Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2) Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover design: @ By Hang Le

  www.byhangle.com

  Photo: @ Sara Eirew

  www.saraeirew.com

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  www.champagneformats.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ALSO BY MEGHAN MARCH

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  I did it. I married a billionaire.

  My reasons are my own, but the last thing I expected was to feel owned. I may have taken vows, but I’m still determined to be me.

  Now his rules are taking over my world, but I’m not the kind of girl to just obey.

  There’s only one problem: I might actually be falling for him.

  I have no idea how this marriage is going to go, but holding on to a piece of myself while succumbing to his dirty pleasures is shaping up to be the ride of a lifetime.

  Dirty Pleasures is the second book in The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy and should be read following Dirty Billionaire. The story concludes in Dirty Together.

  It takes a fabulous team to coax a spark of an idea along the twisty and crazy path to becoming a finished novel, and I’m lucky to have an amazing one.

  Special thanks go out to:

  Angela Smith of Grey Ghost Author Services, LLC, my amazing PA and best friend. It’s been a wild and crazy ride, but this is only the beginning. I’m so proud of you and blessed to have you in my life.

  Angela Marshall Smith and Pam Berehulke, editors extraordinaire, for once again helping me deliver the best story I’m capable of writing.

  Chasity Jenkins-Patrick, kick-ass publicist, for talking me off more than one ledge and always pushing me in the right direction.

  Natasha Gentile, for being a fabulous beta reader. Love your messages, lady!

  Sara Eirew for shooting a fab cover pic, and By Hang Le for the absolutely gorgeous cover design.

  The Meghan March Runaway Readers Facebook group, for being the most fabulous collection of ladies I’ve had the pleasure of (virtually) meeting. Hope to hug you all at events soon!

  All the book bloggers who take the time to read and review this and any of my other books. Your time and dedication are truly appreciated.

  My readers—I’m infinitely grateful that you’ve picked up this book. Without you, I wouldn’t be living my dream.

  BILLIONAIRE’S BRIDE FLYING COACH?

  Holly Wix, newly married to billionaire Creighton Karas, was spotted on a commercial flight from NYC to Nashville, and our sources say she was flying coach. Is there trouble in paradise already? With a fleet of three Gulfstreams, you’d think the billionaire could have arranged a classier ride for his bride. We’ll be reporting back when we have more on the latest match to rock Music City.

  The cab ride to the airport took the rest of my cash, and I’m lucky that I’m getting paid next week, because the last-minute flight maxed out my own credit card. I left my new Amex Black Card on the kitchen counter of my new husband’s Fifth Avenue penthouse.

  Big sunglasses hide the circles under my eyes, and hopefully my identity. I thought I saw a guy on his phone staring at me a little too long, but I’m not worrying about it. I shouldn’t be that recognizable. This town is full of one-hit wonders, and I haven’t even had a chart-topping single yet. Plus, without all my stage makeup on and my hair in a messy braid, I just look like your average Midwestern girl.

  I stretch, trying to work out the knots in my back after sitting through the flight with my arms practically tucked around my body. My middle seat in coach put me right between two very large men who smelled strongly of garlic. I thought about writing, but I didn’t want to move, let alone get my notebook out and have them stare at what I was doing. So I kept myself immobile, which explains the knots in my back.

  Anyway, my thoughts were probably too jumbled to do anything more than massacre the song ideas I jotted down today while I waited for Creighton. I know I have a good one percolating, but it’s still just out of reach. I can’t find the right words quite yet, which might be to blame on my mental state.

  But the upside is I’m back in Nashville, and Tana’s Range Rover is idling at the curb when I step out of the sliding glass doors of the airport.

  The window slides down as she waves me over. “Get your ass in here before I get towed!”

  I smile, relieved to feel a little of my shitty mood slipping away. Opening the door, I slide inside.

  “Your luggage get lost?” She surveys the one small bag I shove down by my feet.

  “Nope. This is it.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, please God, tell me that he made you go naked and that’s why you have no clothes other than the ones you probably wore when you flew to New York on New Year’s Eve.”

  Tana was aware of every intimate detail of my trip, and disagreed with my choice to bring nothing but myself.

  I smile at her expression. “No naked rule. I just . . . felt like traveling light.”

  Her eyebrows fall back into their normal position and her smile slips into a frown. “Please don’t tell me this has something to do with your mom and her hooking up with every man in town and letting them pay her way.”

  And that’s the joy of having a friend who has plied you with enough wine to spill your whole life story. But in this instance, she’s not exactly right. The reasons I left New York are a lot bigger than that.

  “Tana—”

  “Damn it, Holly. I knew this was going to happen. I knew it.”

