Revenge:An Alpha Billionaire Romance(3)

By: Lauren Landish

“So? That doesn't mean that I want to see it,” she says crossly. Andrea hates it when I call her Andi. She wrinkles her nose. “Besides, it's not that big.”

“Bullshit,” I brag, looking down. “I know your exes, Andrea. And none of them have what I've got.”

“What's that, an ego bigger than your dick?” she retorts. “Seriously Jackson, you can swing that meat around me all you want, but I'm not interested. Even if you weren't my half-brother, I would never be interested.”

“Riiight,” I reply, turning around to head for my room and giving her a nice view of my ass along the way. I'm not seriously interested in Andrea. Even if we weren't related, her personality really turns me off. We've butted heads for far too long. Still, it's fun to needle her every once in a while.

I shower in my own bathroom quickly before I start to get ready. Running my hand along my jaw and feeling the stubble there, I decide to shave a bit after all. A quick trim with my electric razor, some aftershave, and I'm good to go.

I go back out into my bedroom and start to get dressed. I throw on a pair of boxer briefs and decide on a moisture-wicking undershirt since the humidity here in New Orleans is no joke. After buttoning up a white dress shirt, I'm ready for my tux now. It's a Gucci with a shawl collar, but in a lighter fabric appropriate for the climate. I'm skipping a cummerbund today. I don't need that fussy bullshit. Plus, it's just more that some lucky girl will have to take off later tonight. I take the time to put on a silk bow tie though. That's definitely classier than some damn cummerbund.

I check my shoes and head out after slipping my billfold into my jacket pocket. I go downstairs and ring for Mike, my chauffeur. “Yo Mike, I'm ready.”

“And the young ladies, sir?” Mike's from Boston, so there's a hint of Southie in his speech, but he's actually been trained in England. It sounds impressive, but what it really means is that he has all the stuffiness you'd expect from a driver born and bred in London. He's worked for my family since I was in elementary school though, so I don't know why he won't just unclench his asshole around me already. “Are they not coming with us?” he asks politely.

“Oh, they came all right, but they’re not joining me this evening,” I reply. “Back to the Watering Hole.”

Mike frowns slightly, and I already know what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth. “Sir, I understand that you want some female... companionship for the evening, but do you really think it is wise to be picking up easy women from the Watering Hole? Think of your reputation, and that of your family's.”

I glare at Mike. My eyes have a tendency to change color when I'm pissed, and right now I'm sure they're an icy blue instead of the sexy sapphire I'm known for. “That'll be enough on that from you, Mike. You work for my family, and your job is to drive me around, not tell me what's wise and what isn't. I'm going back to the Watering Hole, then you're going to drive me to the charity event, and that's all there is to it. If you have a fucking problem with that, you can talk to Pops or Nathan.”

Mike presses his lips into a thin line, but he just nods before walking to the limo and opening the door for me. “And will Miss Andrea be joining you tonight, sir?” he asks dispassionately.

“She's taking a pass on this one,” I inform him as I get in. He shuts the door, and I watch him through the nearly opaque windows as he gets into the driver's seat. I wait until he's inside the limo, and then I deliberately engage the divider. I don't want to talk to him, and I sure as fuck don't need him telling me what to do. I sit back, trying to cool off a little. My family's reputation? What the fuck does Mike know about my family's reputation? On the surface, I'm sure we look great. We go to events like the one tonight, handing out charitable donations and glad-handing every motherfucker with a cause plus the sob story to go along with it.

But that's just our public face. It's all just an act. My father, Peter DeLaCoeur, has another side, a side I don't like. It's a side that... I don't want to deal with it right now. I never want to deal with it, but especially not now while I'm trying to have some fun. “Fuck this,” I say to myself. It's a party, and what's a party without the party favors?

I reach over to the little cubbyhole built into the wall of the limo, and pop the cover, taking out the contents within. Pops has his own favorites, specifically Colombian in nature, and I've had to be careful not to mix his shit with what I like. No way am I getting hooked on fucking coke.

But Special K and X? Ground up and sucked through a Benjamin into the nose, it'll brighten up any day. Best of all, it doesn't create physical dependency. I want it, but I don't need it. It's a small difference, but one that's important to me.