LUCAS (Billionaire Bastards, Book Two), page 1
LUCAS
(Billionaire Bastards, Book Two)
Ivy Carter
Favor Ford Publishing
Contents
NOTE
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LUCAS (Billionaire Bastards, Book Two) by Ivy Carter
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
Epilogue
Bonus Content: Cold (Book One) By Ella London
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Bonus Content: Cold (Book Two) By Ella London
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
NOTE
This edition of LUCAS contains the following free bonus content: COLD (Books One and Two) by Ella London.
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LUCAS (Billionaire Bastards, Book Two) by Ivy Carter
Chapter 1
Guys with neck tattoos are either scary badass or sexy as fuck.
This one is kind of both.
I’m mid trying to figure out if the sexy tattooed guy at the bar is a musician or an ex convict (maybe both?), when a familiar warm hand slides across my thigh.
“Cool it, Austin,” I say through grit teeth as I give him a hard elbow to his ribs.
He coughs out a laugh. “Christ, Eden. I never took you for the type that likes to play rough.”
I savor a sip of beer. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Like how Austin’s pretty boy looks do nothing for my libido, while the tattooed hottie at the bar has my stomach doing summersaults. That guy tilts his head to down the rest of his Bud, causing the scorpion at the base of his neck to stretch long and lean. Damn, that’s hot.
Austin straddles a chair and shuffles up to the table next to me, so close we’re practically touching. He cups his tumbler of scotch like a coffee mug and nudges me with his elbow. “Is it my cologne? Because the girl at the drug store convinced me Axe is the way to go.” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “We could take a shower.” He leans closer, the sour scent of alcohol permeating off his breath and through his pores. “That would get rid of the cologne smell, if that’s the problem.”
My gag reflex ignites. “You’re ridiculous.”
Ridiculous is the story of my life right now, which is how I ended up at a dive bar in downtown New York City with Austin, the director of ad sales for Rubberneckers, the e-mag I co-own with my friends, Liz and Marnie. Sadly, my attempt to blow off a little job stress steam tonight is rapidly turning into an episode of Survivor. If Austin doesn’t back off quick, “the island” won’t be the only thing he’s booted from—his job security hangs by a loose thread.
“You know my policy on inter-office dating,” I say, standing.
Austin gives me a wolfish grin. “Who said anything about dating?” His eyes land on my chest.
I snatch my empty beer glass off the table and shake my head. “Go home, Austin. You’re drunk.”
After weaving my way through the tables overflowing with baseball enthusiasts cheering on the Mets, I plunk down on the only empty bar stool—right next to the tattooed hot guy. Maybe Austin isn’t the only one who’s had too much to drink, because I could swear a current strong enough to electrocute me runs between us.
Tattoo guy turns his head toward me. Holy shit, are his eyes green.
Emerald, actually.
He stares at me a long beat—I’m sure time almost stands still—until his attention is pulled by a homerun play on the TV screen above the bar. I exhale hard, and smile nervously at the bartender who tops up my beer.
“On the house,” he says, with a wink.
I’m about to thank him when a thick finger aggressively taps my shoulder. Without turning, I calmly advise Austin to leave me the fuck alone—again. His hand moves to my hip. I jerk away, knocking my glass forward. Beer sloshes over the side and coats my fingers. I shake them off. Fucking hell.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I shove Austin away. “Seriously, dude. I’ve had enough.”
I’ve fielded his pathetic come-ons with forced diplomacy for almost two years, conceding that despite his ridiculous attempts to lure me to his bed, he’s damn good at his job. Best ad salesman in the city, to be frank. I’ve been patient. Kind. But my stress levels are off the charts tonight, and I’m tired of pissing around.
“Take the hint, buddy,” says the tattoo guy, without even looking away from the TV. He adjusts his ball cap and squares his broad shoulders, jaw tense. Well, hello knight in shining armor.
Austin ignores him and wedges between us, knocking his thigh up against my knee. His eyes are glossy and sweat beads across his forehead. Drunk as fuck. Damn it. Guys that can’t control their alcohol really grate on my nerves.
Austin’s lip curls into a snarl. “Why are you being such a skank anyway?”
I recoil at the blatant insult, narrowing my eyebrows. “You want to take that back, smart ass?”
Tattoo guy’s cheek twitches.
Austin sneers. “Oh, I’m just getting started, baby.” He licks his lips, pointing his gaze again on my breasts. “I don’t even know why I bothered with you.” He leans close, breath hot against my eardrum. “You’re not even pretty anymore.”
My hands tighten around the beer glass. I could end this now, just pick up my drink and toss it in his smug face, then walk right out the door. But the weight of a dozen or so eyes land on me, and in my peripheral vision, I catch the bartender inching toward one of the bouncers. Last thing I need tonight is a damn scene.
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” I seethe, under my breath.
Austin throws his head back and laughs. It’s low and malicious, sinking into my bones with a chill that ripples along my spine and makes me shiver. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.
