Lost (Bad Boys with Billions Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Found Excerpt

  Dedication

  Bad Boys with Billions Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Julie

  I’m dead.

  Withering at a dead-end job. Hiding from a dead marriage. Suffocating in a dead town.

  Maybe that’s why when I studied the scruffy-haired guy who’d just ordered a hot dog from me at the Wal-Mart snack bar, I’d sensed a connection. Because, honestly? As he sat in a far booth messing with his iPhone, waiting for his meal, he looked dead, too. Skin pale—like he’d spent the past year in a cave. Stubble too long to be on purpose. Jawline not quite square enough, nose not quite straight enough. Even his clothes weren’t quite right. His red plaid shirt hung too loose on his rangy frame. His ass could’ve earned bonus points, but even his jeans missed the mark.

  But then who am I to talk?

  Sporting my blue Wally World vest, two-day-old ponytail and a hairnet, I was hardly a great catch. Besides, I’d already been caught and have been paying for it every day since.

  Despite the guy’s faults, something about him kept luring my gaze from the roller grill to his broad shoulders. It had been forever since I’d been attracted to a guy on any level. To say that my husband had done a number on me would be the understatement of the century. He’d taken my wide-eyed belief in Happily Ever Afters that had been instilled by a lifetime of Disney and shredded me heart and soul. Now, there was nothing left.

  Except for the fear, I really do feel dead inside.

  Only, what doesn’t make sense is that this guy—this not even that hot of a guy sporting scruffy dirty-blond hair—has stirred some long-buried emotion inside me. Kind of like how outside, the brutal October wind skittered brown leaves clattering across the parking lot. For an all-too-brief moment, that wind lifted them to graceful flight, making them believe in a forever summer, only to ultimately, cruelly, slam them into the corners of the cart corral, where they’d lie forgotten and trampled until one day dissolving to dust.

  I’ve been to the circus and seen the strings. When—if—I was with a guy again, it would be on my terms. For damn sure, no emotion would be involved. I’d never again give a guy the chance—the privilege—of even visiting my innermost world.

  Needing this guy out of my snack bar, needing to rid myself of the voodoo his mere presence stirred inside, I focused on the roller grill, willing the sensor light to blink. When it finally did, I grabbed a paper food tray, then tonged his dog into a steamed bun, wishing my coworker and partner-in-crime, Willow, were there. She’d crack a dirty joke and instantly have me feeling better.

  “Thanks. Got any wasabi mustard?” he asked after I’d stepped out from behind the counter to set his food on the brown laminate table.

  Considering our locale of Rose Springs, Arkansas—aka, the middle of butt-fuck nowhere—I didn’t even try hiding a smile. “Seriously?”

  “A guy can hope.” He reddened, then shrugged before blasting me with an insanely slow, crooked white-toothed grin that played Frisbee with my stomach. And his eyes. How had I missed them in my earlier appraisal? They made me think of moss—the velvety, emerald-green kind that stays luxurious and serene through the most vicious winter.

  Those eyes . . .

  That lopsided grin . . .

  He made that Frisbee soar.

  And so I did something stupid for a girl who really needs her job. “The store stocks fancy mustard—you know, like Grey Poupon. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure.” He sipped from his Pepsi. Though for the record, he’d ordered Coke, which the snack bar doesn’t carry. Meaning I’d already let him down once. “Thanks. But you don’t have to go to any trouble.” He wagged a mustard packet. His hands were large and his nails well groomed for these parts, where most men work dirty jobs. “The regular stuff will be fine.”

  What if your smile makes me want to find fancy mustard? I couldn’t remember the last time a non-regular customer had even met my gaze, let alone considered whether or not he’d be causing me trouble. “Sit tight.” For some unfathomable reason—maybe something to do with the fact that now that I’d taken a better look, he wasn’t just attractive or hot, but downright mesmerizing—I flashed a shy grin of my own. “I’ll call in a favor.”

  Back behind the counter, I dialed the grocery department’s extension. Once I had Nathan on the line, I reminded him how many free scoops of neon nacho cheese I’d gifted him during my ten months on the job.

  “Fancy mustard’s on the way,” I soon said to my customer.

  “You’re awesome. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  While I stood wondering what to do with my hands, he fished his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a twenty, then offered it to me. “For this level of service, you deserve a great tip.”

  At first, I got all excited because with that much money I could afford milk, bread and the big package of all-beef bologna. But then my pride kicked in, reminding me that even though this guy’s offer had been kind, I now earned my own way. “You’re sweet, but we’re good.”

  “You sure?” His gaze narrowed. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have guessed he was appraising me, but then that would be silly. Why would he take so much as a second look? Back in the day, I’d been crowned Homecoming Queen and Miss Stonewall County. And everyone had told me I was pretty enough to be a model. And then I’d married a real live prince and he’d proceeded to use and abuse me in an unspeakable manner. And no one—not even my parents— had believed me. And ever since, I’d portrayed myself as being as ugly on the outside as I felt inside.

