Dirty Money (Roughneck Billionaires 1)

“I like to think I’m the best influence,” I drawl.

Ivy just grins and undoes the buttons on her jacket, revealing a silky little top underneath. She fans herself and then pulls the jacket off . . . and I see Band-Aids and bruises covering the inside of each arm.

My arousal dies. The contentment I feel? Dies. Right in my fucking chest. “What happened?”

“Hmm?” She fans her face absently and then turns one of the air conditioner vents toward her.

“Your arms.”

“Oh.” The flustered look returns to her expression and she gestures at one Band-Aid. “This? I was just donating blood.”

“Again? In both arms?” I eye her. “How often are you giving blood?”

“It’s for a good cause,” she says defensively.

“Ivy, there ain’t no cause good enough for them to stick you like a voodoo doll. This why you keep fainting?” I grab the crushed bag of cookies that’s been forgotten between us and shove it at her. “Eat one of these before I lose my fucking shit.”

Ivy rolls her eyes and takes one of the broken cookies out of the bag, shoving it into her mouth and making a face at me. I don’t care if she’s pissy. I watch to make sure she eats every bite, and when she pops the last of it into her mouth, I hand over her drink and make sure she sips it. Maybe she’s got a family member that’s sick. Maybe that’s why she’s always so quiet and won’t tell me what’s going on. Maybe that’s why things are “complicated” and she doesn’t want to leave with me for the weekend.

Suddenly I feel like an ass. “Who’s dying?” I ask when she swallows.

The look she gives me is incredulous. “Dying? No one’s dying.”

“Then why are you giving so much fucking blood?”

“Why is it any of your business?”

I clench my jaw and stare out the window. There’s a guy rounding up shopping carts who gives us a weird look as he passes by, but I ignore him. Instead, I grab another cookie out of the bag and hand it to Ivy. She groans but takes it from me and begins to eat it. “It’s my business,” I say slowly, “because I care about you and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“That’s sweet, but I can take care of myself.”

I grab her arm and look at the gigantic bruise that’s growing under the Band-Aid, then look at her.

She yanks her arm out of my grip and scowls. “I’m serious, Boone. I don’t need anyone hovering over me to make sure that I’m fine. I—”

I snort. “That’s for damn sure. You don’t need anyone, it seems.”

“Excuse me for being independent.”

“There’s a difference between being independent and being a stubborn ass.”

“Oh, and you’d know?” she retorts. “Because I’m not seeing a lot of nuance between the two on your end.”

“I might be stubborn, but at least I share what I’m feeling.” I jerk the truck into gear and head out of the parking lot, cold fury in my brain. “And I guess that’s the big difference between me and you, Ivy. I want to be in your life, and you just keep pushing me away.”

She’s silent. Her arms are crossed and she’s quiet for so long that I think she’s quietly plotting how she’s going to chew my head off for the next round. “Are you taking me home?” she asks after a while.

“No.”

“No?” She seems surprised by that.

“Nothing’s changed,” I tell her. “Just because I don’t like how you push me away don’t mean anything’s changed. I’m still fuckin’ crazy about you, Ivy Smithfield, and I’ll be damned if I let you just go home to ignore me all over again for another week or month or however long you get it in your head.”

“So we’re still going to West Texas . . . ? For . . . your blow job?”

There’s a teasing note in her voice and I look over at her, skeptical. “Maybe just because I wanna spend the weekend with you.”

She’s got a soft little smile on her face. “Fair enough. Can we just agree to disagree on all the other stuff? Please?”

I hate that this is her avoiding confrontation again. I want to know what’s going on. I’m worried to hell and back about her, but there’s nothing I can do if she won’t tell me a thing. But I’m also a fool in love. “If that’ll make you happy.”

“It will.”

Ivy

My other client is all too happy to reschedule, even without the promise of a car. After that, there’s no excuse left to give, so it looks like I’m headed out with Boone for the weekend. I send my sister a note telling her I’m staying with a work friend, but I’m sure she’ll ask questions. I’ll figure something out before I get home. Until then . . . I’m with Boone.

As we drive west, the landscape flattens out until it looks as if we’ve left familiar Texas and somehow gone into the Texas of the movies, full of cactus, tumbleweeds, and endless dry, dusty roads. San Antonio is all buildings and color, and neither of those seem to apply the further west we head. “What’s the name of the place we’re headed to?” I ask.

