Rock Star Billionaire

"Because you never do anything for the good of anyone but yourself, Sloan," I replied, watching her closely. She shifted slightly in her chair, but the smile stayed put.

"Do you really think that little of me, Jack?" she asked softly. "Do you really think that I'm the same girl I was fifteen years ago? That I haven't learned anything, or longed for anything, or wished that I'd handled things differently?"

"I don't know what your game is, Sloan, but I trust you as far as I can throw you," I said with a wry grin. She chuckled as she leaned back in the chair and crossed one long leg over the other. I felt the blood flow away from my brain as I recalled what those legs—and the rest of Sloan—had felt like in my hands.

"Jack, I swear, I'm just here to invite you out to dinner and to find out how you're doing," she said as she looked at me intently. She uncrossed her legs and shifted forward in the chair, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "That's it. I swear. No end game."

"I don't believe you," I said, eyeing her warily. "But you do have great taste in restaurants, so if you're picking up the bill, I'd be glad to join you."

"Excellent," she smiled as she stood up. "Blue Water Grill at eight tonight. Don't be late."

"It sounds like you were pretty sure I'd agree to dinner with you," I said as she headed for the door. I admired the way her hips swayed as she walked. Sloan certainly knew how to get a man's attention.

"Oh Jack," she smiled as she turned and caught me staring. "I know you so much better than you think I do, darling."

And with that, she was gone. I sat staring at the door for a long time, wondering if I'd made the right choice in agreeing to meet her for dinner. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if I changed my mind, I could always stand her up.

As I worked through the afternoon, I told myself I could cancel, but as I breathed in the lingering scent of her expensive perfume and recalled the way she'd looked sitting across the desk from me, I knew I wouldn't.

BAD BOY BILLIONAIRE VOLUME II

CHAPTER TWELVE

Leah

"Gram is off the charts today," Riley said as I walked through the door.

After my mishap with Jack, I'd spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the daily demands of the warehouse. By the time I climbed onto the bus that would take me home, I was whipped. I'd briefly considered taking a taxi, but when I'd checked my bank account, I realized that that luxury was one I couldn't afford.

"What's wrong with Gram?" I asked as I set the grocery bags down on the table and dropped my lunch bag into the sink.

"She's in her room playing Sinatra records again," Riley said as she rolled her eyes. "She's singing along with the sad songs and then crying when the record ends. It's crazy town in there, Leah."

"I'll go check," I said, eyeing the bags. "Can you get dinner started? It's taco night."

"Oooh, yeah!" Riley cheered as she dug into the bags and pulled out the ground beef I'd picked up. "I'll brown the beef!"

"Wear an apron, and don't forget to dump the grease in the can under the sink, not down the drain!" I called as I headed down the hallway to my mother's room. I could hear Sinatra crooning that it had been a very good year as I stood outside her door.

"Mama?" I said as I tapped on the door. "Mama, can I come in?"

"Get the hell away from me!" she yelled through the closed door. "I've got company!"

"Mama, it's the record player," I said as I turned the handle and found that the door was locked. "Mama, let me in, please?"

"Get the hell away from my door!" she shouted. I could hear movement on the other side of the door, and suddenly I felt a cold chill run through my veins as I imagined what she might be doing on the other side.

"Mama, please don't do this," I whispered as I listened to the sound of furniture being dragged across the bedroom floor. I imagined she was pushing it in front of the door in case someone tried to force their way in. "Mama, I'm making tacos for dinner. Why don't you come out and eat with Riley and me?"

"I don't want any of your dirty food!" she shouted at me. "Molly would never make such awful food! I want Molly!"

"I know, Mama," I said resting my head on the door. "I know. We all do."

Back in the kitchen, Riley was singing along with her iPod as she browned the meat and cut up the lettuce. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized that she hadn't heard anything my mother had yelled. She was a smart kid that way. She knew how to avoid conflict and not hear what she knew wasn't for her ears. It bothered me that she was so effective at tuning things out, and it made me a little worried about the effect that would have on her life later on, but for now, I decided to count my blessings and be thankful for the fact that she wouldn't ask me to explain.

Over dinner, Riley filled me in on all of the middle school drama and carefully recounted the way in which two girls in her class had countered the attempted slut-shaming of another girl.

"Slut-shaming? In seventh grade?" I asked, knowing full well that this was a time-honored method of keeping girls in line. The kids in the neighborhood, hell— the adults too, had used this on Molly, but she'd resisted the attempts and had marched to the beat of her own drum. I'd loved her for it and hated the kids who'd tried to shame her, but I'd kept quiet, fearing the wrath of the kids in my own class who were the younger siblings of the ones who taunted Molly.