  I really don’t want to have this conversation now, because Tana will want to dissect not only what happened with Creighton, but why I’m acting the way I am. I’m too worried about missing the bus to play along while she psychoanalyzes my actions in light of what she knows about my past. I love her, but I just ca
n’t right now. So I tell her the truth.

  “Can we hold off on this conversation until I’m not on the edge of being late for a tour bus leaving? I really, really just want to get to my apartment and grab my stuff so I can get on the bus and forget about everything but the music.”

  “You’re not missing the friggin’ bus. I’ll get you home as quick as a cab would.” She gives me a side-eye. “But you’re gonna talk while I drive.”

  I sigh and stare straight ahead as she pulls away from the curb and waves to the security guy eyeing her car suspiciously. Her head jerks toward me before she focuses once again on navigating through airport traffic.

  “Talk, woman.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “That your husband knows exactly where you are, and you’re not a runaway bride.”

  “Har-har. I’m hardly a runaway bride. That requires running away before the vows, I think.”

  She cuts through my bullshit answer. “Does your husband know where you are?”

  I fix my stare on the red light as we slow. “I left a note.”

  “Which said?”

  I should have known Tana wouldn’t drop it. She’s a damn bulldog about getting the details. If she weren’t my closest and possibly only friend, I’d tell her to back off. But instead, I tell her the truth.

  “It said good-bye.” My reply is a mumble, because I know I’m about to get a verbal bitch-slapping.

  Her screech, which is oddly melodic, fills the cabin of the Range Rover. “Why would you do that? Did he hit you?”

  I swing my head to face her. “No! Of course not!” I can’t believe she’d even ask that.

  She glances back at me before her eyes go back to the road, and we accelerate. “So then, what happened? He’s a billionaire, so maybe he was into that kinky Christian Grey stuff? Did he have a Red Room of Pain? Oh my God, he did, didn’t he? Did he spank you? Bring out his riding crop? Shit. That’s hot.”

  I cover my face with my palm. I don’t even know where to start, but I have to say something or she’ll keep going. Her imagination is just getting fired up. And God knows I don’t want her to actually hit on the truth.

  But how do I answer that? He did spank me, and I loved it. And then the . . . other stuff. Kinky billionaire, indeed.

  “He didn’t get out a riding crop, and there was no Red Room of Pain.”

  Thankfully, the answer stops her tide of kinky questions.

  Shaking her head, she replies, “Well, that’s just damn disappointing. So, are you just crazy? Who walks out on a billionaire with a note that just says good-bye? Oh, and doesn’t bring anything with her? That’s evidence of crazy right there, if I’ve ever seen any.”

  I decide that the truth is all I can offer in my defense. “Look, you know I need to be on that bus or I’m screwed. I couldn’t wait any longer, so I did what I had to do.” I turn and look at her. “I did exactly what you would’ve done in my shoes—what was best for my career.”

  “I would’ve hitched a ride on a private jet, that’s what I would’ve done. Girl, you’ve gotta learn to use what you’ve been given to your best advantage.”

  Her words crack something open inside me and the truth spills out.

  “Well, I couldn’t exactly hop a ride on the private jet because he forgot about me.” At her look of shock, I continue. “Yeah, that’s right. My husband forgot about me. Told me when he’d be there, and he wasn’t. And not only was he not there, he didn’t answer my calls or texts, so finally I got through to his number-two guy and basically got the blow-off speech. So that’s what happened. End of story.”

  “Oh shit, honey. I’m sorry. That ain’t cool at all.” Sympathy coats her every word.

  “Well, it’s not like I’m the most important piece on the chessboard he calls an empire.”

  Tana looks at me sideways as we merge onto the highway. “But, honey, you’re his queen. I don’t know jack shit about chess, but is there a more important piece on the board to the king?”

  A sick feeling settles in my stomach. “I guess to Creighton, he’s the most important piece on the board, and everything else can be sacrificed for the good of the king.”

  Tana’s face falls. “I’m sorry, hon. That sucks big hairy balls. So I guess that means you’re not going to call him and let him know you made it, despite not having a fancy jet to fly on, huh?”

  I consider it again. I mean, if I were a real wife, I’d probably tell him I made it. But honestly, what are the odds that Creighton has even noticed I’m gone yet? He couldn’t step away for thirty seconds before.

  And then there’s the mulishly stubborn part of me holding on to some thin thread of hope that maybe Creighton will call me. And then what? Apologize for blowing me off? Tell me he misses me, and he’s on his way because he can’t stand to be away from me?

  Each possibility seems more unlikely than the last.

