Page 36 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

Chapter Thirteen

Rafael

Snow is coming downthick and fast by the time I pull into the parking lot outside The Ponderosa. My head is still spinning from the realization that Alex was using me for a story.

My chest feels tight. My stomach is in knots, and I feel like clawing my way out of my skin.

If I hadn’t found her press pass on the floor, how long would she have gone without telling me the truth? Alex said she turned down the assignment, but why should I believe her? She’s been lying to me for days, and I had no fucking clue.

While I want to be angry with Alex for deceiving me, I’m furious with myself. I never should have let my guard down so easily. I shouldn’t have listened to my wolf.

I don’t have it in me to face my family, so I’ve been driving around for the last three hours. I figure ten a.m. is an acceptable time to start drinking, which is how I ended up here.

My wolf whines as I climb out of the Rover and clomp through the snow toward the old chalet. The building seems to have fallen into disrepair since the last time I was here. The corbels are rotting, and the deck could use staining, but The Ponderosa is still the most exclusive club in Aspen — maybe the most exclusive club in the country.

Being a billionaire is a prerequisite but not a guarantee that one will be invited to join. The club was founded as a retreat for billionaires who require discretion above all else. Most of the other members are shifters.

The scent of furniture polish and old money hits me the moment I walk in. The entryway is lined with dark wood paneling, and Hugo appears at the host station to greet me.

“Mr. Cabrera Garcia,” says the old man, offering a polite bow of his head. “Good to see you again.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Hugo,” I say, returning his greeting with a stiff smile and handing over my coat.

I make a beeline for the lounge, where a fire is roaring under the cherry-wood mantel. Overstuffed leather chairs are spaced around the room, and anemic winter sunlight trickles in through the stained-glass windows.

Garrett Von Horton is the only one here, and, by the looks of it, he’s making a valiant effort to be blackout drunk by noon.

“Ho-la,” Garrett mutters as I enter the lounge, purposely pronouncing the silent “H” and drawing out the word.

“Morning, Gringo.”

Garrett only spares me half an eye roll. If I’m being honest, Garrett Von Horton is the absolute last person I’d choose to have drinks with on any given day, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers when one starts drinking before brunch.

Garrett and his siblings inherited the Von Horton oil fortune, but Garrett has used his considerable wealth to become the most obnoxious douchebag on the planet.

I’ve honestly never been able to tell if Garrett is simply lazy, clinically depressed, or if he’s just a pretentious asshole who wants to see how far he can push people before someone kills him in a violent rage. The only reason that no one’s tried to kill him so far is that he’s alpha of the Burnt Mountain pack.

“What are you drinking?” I ask, slumping down in one of the chairs closest to the fire as Hugo comes to take my drink order.

Garrett takes a sip of his scotch and gives a satisfied hiss. “Macallan, nineteen twenty-six.”

I raise my eyebrows.

I’ve heard of the Macallan. It went for one point five million at Sotheby’s two years ago. I never heard who bought the stuff — likely not Garrett — but the billionaire with a death wish also has a bit of a gambling habit that allows him to hemorrhage money more quickly than if he was merely a drunk.

“May I offer you a drink?” Garrett asks, his good breeding getting the best of him despite his best efforts.

“Uh . . . sure,” I say, taken aback by his offer. Who could turn down a glass of hundred-year-old scotch?

Hugo appears at my elbow to pour me a glass, and I sneak a glance at the label. It certainly looks like a scotch from the twenties, with a line drawing of a woman on her knees and handwritten script along the label. A third of the bottle is already gone.

“No point drinking half,” Garrett slurs, as though he read my mind. “Reseal it, and a week later, it’ll taste like piss.”

I find that hard to believe, but who am I to argue? When I made my first eight figures, I indulged in some disgustingly expensive luxuries, but even I’ve never blown one point five million on a bottle of liquor.

I take a sip, blinking at the smooth taste and the delicious smoky notes of vanilla.

“Unctuous, no?”

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