  Swallowing bile, then the black knot lurking at the back of my throat, I nodded, willing my pulse to slow. I was safe. All that was behind me. I was a whole state west of Blaine, and just as soon as I earned the money, I’d move even farther away. It had cost my engagement ring to purchase a new identity in a Memphis back alley. Worth every penny, and then some.

  Nathan arrived with the mustard. He wore roller skates and skidded to an impressive backward stop alongside me. “Here you go. You owe me a cherry ICEE when I’m off.”

  “Sure.” I clutched the plastic bottle, wishing, praying, to one day feel normal again. “Just bring your own cup. Mine are inventoried.”

/>   “Will do.” My dark-haired, brown-eyed friend appraised the lone customer, then me. Did he think we were together? Nathan had asked me out a couple of times, and I’d always gone, being sure to keep things casual. I liked having him as a friend but was afraid of making him mad—which only proved how messed up I truly am.

  As fast as Nathan had appeared, he was gone.

  “Do I get any of that?” The stranger nodded toward his mustard, jolting me from my thoughts.

  I looked at him and those serene, smiling eyes and for the first time in forever, felt the tiniest glimpse of the girl I used to be. Why? What was it about this stranger that made me want to at least try rejoining the world?

  “Please?” His gentle coax nudged me back to reality.

  I set his condiment on the table, then cautiously backed a safe distance away. “Sorry.”

  “Why are you apologizing?” He broke the safety seal. Used those big hands of his to squeeze twin dusty-gold lines on either side of his dog. In the process, a chunk of hair kept falling over his left eye. Grinning up at me, he blew it out of the way. He had no idea of how sexy his unattractiveness truly was. And those eyes. How easily I could lose myself in that verdant green.

  Then reality crashed down around me and I remembered to answer his question. “I don’t know.” Only, I did know why I’d apologized. The psych books I’d checked out of the library told me all about how naive I’d been, ignoring all the classic signs of being in an abusive relationship. Too bad identifying issues doesn’t necessarily change them.

  “Ma’am? I need two slices of pepperoni, three cherry ICEEs and a coffee.” It was Halloween, and a frazzled mom approached the counter with two rowdy kids. One wore a Spiderman costume and the other the Incredible Hulk. Hulk couldn’t have been much older than three, which was why his growls were cute as opposed to annoying.

  “Sure,” I said to my customer. To this guy I didn’t know, but strangely wanted to, I waved goodbye. “Duty calls.”

  He nodded. “I understand. Thanks again for the mustard.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The middle and elementary schools down the road must have let out, as an hour passed with a steady line of costume-wearing kids. Somewhere during a sticky flood of ICEEs and nachos and more Pepsis than I could count, my stranger left. And for some unfathomable reason, that made me sad.

  By the time nine rolled around, I was more than ready to close for the night. Though the manager preferred that I hold over the popcorn to use for the next day, I thought that was gross, so I discreetly scooped it into a trash bag, then wiped down the machine. By nine thirty, I’d cleaned everything else and was more than ready to retire to my shit-hole apartment.

  Funny thing was, though, as crappy as the place was with its lumpy furniture and constant reek of the neighbor’s fried onions, it was mine. No one hurt me. I got halfway decent sleep—I feared a full night’s rest would never again be part of my life—and best, since all utilities were paid, I could always leave the lights on. Never again would a man catch me in the dark. Bad things happened there.

  I tugged my thrift-store almost-white coat from my locker, slung my equally ratty purse over my shoulder—the Louis Vuitton that Blaine bought me on our Paris honeymoon had long ago been sold to pay my first month’s rent—then set off to wait for Willow, who, since I didn’t have a car, was usually kind enough to drive me home.

  “Boo!”

  “Jesus . . .” I’d just exited the storeroom when Willow jumped at me from alongside the swinging door. Evidently well into the Halloween spirit, she sported a neon-pink witch hat and a twist-top bottle of Mountain Dew that I suspected from her boozy smell was loaded with vodka. She knew nothing about my past, and now, I couldn’t quit shaking. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry. I was going for more of a sexy witch vibe than scary, but I suppose I could switch it up and be Stripper Strawberry Shortcake?”

  Though my pulse still raced, I couldn’t help but laugh. She always had that effect on me.

  “Does that smile mean you’re good with the stripper costume? You could be Stripper Smurfette. That way we’d match.”

  I linked my arm with hers and sighed. “Willow, my love, has anyone ever told you you’re a straight-up mess?”

  “All the time. I take it as a compliment.”

  After hitting the already picked-through costume aisle for Willow’s new look, we wound our way to the front of the store. I lacked the funding for playing dress-up but had plenty of time. Since she was my ride home, I waited with her in the checkout line.

  Outside, beneath the parking lot lights’ eerie orange glow, night carried the sort of damp cold that had always seeped inside me. An angry wind howled, abusing brittle leaves and pitching paper flotsam like a temper-fueled small child. While a heavyset guy struggled to gather strewn mail, a woman chased her runaway cart. In an odd pleasure/pain dichotomy, the haunting sweet scent of wood smoke rose above the mayhem, almost as if it were the wind’s mother, willing it to hush.

