself fully satisfied—not when I couldn’t be with the man I loved.

The man I didn’t want to love.

“Damn, Parker, my beautiful girl.” Armando had settled on the bed beside me and was tracing patterns over my heaving belly with his fingers. If I had been in a better mood, it would’ve felt nice. Maybe it would’ve even built me back up for another round, seeking yet another escape.

As it was, though, I was more than done for the night. Sleep was going to be how I escaped for the few remaining hours until dawn.

“Please leave,” I said, hardly trusting my voice to speak.

Armando’s poorly concealed sigh and the way he pushed himself from my bed told me he was none too pleased with my decision, but he wouldn’t complain. If he complained, I’d never call him again. I was in control of this dalliance, not him. I was calling the shots—just like I called the shots in every aspect of my life.

I only wished I could tell myself to stop loving my stepbrother. Then, maybe, things wouldn’t be nearly as complicated.

The front door shut, and it struck me that I should get up and lock it behind Armando, but sleep was already beckoning me. If I got up from bed and walked around, it could desert me for the rest of the night. I couldn’t be awake tonight, not with the way I’d been feeling, not with that box in the closet.

I sank into slumber gratefully, eager to leave all those stupid emotions clambering for attention unnoticed for a few hours more.

Itch scratched.

Dear Parker,

I’m sorry that you didn’t get to come to the formal. I know what you saw, what the parents showed you. There was nothing there—nothing. She’s the daughter of some friends of my dad, and we were required to take a date. If you don’t do what they say here, it’s really bad. I just keep trying to put on a mask, just keep moving forward.

I know it seems like a long time until this is all over and past us, and that we can control our own destinies. Minutes are like hours to me. But I know that someday—even if it does seem like it will never come—we will be together.

Please don’t give up on us. Please write. I need you so much.

I love you.

There were mornings when I didn’t wake up with a clear head, when sleep hadn’t been my ally, when I’d lived in the past while dreaming all night and wanted nothing more than to lose myself in the box in the closet and shirk all of my duties for the day.

Thankfully, this wasn’t one of them.

Perhaps it was the momentary indulgence of letting myself believe that the tryst with Armando last night had really been with my stepbrother. Maybe I needed to throw myself that kind of a bone ever so often, just to keep myself sane.

I threw the negligee and the rest of the clothes I hadn’t had the strength to divest myself of before falling asleep into the hamper before showering.

I wished there was a way to wash my brain out, to give it the same scrubbing as I was giving every inch of my skin. That way, I could have some chance at dislodging my stepbrother and the feelings I harbored for him, the feelings that just couldn’t be.

I’d found that the best offense against my unwanted pining was to stay busy. Running a business was perfect for that. There were more than enough distractions owning and managing the club to keep me from my thoughts most of the time. It was just when I was here, at home, that I worried myself the most.

Hence the home office.

It had been a workout room when I’d first moved in. At least that’s what I’d planned for it. I was still making the transition between dancer and club owner, completely new and inexperienced to the idea of seeing the big picture of the running machine and understanding how to keep it chugging along.

The money I’d been making as a dancer was good enough to keep me in rent money—with enough left over to put some aside. I never really understood what I was saving up for, what was so important to not blow my hard-earned cash on some well-deserved shoes or purses or jewelry, like the other girls did.

Maybe I was saving up for the idea that, one day, I’d be with my stepbrother.

But it all finally made sense to me when the opportunity to buy the club outright arose.

I’d saved enough money at that point to make a reasonable offer, to promise to “keep it in the family,” in a way, from a man who was burned out and tired of managing a club that was starting to take more than it gave.

Jake probably saw my offer more as a life preserver thrown his way, as he was drowning in debt from a nasty cocaine addiction and other shortcomings. I’d always sort of wondered if he really just saw the money that came from selling the club as funds for a weeklong binge, going out in a blaze of glory.

I didn’t feel responsible for him, or for his inevitable demise. He was a grown man, in charge of his own destiny, even if drugs had taken the wheel a long time ago.