Get up and leave, Eden.
“I thought maybe you’d had a boob job,” Austin says loudly, his words slurring. “But I guess that’s just a side effect of putting on so much weight.” I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering, silently begging Austin to quit while he’s ahead. Fat chance. He steamrolls on. “What’s wrong Boss Lady, lawsuit got you all stressed out?”
My entire body tenses.
The comment is a low blow, even if it’s true. With Rubberneckers soon to be on trial for libel, my nerves are shot. Ad sales have dropped, we’ve had to let most of the staff go, and lawyer costs are bleeding us dry. The lawsuit isn’t just draining the company, it’s syphoning from the very foundation of what once made us strong. There’s no oxygen left in the office, just the stifling air of tension, accusation, and fear.
So yeah, maybe I’ve watered it down with Coors Light and a few too many visits to Burger and Barrel. But at least I’m not curled up in the fetal position watching re-runs of Gilmore Girls. That’s more Marnie’s style.
“Get out of here, Austin,” I say, forcing my voice to remain even. I’m precariously close to tears, and fuck if I’ll let this douchebag see me cry. “Before you say anything else you can’t take back.”
Austin slides his empty glass across the counter. “My only regret is wasting time on a cock tease like you.”
Hot anger shoots through me but I don’t even have the chance to pull out my claws. It happens in a blur—tattoo guy leaps off his stool and stands over Austin, chest puffed out, the veins in his neck bulging into thick chords. He’s tall—at least over six feet—and his biceps bulge beneath his gray hoodie. He’s like the fucking Incredible Hulk, a towering hunk of tattooed muscle. His emerald eyes flash, and the next thing I know, he’s grabbing Austin by the scruff of his neck and lifting him up off the floor.
“Apologize to the lady,” tattoo guy says.
The low growl of his voice makes my blood hum.
People all around us stop to watch—whistling, hooting, banging on the tables. Across the room, two bouncers start making their way toward us.
Austin is unfazed, empowered by a shit ton of liquid courage. “Fuck her,” he says. He retracts his neck, bobs his head forward, and spits. A glob of thick saliva lands on my cheek. I wipe it clear with the back of my hand.
“Bad move, tough guy,” says my tattooed knight. He shoves Austin backwards into a table. Beer mugs and champagne flutes hit the floor and shatter. Red wine splays across the white tile like blood splatter.
Austin doesn’t move, but tattoo guy is fa r from finished with him. He yanks Austin upright by the tie and pummels him with a sharp uppercut. Austin’s face jerks left. Tattoo guy punches him again, a right hook to the jaw, and drops him on the floor.
A cut on Austin’s cheek oozes red. His lips are swollen, one eye is squinted shut. He’s going to be one hell of a hurting unit come morning.
I grip the edge of the barstool so tight my knuckles go white. I’m sure my eyes are bulged right out of my head. I don’t know whether to be shocked or scared.
Tattoo guy kicks Austin in the ribs once.
Twice.
Bile rises to my throat. Jesus Christ, he’s going to kill him.
I jump off the stool and grab tattoo guy by the arm, my fingers unable to penetrate into his thick muscle. He shrugs me loose and levels Austin with another kick. My purse goes flying across the room. The music cuts off, the bar goes eerily silent. Austin curls into himself with a low groan.
The crowd parts to allow the bouncers through and each of them grab one of tattoo guy’s arms. He shrugs free of their grip. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “I’m leaving.”
A hulking bouncer points at me, and then jerks him thumb backward. “You too. Out.”
I glance over my shoulder and offer the bartender a half-hearted shrug of apology. He nudges his chin toward the Exit.
Guess I won’t be showing my face around this place again.
I crouch down low to pick up my purse and sneer at Austin. “Don’t bother coming in tomorrow, asshole. You’re fired.”
Chapter 2
Tattoo guy is leaning up against a wall covered in graffiti, a cigarette dangling from between his lips when I step outside the bar. He shoves his hands inside his front jean pockets, giving off that whole James Dean vibe. My pulse kicks up a notch.
I wrap my arms around myself and rub my shoulders to ward off a chill. “Bit of overkill in there, maybe?”
A ghost of a smile curls his lip up. “Kid’s not dead, right?”
“He’ll survive.”
He takes a drag off his dart and blows smoke into the chilly air. My eyes are transfixed on his mouth, the way his lips pucker to breathe in, exhale. It might be the sexist thing I’ve ever fucking seen.
Chalk that up to more ridiculousness, because cigarette smoke usually makes me gag.
Tattoo guy nudges his chin. “Where’s your jacket?”
“I’m not cold.”
His eyes land on my chest. “Oh yeah?”
I glance down, realizing that the third button on my blouse has popped open. Half my bra is exposed, and beneath the thin lace, my nipples are hard as pebbles. A smear of Austin’s blood cuts across the silk material on my left breast. Damn it. The blouse is thrift shop chic, but with Rubberneckers on the verge of bankruptcy, every item in my closet has a coveted, irreplaceable spot.
