Page 2 of The Billionaire's Buy-In

The burly bouncer manning the front door has his arms crossed and a look on his bulldog face telling me he’s not buying my fake ID.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I throw up my hands in disgust.

There goes a hundred dollars, which I can’t afford to lose, down the drain. That’s the last time I buy a fake ID from a stoned hippy in the back of a pawnshop. The hippy guy better give me a damn refund, but it’s not like I can leave him a bad Yelp review.

Yep, that’s money I’m never getting back.

Because I’m underage, the ID was supposed to get me into one of the nicest nightclubs in New Orleans located in Chord’s Crossing Resort and Casino. The club caters to all the wealthy elite in the New Orleans area and visitors from around the country. And by nice, I mean the place has a hip, yet elegant vibe, not like the hole-in-the-wall dive bars located off Bourbon Street.

“Come on … pretty please?” I pout, trying a different tactic, batting my eyelashes and using my sweetest Southern drawl. “No one has to know but you and me,” I whisper seductively, trailing my hand across burly arms, stretching the seams of his too-tight t-shirt.

Why do guys wear shirts two sizes too small? Like we get it, you work out. You’re buff and scary, big guy.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises before I call security,” the giant guard says, with no expression. It's obvious he’s not going to budge. So, I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.

Now, I’m going to have to rely on my God-given assets because I’m a horrible flirt. Lord forbid he calls me on my bluff. No way would I actually mess around with this guy, but I’ve no problem leading him to believe I would.

Does that make me a bitch? Probably

“Surely, I can offer yousomethingyou want?” I purr, giving him my best sultry look and a glimpse of my rather fantastic cleavage. The low neckline of my nude body con club dress has a v-neck cut nearly to my waist, leaving little to the imagination. I came prepared to play the part of the flighty party girl tonight.

His eyes drift downward and his bullish expression softens. For a brief second, I think I’ve tempted him. Then, his earpiece makes a noise. Holding up one of his hands, he raises the other to his ear so he can hear what’s being said. He’s likely communicating with some eye-in-the-sky security watching us right now. I glance up nervously to see several black orbs in the ceiling with blinking red lights.

Oh, yeah. We’re definitely being watched. This isn’t good.

I’m guessing it’s that asshole, Chord Gallo, who owns the place. Surely he has better things to do than watch what must be hundreds of security cameras? But the man has been a pain in my ass ever since I met him, so I wouldn’t put it past him.

Part of me understands why he's upset with me. Maybe because I threatened to run a bogus expose piece on his precious resort a couple of months ago? I only threatened him because I needed information, but that’s a complicated story for another day. Let’s just say I wanted something from Chord and wasn’t above using blackmail to get it. I'll admit that trying to blackmail the most dangerous mafia kingpin in the city wasn’t my brightest idea.

Since then, he’s been watching me. Like really watching me. He shows up at the oddest times and places, as if he knows where I’m going to be and when. The man even has the nerve to send bossy messages, like reminding me I have class in the morning, so I shouldn’t stay out late. Or telling me I need to eat breakfast, and don’t forget to lock my doors before I go to bed.

Stay in your lane, asshat. I don’t need a fucking keeper.

He needs to get it through his thick head he isn’t my boss, my big brother, or my daddy, even though he does put out some serious daddy vibes. Maybe because he’s older and close friends with my bestie's husband, he thinks he needs to step in and monitor everything I do. According to social media, he’s thirty-six and comes from a mafia crime family, but he needs to know he doesn’t scare me like he does some people,

I only wish I wasn't so attracted to his commanding air of self-confidence and his pretty face. As if his ever-present five o’clock scruff; thick, black hair; high cheekbones and cool gray eyes aren’t enough; the man has tattoos which peek out from the cuffs of his expensive shirts, making women everywhere salivate. Most would give their left tit to see the man without his shirt on. The total package is sex on a stick, and I just wish I didn’t want his stick so badly.

Damn traitor vagina.

“I’m told you need to stay here, ma’am. Someone will come to escort you out,” the burly bouncer says as he resumes his position in front of the door, arms crossed.

The line of people waiting to be allowed through the door is now backing up behind me. The trendy “in” crowd and influencers are vying to get inside for that perfect social media post from the “it” place. I can feel their eyes staring at me and my face is flaming with embarrassment, knowing I look like a chastised teenager caught trying to sneak inside to play with the adults.

So much for flying under the radar tonight.

It’s important I get inside this club for research. Besides working part-time in a small retail clothing store, I’m freelancing for an online entertainment blog to pay the bills. Yesterday, they threw out a job available for a fluff piece on hot New Orleans' nightclubs, and I jumped on it out of desperation. As a poor, aspiring journalism major, I’m desperate to pay my rent this month. What better place to do my research for the article than Chord’s nightclub, where all the wealthy people come to play? I just need to get in and get out without encountering the sex-god himself.

Looking around, I know there’s no way I’m getting inside, and it looks as if they want me to stand here obediently, waiting for security to haul my ass off like some common criminal.

Fuck that.

Eyeballing the distance to the elevators, I’m pretty sure I could make it there and out the door by the time the security or the “pretend” police get here. I peer down the ornately decorated hall and, other than my large bouncer buddy and his coworker who is preoccupied with the line of club goers, there isn’t another security guard in sight. Decision made.

Spinning on my knock-off Louboutins, I bolt towards the elevators, catching the bouncer off guard. He grabs for my arm and misses as I sprint as fast as a short gal can in a skintight dress and four-inch heels. Lucky for me, the big guy isn’t quick. I’m way ahead of him.

Just as I reach the elevator, the doors slide open to reveal two men in bulky security uniforms, tactical belts, and combat boots. Every pocket on their vests bulge with gadgets or tools. The words “Chord’s Crossing Security” are sewn into the front of their uniform, and each man is even bigger than the massive bouncers at the club.

Holy shit. This just escalated real quick.

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