However, he accepted my offer, leaving me with a building that was falling down, a gaggle of uninterested and aloof girls, and a clientele that more often than not deserved the police presence that had taken up shop in the parking lot in anticipation of the fights that broke out every night around closing time.

In short, I had my work cut out for me, and I doubted myself the entire time.

Maybe Jake had been right to cut his losses and flee. Some customers only came in to try and sell drugs to the dancers, and the DJ was running a prostitution ring on the side. Many of the girls only showed up as a guise for the real money they were making behind closed doors, in the private dance room.

I danced to pay rent on my apartment and the club, but I was excited for the distraction, ignoring the fact that I was barely keeping my head above water after a nasty failed relationship and my ongoing turmoil with my stepbrother. Whenever I danced, I called it the “owner’s special.” It wasn’t anything particularly special—just me dancing as I normally did—but the name meant something to the customers. I even added a tie to my costume to make it a little kinkier and make them think they were getting something they couldn’t get anywhere else.

But when the health department cracked down and I discovered just how far away the club was from being up to code, things started to fall apart very quickly, and my dream swiftly became a nightmare.

I had to hire myriad contractors to fix everything from leaky ceilings to handicap accessibility issues. I borrowed money from any lender who would give it to me. When that failed, I moved out of my apartment and into the office in the club, using the dressing rooms and bathrooms as my own facilities, ordering takeout whenever I had the money to eat—which wasn’t very often.

Amid all of this, I knew that one slipup would bring the cops stationed just outside storming inside to break up the prostitution ring. That would shut this place down for good. When I was investing so much time, effort, and money into this club, I wasn’t about to see it fail because of one douchebag with a microphone and a boner.

One night, I stalked up to the DJ booth and yanked the headphones off of him, keeping my cringe at his greasy hair inward and putting on my very best scowl.

“What the fuck are you doing, Parker?” he demanded.

“Get out of here,” I told him. “You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“You’re running a prostitution ring,” I said. “That’s illegal.”

“That’s how all the girls make their money,” he said. “You could always get in on it, too, you know. You wouldn’t have to live here.”

The idea of having sex for money was distasteful for me. I didn’t want to get wrapped up in that no matter how much I could use the money.

“I don’t care,” I said. “It’s against the law. I don’t care what Jake used to let you do. I’m the owner now. I’m in charge, and you’re fired. Get the hell out, or I’ll get the cops to escort you out. Maybe I’ll even let them know that you’re a shitty little pimp. You’d spend at least one night in jail. You could make some new friends.”

I thought I’d shocked the asshole into silence and submission, but he only threw his head back and laughed.

“Fine, Parker. I’ll go,” he said. “But you have no idea what you’ve done.”

I thought it was a lame attempt at a death threat, or some kind of promise of retribution, and I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. I could deal with threats. I was cleaning vermin out of my house. I needed to expect the risk that I could get bitten.

However, I didn’t expect him to start packing up the DJ equipment, the bank of CDs, and even the lighting equipment.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, seizing his arm. “Those aren’t yours.”

“Guess again, bitch,” he said gleefully. “When Jake hired me, I came with all my own equipment. I was a bargain, really. Now that you’re firing me, you don’t have music, lights, or any sound equipment.”

He probably thought that I’d beg him to stay on, but I wasn’t the type to get on my knees for anything or anyone. I watched calmly as he unplugged the music right in the middle of a dancer’s routine, watched as the customers squawked with displeasure, then started whistling and booing, as the dancer threw her hands up in the air and stalked offstage.

“Last chance, Parker,” the DJ purred.

“For you to get the fuck out before I sic a bouncer on you, yes,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt. What was I doing? I’d just hamstrung the entire operation.

I watched the DJ leave; everyone did, disbelieving. It took the asshole three whole trips to haul all of his equipment out, and the DJ booth looked shockingly small.

“People are asking for their tabs,” a waitress informed me, as I tried to walk slowly to the office, as if I had all of this planned out.

“Give them their tabs, then,” I said coolly. “But they’re going to miss out on one of the most exciting things this club has ever done.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, following me into the office, as I turned the lights on in what had become my living quarters and glanced around in what I hoped was an appraising way rather than a desperate one. “There isn’t a DJ anymore.”