  The smoke reminded me of my nearly idyllic childhood. How the few nights my father had been home, if it was cold enough, he’d always built a cozy fire.

  Willow asked, “You hitting BJ’s with me tonight?”

  “Sounds fun, but my lack of cash presents a problem.”

  She sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, if you have good tits, you have free booze. Problem solved.”

  “Willow . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . You’re a good girl, flaunting what the good lord gave ya goes against your religion, blah, blah, blah.”

  “It’s not that, I just—”

  “No more excuses.” Willow used her keyless remote to pop the locks on the black Dodge Charger her boyfriend let her use. Since I’d never seen this boyfriend—only his gifts—I suspected the guy was more like a dirty old man who got his rocks off nightly with a supple young thing, then went home to his devoted wife. I liked Willow and had plenty of my own filthy secrets, so who was I to judge? “We’re running by my place to get you dolled up, then we’re drinking—and by drinking, I mean getting seriously fucked up.”

  I’m not sure what had gotten into me to go along with Willow’s plans, but by the time we hit BJ’s, she’d squeezed me into a red cocktail dress that showed far too much of everything. She’d piled my hair high, then, upon adding red devil horns, declared my costume complete.

  We’d pregamed with her cheap vodka, and though after what happened back in Tennessee, I usually don’t like losing control, tonight, with that stranger’s emerald gaze lingering in my mind’s eye, I craved escape more than ever.

  After a while, being dead was exhausting.

  The tricky thing about being dead is that as much as I’d like to believe myself wholly and completely numb, that wasn’t exactly true. Every time I took off my bra, what happened was still there. Every time I saw a family, I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents had even tried looking for me after I’d gone. The emerald-eyed guy had unwittingly dredged up everything. He’d served as the temperature conversion on my own personal black lake. Turning me over inside, bringing all the torment I’d so carefully shoved down bubbling to the surface. Only now, swimming through a lovely, ever-rising cheap vodka fog, with at least the presentable portion of my tits on display, my makeup fierce and hair properly teased and sprayed, I looked no different than any of the rest of the costume-wearing crowd.

  For this one night, I was no longer the scared woman-child Blaine had wanted me to be, but the empowered woman I strove to one day become. Wolf whistles trailed us into the smoky bar.

  A cover band blared Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”

  A biker type smacked my ass. It seemed only natural for me to spin on my borrowed heels to scold, “You can look, but don’t ever touch.”

  He raised his hands in surrender, then blew me a kiss. “I like a spicy bitch.”

  Willow tugged me by my right arm, “Eeww. Come on. The hotter guys are always back in the grunge r
oom.”

  BJ’s had once been a grocery store, but had since been converted into three adjoining bars, each recognizable by different music. Eighties hair bands took up the former checkout, bakery and deli sections. Then came a wall, punctuated with three sets of swinging doors. In the area that had once housed rows of canned goods, pet food, sugary kid cereal and tampons was where the honky-tonk crowd hung. Willow hustled me out of there. In the former stockroom was where we usually played on the few rare occasions Willow talked me into going out. The music ranged from Alice in Chains to Nirvana to Tool, and Willow was right—the guys were hotter.

  Not that I usually looked.

  I hadn’t come here for anything other than liquor-induced escape.

  At least that’s what I told myself.

  I wasn’t brave enough to look much deeper.

  “Watch and learn.” Willow turned to me, adjusting her push-up bra. “I expect to have a free Crown and Coke in my hands in three, two, one . . .”

  She left me to strut toward the bar. I should have been nervous on my own, but I honestly was too drunk to care.

  The hazy air throbbed with vintage Pearl Jam and for the longest time, I stood stone still on the edge of the fray, just taking it all in. Couples dancing. Couples laughing. Couples leaning their heads together for deep-mouthed kisses so primal I felt voyeuristic watching. And then I felt hungry, angry and frustrated by having no outlet for my own sexual needs other than squeezing my thighs together, willing my racing pulse to slow, willing the old nemesis away.

  Desire was no longer in my vocabulary.

  Unfortunately, the vodka said horny was.

  Needing more to drink, I found Willow. The target she’d found looked like an off-duty mechanic. He wore jeans and a dark blue shirt with a patch that read Tim.

  We exchanged pleasantries that grew more pleasant when he bought me three double shots of Skyy.

  Buckcherry wailed about a crazy bitch and the bass centered in my core. I became that bitch. Needed with every breath of my being to be her. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, I’d willingly return to my self-imposed coffin.

  Not needing a dance floor, I closed my eyes, waving my arms Mata Hari style over my head, swaying my ass, my full, aching breasts, all the parts of me I struggled on a daily basis to forget. And then he was there, my emerald-eyed stranger, slipping his hands around my waist in a way so perfect I couldn’t have dreamt it. A slow version of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” began to play. And I did hurt. Still hurt. Would always hurt. My eyes stung and my throat ached and when the stranger leaned in to kiss me, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.