Bad Billionaire (Bad Billionaires 1)

I’d seen that, too, on TV in prison. “So you were technically on TV before you were born,” I said.

“I was.” She smiled. “My one and only TV appearance. I don’t have the acting talent, but my sister Gwen does. She’s a natural.”

“She’s an actress?”

“No, she’s a strip-o-gram girl.” Olivia sighed, and her cheeks reddened. “We’ve tried to talk her out of it, Mom and me. She insists she likes it and the money is good.”

I drank my beer. “I didn’t know anyone still ordered strip-o-grams,” I said.

“They do. Birthdays, bachelor parties, retirements, that kind of thing. Gwen shows up, does a routine, strips, and leaves.”

I thought about that. I knew a few strippers, and none of them would say they liked their job, especially if they had other options. The sister was lying about that. I filed that away for later. “You don’t seem like an LA kind of woman,” I said.

She gave me a wry look. “I guess you would know.”

“Since I was born there, too, yeah, I’ve met a few.”

“I’ll admit I like it here better,” she said. “Especially the art galleries. This city has incredible art. Have you ever been to SFMOMA?”

I stared at her. I vaguely knew what that was—the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art—but going there had crossed my mind about as often as going to Venus. “No.”

“I go all the time,” she said. “You can’t see everything in just one visit. That’s what makes it so great. I practically live there on my days off.”

Jesus. I was out of my league with this woman. “I know who your mom is, but where is your dad?” I asked.

“He died right after Gwen was born. Car accident. He was an actor, too, but he never made it as big as Mom did. He was trying to break into movies, but he’d only ever gotten bit roles. He never had his chance.”

“Jesus, that’s shitty,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Olivia looked at the tattoo on my left hand. “That makes me think of him a little,” she said, indicating my ink. “My father never got enough time.” She looked at me, then sipped her wine again. “I think you understand that. Like you know someone who didn’t have enough time.”

She had no fucking idea how right she was. I’d promised her once, I remembered, that I would tell her what the tattoo meant. But I found that right now, in the moment, I couldn’t say it. It was too hard. It wasn’t personal to Olivia, either. I never talked about the real origin of my tattoo with anyone. Ever.

While I was figuring out what to say, the waiter came, and we gave our orders. When we were finished, I had some words ready. “This is a lesson I learned early,” I said, brushing my fingers over the back of my hand. “I grew up in LA too, but on the streets. I saw a lot of people die young. My father split, and my mother died when I was sixteen. My brother ran away after she died. I’ve always felt like life is an hourglass that is running out. I got this to remind myself not to waste time, to be ready.”

Our meals came, and Olivia looked steadily at me over her plate. “That’s a hard way to live,” she said.

“Is it?” I dug into my steak. It felt strange to know I could now afford a proper steak. Every day, if I wanted. I looked at my hand again. I had to remember that money didn’t matter when you were dead. “I don’t mean to be depressing. It’s just how I am. Most people never learn how to make the most of their time. It’s easy to forget. So I had it put on my hand, where I can see it, and not on my arm, where I can cover it up.”

She looked at me for so long I finally gave in. “What is it?” I asked her. “What did I say?”

Her cheeks flushed a little, but she looked me in the eye. “I just realized I’m going to sleep with you again.”

I put down my fork. Thank fucking God. “Good,” I said, keeping my voice even. “You’re going to like it.”

She took a breath, and then she pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes briefly and shaking her head. “I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it,” she said. “But it hasn’t been working, so I stopped. I already have an overnight bag in my car. I don’t know how you do this to me.”

It was my turn to look at her so long that she squirmed in her seat. “Finish your dinner,” I said at last, my voice rough, “and I’ll do plenty of things to you. You’ll see.”

Fifteen

Devon

We took my car from the restaurant, leaving hers there after she took her overnight bag.

She still didn’t have the full picture of how much I’d inherited, but as I crossed the bridge, the city fell away, and we drove to Diablo, she started to understand. I watched her look out the window, the elegant line of her neck, the dark curls resting against her skin. Neither of us said anything until I pulled into my driveway.

It had started to rain lightly, and she looked through the gloom at the house in front of us. “Devon,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “This is Diablo.”