“Big Lake. It’s a drillin’ town, not much to look at. Some fracking, some oil, lots of rigs. ’Bout three, three and a half hours west of San Antonio.” His hand is on my knee as he drives, and has been ever since we got in the cab. I think he just likes touching me. And really . . . I like him touching me, too.

“I thought most of your stuff was further west than that?”

“It is. I purchased up some property from an old friend who ran dry. Pretty sure I can squeeze a few more wells out of it. Ran my rods over the place and there’s still life there.”

“Your rods?”

“Dowsing rods.”

I look over at him. “Like . . . the little sticks that shake if you find water?”

“They point, and it works for oil as well as water.” He grins. “And I’m pretty good at it.”

“So it’s not just an old wives’ tale? It works?”

He nods slowly. “It’s how I find all my wells. I don’t let my boys drill without me picking the spot first. I used to do consulting, you know. Dowse for the competition. Now I just buy up all the adjoining land and milkshake ’em like the bastard I am.”

I don’t even know what milkshaking is. “I’m surprised you’re superstitious, Boone. You didn’t seem the type.”

“Oh, I ain’t as bad as some. I know some guys that put laxatives down the hole, convinced that works. And some get a preacher or any other sort of holy person to come and pray over their wells. Me, I just stick to the dowsing.”

I give my head a little shake, surprised by all this. “It’s just strange to me to hear a billionaire say that. What do your investors think?”

“Eh, I don’t really ask ’em.” He shrugs. “I don’t run my business like most do. I let my suits run the company and I do my thing. I know rigs, and drilling, and that’s what I stick to. I let the company do what it wants as long as it makes me money, and I meet with my suits to make sure they’re doing their jobs. Other than that . . .” He shrugs.

“You don’t want more control over your company?”

“Nah.”

“But . . .”

“What if it goes under?” He shrugs again and switches lanes. “I got my money tucked away. My brothers are investing in some other businesses. Clay’s got some camo technology business he’s big into right now, and Knox is looking at what to do with his shares. Oil goes bust all the time. Wells dry up. Oil prices drop. You make hay while the sun shines.”

It’s crazy to me that he’s so blasé about potentially losing a fortune. I can’t even imagine. I’ll eat an expired can of soup just because I can’t imagine tossing it out and wasting the money. We come from such different worlds, he and I, even though we have a lot of similarities.

But it just drives home to me that all this money he spends means nothing to him, and it’s everything to me.

We chat a bit back and forth as he drives, his hand remaining on my knee like a possessive brand. Even though I’ve lived in Texas all my life, I’ve never driven west, and it’s amazing to me how different things seem. Eventually there’s a little sign that says BIG LAKE, TEXAS and a motel. There’s a couple mom-and-pop diners, and then more of the strange skeletal metal contraptions that are the lifeline to the oil industry. It’s all so foreign.

Boone eventually takes a few turns down a gravel road, and then we pull up to a row of pickup trucks parked in front of a metal trailer. Off to one side is a rig, and I can see men moving on the platform. Two other men in hardhats are talking in front of the trailer. Both of them wear suits despite the heat, and look just as out of place as I feel.

“Here we go. You finish your cookies?” Boone asks as he parks the truck. “Or do you need to eat some more?”

“I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” I assure him, patting my stomach. The man bought practically a dozen and made me eat every single one over the last few hours. The plasma donations have been taking a lot out of me, but with the sugar and carbs, I’m feeling better.

He studies my face, as if making sure I look healthy enough, and then nods. He gets out of the truck, then comes to my side and opens the door, offering me a hand to help me out.

“I’m not dressed for this,” I chide him as my heels wobble in the dirt.

“I got some boots you can wear inside the trailer. We’ll get you a hardhat, too.” He tucks my hand in his arm and escorts me forward. “You look beautiful, anyhow.”

Do I? My hair’s a mess after our makeout session, my panties are still damp, and my suit is wrinkled from hours in the car. I probably don’t have a lick of makeup left on my face. I feel awkwardly out of place as he leads me toward the others. I can almost guess what they’re thinking as they eye me. Gold digger.