“Cold water will get that out,” he says, deadpan.
“Thanks.” Jesus. Now I’m taking laundry advice from a guy that just pummeled one of my employees. My stomach twists. How the hell am I going to explain this to Liz and Marnie? With our luck, Austin will go straight to Labor Relations —and that is the last thing we need.
Cool air snakes under my collar, rocking my core with another icy shiver.
Tattoo guy tosses what’s left of his smoke on the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his shoe. Not running shoes. Leather. Real, by the looks of it. The street lamp doesn’t offer enough light for me to make out the label, but I’d peg it as designer.
Which doesn’t quite fit with the rest of his casual attire. Fitted jeans, New York Giants ball cap, faded gray sweatshirt that looks like it’s seen better days. He shrugs out of the hoodie and hands it to me. I stare at him, unmoving. Tattoo guy has on a Metallica concert T-shirt—curious, but that isn’t what’s left me speechless.
The scorpion neck tattoo is just one mark on a body that is lean, toned, and peppered with ink. A Chinese Foo Dog perches on a Bogota surrounded in lush greenery, and red, orange, and yellow flowers. The vines twist from his wrist, up to his bicep, where snake eyes peer out from behind his elbow, reptilian scales rippling into his sleeve. On his left arm, a black panther crouches ready to pounce at its prey, claws bared, jaw unhinged. A blue waterfall cascades onto his forearm and pools at the base of his wrist. More jungle of varying shades of green fill in every available part of his flesh.
“Impressive, right?”
My mouth goes dry. “I can’t even imagine what those tattoos must have cost.”
Which is probably the lamest thing I can say, but when your livelihood is under direct attack by an asshole that clearly has money to burn, financial stuff just…blurts out. Ridiculous. I am.
Ridiculous.
“Probably more than it should have to be honest,” he says, with the hint of a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
Funny, but seeing this guy nearly smile is way more exciting than watching one of those phony Wall Street types grin with their pearly whites every two seconds. It feels like an achievement to get an “almost” smile from sexy tattooed guy.
I peg him mid-twenties, but I’m shit with ages. He pushes the hoodie toward me again. “Here, put this on.”
I should go home, but my nerves are frayed, and for the first time in my life, I consider asking this guy for a smoke. My hands tremble as I reach for the sweatshirt instead, and I wrap it around my shoulders. I breathe in the scent of spiced cologne, so different from Austin’s cheap after-shave.
Tattoo guy shoves his hands back in his pockets, drawing my attention to his groin. I stare a little longer than I intend, imagining what’s behind that denim bulge. A lump forms at the back of my throat. I glance up, and realize I’ve been caught fantasizing. My face goes so hot, I’m sure steam rises from my cheeks.
Jesus, Eden, get a grip.
“I’m Lucas,” tattoo guy says, extending a hand.
My palm is slick with sweat. “Eden.”
Lucas nods. “Who was that jerk, anyway?”
I bite my lip, considering my response options. With Rubberneckers under public scrutiny, the less attention I draw to the company, the better. I opt for simplicity. “Obnoxious co-worker.”
Lucas snorts. “That’s the understatement of the century. If that clown worked for me, he’d be out on his ass.”
“Right now, he’s flat on his ass.” The low hum of guilt buzzes in my ears, a stark reminder that even though Austin was absolutely out of line tonight, stress has made our entire team—or what’s left of it—act of character. Which might explain why as I stand next to Lucas, my stomach flutters like there are a thousand butterflies inside it, chasing each other in tight circles. “But yeah, he’ll be gone tomorrow.”
The truth is, he might have been let go anyway, another casualty of the impending lawsuit. But now, he leaves without his dignity or a decent reference, which sucks. I swallow hard. We’re three employees down, already handicapped. Justified or not, losing Austin will further cripple us.
Lucas leans against the wall. “You need me to talk to your boss about what happened tonight?”
My lips twitch. “Worried he might not believe me otherwise?”
“It’s possible.” He shrugs, oblivious to my growing amusement about his assumptions. This kind of workplace misogyny has become old hat—most days it slides off me, but tonight I’m on edge and looking for a fight.
“I’ve got it under control.”
Lucas’s shoulders visibly slump, and I could swear I spot disappointment in his eyes. He’s clearly the kind of guy that gets a kick out of rescuing damsels in distress. I admit, it was fun at first, thrilling even, but now that the adrenaline has worn off, I’m not into the role play. So, I drive the point home with bite. “There won’t be a problem, because I am the boss.” Or, at least one of them.
Lucas blinks, obviously surprised, which just pisses me off more.
“You let your employees walk all over you like that?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Shitty business practice, if you ask me.”
“Which I didn’t,” I snap, full-on annoyed now. The guy might be hot as hell, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t fast-climbing the dick-o-meter. My pulse quickens.
