Page 14 of The Bad Girl
Chapter 6
Maxwell
I nurse my second cup of coffee, wishing the woman asleep in my bed would get up and leave. She’s a six-foot-two goddess by the name of Amber that most men dream about waking up to. To me, she’s who I settled for after my date got cut short.
Thank GOD for Nadine. When she took over as my assistant, she took a spreadsheet of my conquests and made it into a database with filters that allow me to search for a woman that best fits my parameters. It’s my digitized ‘little black book.’
Last night, I plugged in my qualifiers: someone close by who doesn’t work weekends or require much notice, and voila! Amber Sanders popped up, and as I suspected, she was more than happy to take my mind off my many stressors.
Every time I hook up with a new woman, she goes into the ‘book.’ Every time I see a woman I’ve seen before, I update the ‘book’ with new details. It’s really helped me become efficient in my sexual endeavors.
I send Harry a message telling him to get up here and escort the lovely lady from the premises, which is part of his job description. I know it makes me look like a coward, but the truth of the matter is, if I’m rude, she could run to the tabloids. If my employee’s rude, well, there just isn’t much to tell. No one’s going to give two fucks that Harry Crummings was rude to a woman. His whole M.O. is being rude, and people eat it up. Once a video of him berating a coffee barista went viral, something that would murder most people’s reputation. Not Harry’s. He thrives on that type of behavior.
It takes Harry a good twenty minutes to make it to my penthouse, his red hair disheveled, and lacking a shirt. The unmistakable glint of glitter covers his body.
“Why must I always take out your trash?”
“Because I pay your rent, and if you get kicked out, you’ll probably get stuck making low-budget porn.”
“Fine, but I’m going to have a little fun with it,” he says, pulling a ring from his pocket.
“What are you doing with that?” I whisper.
“I’m going to slip it on your conquest’s finger, and let her draw her own conclusions.”
I roll my eyes. “Just bring in her breakfast and have my driver take her home.”
“Roger that, boss.” He takes the tray of food I have set out and heads for my bedroom.
I enter my private office and log in to my computer. I click on the Safari app to bring me to Google.
Google:Nadine Winters.
Up pops links to Nadine’s Linkedin, Facebook, and Instagram, which I quickly peruse.
Nothing in her profiles shows her wearing anything like what she had on last night. There wasn’t that much time between her leaving the office and her date, so it’s not like she could have gone shopping, so I wonder:Is Nadine living a double life?
It sounds insane. Aside from her questionable taste in men, Nadine is as straight and narrow as they come. The thought that she could lead a double life—unfathomable.
Or is it?
I dig deeper, looking for some indication that there’s more to her than what’s on the surface. There’s her volunteer work with various organizations, all noble but none scandalous. There’s also her book club, which was not at all impressed by me, which is kind of my fault. I reached out to the head of it, asking if she’d like me to pick and supply the next book, which she graciously and enthusiastically accepted—until I sent her twenty copies of one of the Letters to Penthouse. Nadine was furious, and Harry quite disappointed. He thinks I should have gone with Leather Daddies.
I scroll through her profile, going back years to her high school tenure, where she’s in a pod of teens that basically all dress the same, coordinating even their hairstyles.
There’s nothing that would suggest Nadine should have a skimpy leather skirt, fishnets, and thigh-highs as part of her wardrobe.
That’s not even the biggest mystery. When I happened upon her, she was being thrown from a bar. Furthering the mystery, she wasn’t drunk.
Why was Nadine getting kicked out of a bar? What was she doing?
A knock sounds on the door.
“Come in,” I call out.
A moment later, Harry waltzes through the door, a broad smile on his face. “She’s gone.”
“How’d your little joke go?”