  Tana doesn’t ask any other questions as we navigate the traffic and finally pull up in front of my apartment. It’s a far cry from the giant mansion on a sprawling estate behind fancy gates like Tana lives in. But that’s life as a new kid on the block trying to make it big.

  My contract with Homegrown might have sounded impressive when I won the show Country Dreams, but “a million-dollar recording contract” doesn’t go very far when you consider how much it costs to produce an album. For the hours I put into practicing, writing, doing press, radio spots, and everything else, I barely make minimum wage. On top of that, my cut from concert ticket and album sales is laughable.

  Even though it was a rude awakening to find out exactly what I signed with such stars in my eyes, it doesn’t bother me as much as you might think. Most of the people I know who didn’t get into the business on one of those make-me-a-star TV shows lived in crappier accommodations for a time before they hit it big.

  Some even lived in their cars—provided they didn’t get repo’d. Jason Aldean’s song “Crazy Town” was based in truth. You just never know when or if you’re going to “make it.” You really could be losing everything one minute and then be getting a fat paycheck the next. It’s the game we’re all playing and hoping to win. There are no guarantees for any of us.

  “Thank you for the ride, babe. You know I appreciate it.”

  “Of course. You sure you don’t want me to stick around?”

  I shake my head. “I just need to grab a few things and find out where the bus is parked.” Glancing at the time on the dash, I realize I’ve got less than an hour. “I better get going.”

  “All right, hon. You break a leg on that stage, hear me? And when that man comes crawling back to you—because if he knows the kind of woman he’s got, he’ll be doing exactly that—give him a chance.”

  I swing my head to stare at her. “Give him a chance? I thought you were going to tell me to rip him a new asshole. Why—?”

  Tana’s blue eyes are sympathetic. “You’ve got a lot of mistrust built up because of your ma, and you have to realize you’re not her. Your life is what you make of it, and I’m still holding out some hope that this guy is worthy of you. Give him a chance to grovel. A man’s character has a tendency to get really fucking clear when he’s groveling because the best thing that ever happened to him is on the line.”

  I try to summon a smile, but I can’t quite do it. “I guess we’ll see if he comes groveling at all.” I lean over the center console to hug her. “See you soon.”

  “Knock ’em dead, hon,” Tana says as I slip out of the car.

  Hurrying, I adjust my purse over my shoulder and hustle up to my apartment. The first thing I see when I open my door is my old battered guitar case tucked under my coffee table.

  My first ever. I fried thousands of onion rings and tater tots in order to buy this guitar from Super Pawn. It took me almost a year to save up, and then when I finally had the cash in hand and went to the pawnshop, the owner offered me a disgusting back-office discount.

  Furious, I threw the bills on the counter
, not bothering to haggle, and told him to give me the damn guitar before I reported him to the cops for soliciting sex with a minor. It was so much less than what I wanted to do—namely, grab the baseball bat from behind the counter and swing it at his head. I left minutes later with my very first guitar and never looked back.

  A million years ago, it seems. Just look how much has changed.

  I’m halfway down the tiny hallway to my bedroom when my phone buzzes in my purse. Creighton is my first thought. My hand shakes as I dig inside to pull it out.

  My heart—my stupid heart—falls when I see the text is from my manager.

  Chance: Where the hell are you? You better be on your way. BT is almost ready to head out.

  Shit. I run into my bedroom and grab a suitcase from my closet, and stuff handfuls of underwear and bras in it. A few pairs of yoga pants and some T-shirts and jeans, and I’m pretty much packed.

  I reply to Chance.

  Holly: Just finished packing. On my way. Where’s the bus?

  Chance’s answer makes me cringe.

  Chance: At BT’s. I left your name at the gate.

  Double shit. BT is Boone Thrasher—the headliner of the tour I’m currently on. His place isn’t in one of those fancy neighborhoods behind a regular gate like Tana’s. No, he lives out in the boondocks where he can shoot skeet off his back porch, ride his dirt bikes on his own track, and his dogs can run wild and bark at everything in sight.

  If I’m going to get to his place on time, I’ll need every minute I’ve got. I’ve been there once before, when he invited me out to meet him before agreeing to have me on his tour. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be—in his words—some whiny-ass bitch who would make him miserable. We hit it off when I kicked his ass at bowling in his basement lane. You can take the girl out of the bowling alley . . .

  Time to get my ass in gear and hustle, but my phone buzzes again.

  Chance: Good news. He wants to rehearse that duet you talked about before Christmas. Get your ass here and make it happen.

  I toss my phone on the bed and do a little fist pump before tearing off my jeans and blouse to throw on something clean and get the hell out of here. This duet would mean getting to go back out onstage during his set where I can feel the energy coming from his fans when they’re all whipped up and excited for him.