“Anyone can be a DJ,” I scoffed. There. A crappy little boom box that wasn’t nice enough to pawn. Jake had left it behind when he packed up anything of value and left.

“But there’s no sound, no lights, no music.”

“Don’t you have tables to wait on?” I finally snapped, turning on the poor girl. She fled, but I hadn’t had a good reason to be mean to her. She’d been the voice of reason, after all. I was the one who was delusional.

“Yo, what gives?” a customer complained, as I passed by the table, boom box in tow. “Where’s the music? Where’s the girls?”

“It’s going to be worth the wait,” I said, not knowing what the hell I was talking about, why these words were coming out of my mouth. “You’ll see.”

I plugged the boom box into an outlet up in the DJ booth and turned the speakers outward, toward the rest of the club. The display lit up. Good. Maybe there was still someone out there taking pity on me.

“Can I have your attention, please,” I said, but the disillusioned din of unsatisfied customers didn’t abate. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Can I please have your attention?!” This time, my words projected across the floor of the club, and people quieted down. “Up here! In the DJ booth!”

I didn’t have a microphone and didn’t have a spotlight, but there was a little fluorescent light mounted on the wall that the former DJ couldn’t take with him. I switched that on, just so the customers could see who was addressing them.

“I apologize for the technical difficulties,” I said, which at least earned me a ripple of laughter across the floor. Technical difficulties were an understatement. I’d just fired the DJ and lost all the sound and light equipment in the process.

“The show must go on, ladies and gentlemen,” I continued, making sure to keep my voice loud, clear, and calm—as if all of this was according to some master plan. “Now that I’ve resolved some creative differences with a staff member, I’d like to present you with a treat. Most of the dancers working here tonight pick a song and choreograph a dance to go with the music. That gives you, the customer, a polished piece of entertainment. The dancers do such a nice job, don’t they?”

There were whoops and scattered applause, and no one was rising to leave. A tiny amount of hope blossomed in my chest. Maybe I could really pull this off. I was flying by the seat of my pantyhose, of course, but something good had to eventually happen, didn’t it? Statistically, I was more than due some good luck.

“But I have a surprise challenge for all of the dancers tonight.” Several of them were poking their heads out of the dressing room and the private dance area, eyeing me with distrust. I wondered who was going to support me on this, and really, if I would get any support at all.

“The only equipment I have up here in this booth is the boom box you see before you,” I said, pointing at the device in question. “The challenge is that there won’t be any requests. We’ll still be going in order, but the music will be completely random—whatever the Top Forty station is playing tonight. The dancers’ challenge will be to dance completely free from a choreographed routine, to let the music move them and come up with a fresh performance for all of you here tonight. How does that sound, ladies and gentlemen? Something never done before. Something never seen before. Lucky, lucky, lucky you.”

The customers erupted in enthusiastic cheers, but several of the dancers looked disgusted—at least I thought that’s what the slumped shoulders and shaking heads were conveying from up here. It was hard to tell.

“This challenge will have a winner at the end of the night!” I shouted suddenly, quelling the cheers and retaking the floor. “This will be judged by your applause at the end of each performance, so don’t be shy if you see something you like.”

“What does the winner get?” a dancer hollered from the private dance room. It was a fair question, but one I didn’t have the answer to. I didn’t have prizes just sitting around.

“A cash prize!” I answered, to shocked cheers from the girls. I couldn’t spare the cash. I really couldn’t, not when I was faced with replacing all of the expensive equipment that the DJ had taken with him. There were still repairs that had to be completed, paychecks to be cut, and the very small fact that I was too poor to afford an apartment. But I had to do something if I wanted this place to earn any money at all tonight. I couldn’t just give up.

“Just to show I’m a good sport,” I said, adjusting the scanner on the boom box to the radio station that played the latest hits, “I’ll be first up.” Maybe it wasn’t fair for me to compete. I was always a customer favorite. But if I were the winner, I wouldn’t have to pay out a cash prize. I could put whatever funds were going toward the prize to some new DJ equipment instead.