Emma Holly - The Billionaire Bad Boys Club
The Billionaire Bad Boys Club - Emma Holly
CHAPTER ONE
The Bad Boys Club
TREY Hayworth had a choice. He could jack off to his dog-eared Victoria’s Secret catalogue or rely on his stash of torn out underwear stud ads. The Victoria’s Secret women were soft and curvy, the Calvin Klein men as ripped as gym rats in their groin-hugging briefs.
Both made Trey’s eighteen-year-old c**k swell up and harden.
He could have used both to masturbate to of course, but he preferred to save that treat for his last cl**ax. Privacy was precious. He liked to make a full meal of it.
Trey’s father was a pharmaceuticals rep for a drug company. Twice a month he traveled out of town on sales trips. When he was home, he kept too close an eye on his son for Trey to risk breaking his anti-sex edicts. When he was gone, Trey had more leeway. His sort-of pal Kevin Dexter had shown him how to feed fake footage into his dad’s spycams, which gave him multiple days and nights to revel in freedom.
He could pretend he was normal then. Crawl the mall. Crash a party if he knew of one. He wasn’t popular enough to be invited. The other seniors at Franklin High smelled the freak on him—his indeterminate sexual preference, his home situation, the whole “his mother killed herself last year” thing. Whether they were jocks or nerds, people steered clear of making friends. Trey didn’t fit their boxes. They didn’t know what to make of him. His saving grace was that he was decent looking and owned a car. Waiting tables sixteen hours a week meant he could buy non-lame clothes and keep his rusty Mustang running.
His father believed allowances ruined kids.
But that was fine. Trey was happier not relying on him. Safer too, probably. Trying to please her spouse had led to his mother giving up on everything.
He pushed that thought away. Remembering how his mother had checked out made him feel like he was choking. Determined not to waste his time alone, he scooted beneath the box spring to retrieve his inspiration from its well-concealed hiding place. His c**k woke up as he did, twitching like Pavlov’s dog from the familiar feel of his back sliding over the cool floorboards.
The sound of a raised male voice froze him there with the dust bunnies.
Zane Alexander’s father was on a tear tonight.
In some ways, Trey’s next-door neighbor was the opposite of himself. Zane was a golden boy. Captain of the football team. A zillion friends. A Porsche. A girl for each arm and leg if he wanted them. In one important way, however, he and Trey had too much in common.
Trey squirmed out from under his bed and crawled to the windowsill to peek out. His pitch-black hair was long—too long, according to his father. Thus far, he’d avoided his father’s scissors. As a result, he had to shovel it out of his eyes to see. A strip of grass separated the two ramblers, maybe fifteen feet in all. The night was dark and the shades were pulled. The light from a single lamp silhouetted Zane and his father in their living room. Divorced for a couple years from his beauty queen of a wife, Zane’s father had been Franklin’s hometown hero once, a football prodigy like his son. An injury sidelined his career, leaving him to simultaneously hate and need to live through his son—who he liked to pimp out at the sporting goods store he owned. Mr. Alexander was big and beefy but not as tall as Zane. As if he didn’t want to remind his dad of that, Zane’s shoulders were hunched in.
“You forgot?” Mr. Alexander’s drunken voice shouted. “You forgot? You want to tell me how you could be such a stupid shit you couldn’t remember one simple thing!”
Zane’s answer was inaudible. Truthfully, it didn’t matter what he said, no more than it mattered what he’d forgotten. What happened next was inevitable.
His father’s arm uncoiled, his meaty fist smacking Zane in the temple. Trey flinched and gripped the window tighter. Zane didn’t let out a sound. Again came the fist, and again Zane took the blow. If reflex made him jerk away slightly from the swing, experience kept him from blocking it.
Defending himself would be the opposite of helpful.
He’d made the right choice. Mr. Alexander was finished then, his anger a storm that had blown over.
“No sniveling,” he instructed before he left the room. “You take your medicine like a man.”
His son stood there by himself, his chest going up and down, his fists opening and closing with some struggle. Shit, Trey thought, not sure what was happening but concerned. Zane’s body language said he was about to explode. Trey sucked in a breath, wondering if he should call out. Zane and he weren’t friends by any stretch, but maybe something he could say would help.
Before he could decide, Zane turned sharply and headed for the door.
He was out of the house in seconds, striding down their front walk on jerky legs. Probably he wanted to walk his upset off. Trey had done the same lots of times. As he went, a circle of streetlight lit up his chiseled face. Trey winced. The cheek Zane’s father hit was bruising. It made Zane’s expression seem even more set and grim. His eyes were a blue so bright it was electric.
He looked like he might do anything.
Despite suspecting it was a bad idea, Trey swung out of his bedroom window, hung by his hands, and dropped the remaining distance onto the lawn. Because he was no champion athlete, the landing stung.
By the time he’d rounded the house’s corner, Zane had reached the end of their cul-de-sac. Still reluctant to call out, Trey sprinted as stealthily as he could after him. If Zane intended to throw himself off a bridge, Trey was going to stop him.
Mr. Martin’s head jerked up as he dashed past in his half crouch, startled from the engrossing task of watering his boxwoods in his robe and slippers. Trey nodded as if everything were normal. Thankfully, the surprised neighbor didn’t say anything.
God, this was stupid. Zane wasn’t a bully, but—just on principle—he’d beat Trey senseless if he caught him stalking him. The guy was a beast, 6’2” already and solid with muscle. He was quick as well, or he’d never have pulled off playing quarterback. He’d make mincemeat of a sparely built guy like Trey.
Zane didn’t seem to know he was being followed. He didn’t look around as he led Trey out of their suburban neighborhood and along the shoulder of the two-lane blacktop they took to school. Zane’s hands were shoved in the pockets of his dark blue hoodie, his long strong legs apparently tireless. Though Trey ran a couple miles most mornings, he was beginning to get winded.
Then again, his breathlessness might have been arousal. Masochist that he was, he’d had a boy crush on Zane for years. The occasional glimpses he’d caught of his neighbor changing spurred more fantasies than a truckload of underwear models. Trey knew for a fact Zane woke up with morning wood.
As he’d expected, Zane turned in at the high school’s grounds. He headed for the track, which was empty at this hour. The chain link fence that surrounded it wasn’t tall, and Zane vaulted it easily. Empty or not, the track was lit. If Trey wanted to follow his example, no way could he miss being seen.
He hesitated in the darkness. Zane unzipped his hoodie and pulled it off, revealing his monster shoulders under a white T-shirt. He crouched down to stretch his thighs. He was going to run—an activity Trey could conceivably join him in.
His heart drummed behind his ribs as he told himself not to pu**y out.