Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(2)

It’s not the state of the penthouse carpet that has me worried. When I asked Chris earlier this week what type of party he was planning to have, he looked away before he answered.

“Just drinks,” he lied.

It won’t be just drinks.

“What are you going to do, Eli? Are you too much of a delicate flower to go through with this?”

“No,” I say, shooting him one of my “I can be as cool as you” looks. The tattoo artist makes a few more strokes on the design, and then it’s finished.

Chris is right. It looks cool as hell.

And maybe it’s lame, but I want to impress him.

“I’m doing it,” I say confidently.

Chris reaches out with his free arm and gives me a fist bump. “I knew you would.”

“It looks sick,” I say, as the tattoo artist wipes down Chris’s arm with rubbing alcohol and begins applying Vaseline to keep the new piece de resistance moist.

“You’re damn right it does,” Chris says, bending his neck down to get his first real look at it. “Just think, Eli. You’ll finally be edgy. How will the ladies resist?”





Chapter 1

Quinn





I’ve been in New York City for five minutes, and it’s already spitting on me.

Literally.

The moment I step out from the terminal into the taxi line, the heavy gray clouds that have been hanging ominously low over the city open up. The roof over the taxi stand isn’t worth a damn against the rain, which is being driven by a squally summer wind, and of course I’m not wearing a raincoat and I don’t have an umbrella.

The last thing I’m going to do is drag my oversized suitcase, stuffed with the clothes and books I couldn’t bear to leave behind in Colorado, onto a city bus.

All I want to do is get to my new apartment, but the city is not playing fair.

What a welcome.

I straighten my shoulders in a display of resilience. The one positive in this situation is that my traveling outfit consists of a black tank top and yoga pants, far better than the thin, pale pink t-shirt a woman three places ahead of me in line is wearing. She doesn’t have a raincoat, either.

The line inches forward, and finally it’s my turn to get into one of the waiting taxis.

I yank on the handle of the back door to the cab, only to discover that–of course–it sticks, and I narrowly avoid falling backward into the man waiting behind me in line. With another jerk on the door handle, it finally releases and the door opens on squeaky hinges. .

This has to be the most run-down cab in the entire city. A fine layer of grime seems to cover every available surface of the vehicle and it reeks of stale cigarettes. Country music blares from the front of the cab.

No problem, I reassure myself in my most upbeat mental voice. It’s only going to be half an hour.

I slide along the torn and patched back seat and wrestle my suitcase in beside me—there’s no way I’m going to deal with the trunk—and then I lean awkwardly over it to haul the door closed. It’s only when I look forward again that I notice the taxi driver leering at me in the rearview mirror.

Gritting my teeth, I give him a smile, my lips pressed together tightly.

“Where to, sweetheart?” he rasps, not turning to face me.

I had memorized the address of my new place—well, my friend Carolyn’s place—and I rattle it off to him, doing my best to sound as if it’s not my first time in New York City.

“Great,” says the driver in his raspy voice, as he steers the taxi away from the curb. “That’ll give us plenty of time to get to know one another.”

The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, but I’ve been traveling all day. I’m only half an hour away from my new apartment. I’d give this creep a piece of my mind, but I just don’t have it in me right now. Instead, I pull out my phone to scan through my social media accounts.

That doesn’t last long. It was terrible enough to find out that my fiancé, Derek, had been cheating on me for a year with my best friend. Former best friend. On top of that, now every time I open one of my social media apps, there’s another message from a well-meaning friend or rabid gossip hawk wanting to know what happened?!?!? You two always seemed so happy together.

I swallow the lump in my throat and open up the Maps app, watching the small blue dot representing the cab hurtle down the expressway at fifteen miles per hour over the posted speed limit.

The driver swerves the taxi into the opposite lane. The jolt throws me into the door next to me, and seconds later the red Ford Explorer he cut off speeds up alongside us, the driver red in the face and shaking his fist at us. My heart pounds. What the f*ck is wrong with this guy?

Now that we’re on I-495, there’s nowhere for me to get out.

The cabbie raises his middle finger at the driver of the Explorer and bursts forth a croaky guttural laugh. Then he glances back into the mirror to look at me.

“Enjoying the ride?”

“No,” I say flatly. I don’t necessarily want to antagonize this *, but with this kind of ride, I certainly will not be tipping him. “Please slow down.”

The driver taps the brakes abruptly, then lets out another cackle. “Sure thing, sweetie. I’ll slow down, and we can talk.”

“I’m not in the mood to talk,” I say, reaching over to my suitcase and tightening my grip on the handle. The second—and I mean the very instant—we’re in Manhattan, I’m bailing.