Dick (Bad Boys #1) Read online

  Dick: A Bad Boys Novel

  Copyright 2016 by R.C. Stephens (Irene Cohen).

  All rights reserved.

  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 information storage and retrieval system, without permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: Polished Pen

  Proofreader: Karen Hrdlicka @ Barren Acres

  Front Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Photography: Scott Hoover

  Formatting: Elaine York, Allusion Graphics LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Other Books by RC Stephens

  About the Author

  The black Escalade stops in front of the banquet hall where the gala dinner is being held tonight. I inhale and exhale a breath. I’ve always been a private person; I hate when paparazzi swarm me. After straightening my damn tie, I pick some lint off my pants. Through my first few encounters, I’d panicked, but I’ve learned how to smile and move on. Paparazzi are all lined up, ready to take their shots as the attendees exit their SUVs. I wasn’t in the mood for something so extravagant tonight, but I couldn’t exactly reject an invitation from the President of the United States, especially since he requested a private conversation with me at some point this evening. It’s mind boggling really. I still can’t believe all that I’ve accomplished. It’s instances like this that make me feel like I’m living someone else’s life.

  My driver comes around to open my door, and I’m instantly met with flashing camera lights. Through the haze, I smile ahead at no one in particular, inhaling a slow, deep breath, followed by an even slower exhale. A rainbow of colors distorts my vision as I make my way down a dark carpet to the entrance.

  Most of the men here tonight have a woman on their arm, but I prefer to fly solo. It’s not that I couldn’t find a woman to be my date; there are many willing candidates, just none that have caught my attention for anything longer than a quick bang. Tonight is about business anyway. I don’t need some needy woman on my arm, fighting for my attention or distracting me with her good looks. Besides, I fuck around more than enough. I’m not lacking in sex.

  Swiveling my head slightly, I glance over to see who’s getting out of the next car. The guest list must be small, considering this is a technology dinner and only a select group is usually in attendance. My boss, Schmidt, the owner of Google, will be here and probably that Zuckerberg guy too. A couple hours of mingling won’t kill me. Then back to my jet, destined for home.

  The flashes of light clear from my vision, and I spot my business partner, Carter Hale. He brought her. Fuck! Why did he do that? We usually attend business functions together, leaving some to speculate we are gay. It’s laughable. Not because I have anything against gay people, because I don’t, I just love me some pussy and Carter is spoken for. It’s easier for us to conduct business as a team without the distraction of a woman.

  Feeling exasperated and uptight, I enter the hall. I’m not waiting for him. He’s a big boy and can make his way through the crowd without me. He does what he wants anyway. At this point our partnership, it’s nothing more than business. He used to be my best friend, now he’s in the “I have no choice but to associate” category.

  The gala tonight is upscale and trendy, of course. The president is the host. As I make my way into the hall, I notice the dark ambiance in the room that gives an impression that this is a social function. That’s never the case. When you put a group of billionaires together in one room, they are always trying to conduct business. The music is classical and boring, proving my point. You can’t discuss business over loud music.

  A large bar wraps across one of the walls. It’s impressive and filled to the ceiling with fine wines, liquors, and scotch. I make my way over to the bar when I spot the president and his wife speaking with Schmidt. I’m dying to throw back something hard but that can wait. This is a good opportunity to make nice with the president. I walk over and introduce myself.

  “Mr. President, Dixon Crawford.” I smile, but not too much. The president extends his hand, and I return his firm grip.

  “Dixon Crawford, the young man who revolutionized social media.” The president acknowledges me with an approving grin. “Pleasure to meet you. This is my wife, Michelle.”

  “It’s a real pleasure.” I shake her hand lightly.

  “So, Dixon, what’s next on your agenda?” The president inquires.

  In that moment, Carter decides to walk up to the president with his ‘date’ on his arm. Asshole.

  “Mr. President, Carter Hale,” he says, cutting me off. “This is my wife, Cassidy.” Cassidy shakes his hand and eyes me warily.

  “Pleasure to meet you both,” the president replies, then introduces his wife again. My head is fucking spinning now. I can’t concentrate. “I’m glad to be meeting the two of you. Schmidt was just telling me that buying Socialite was his smartest move. I hear you have some interesting things planned for 2016.”

  “We sure do, sir,” I reply. “We were actually looking to create a new satellite system,” I begin to explain. I haven’t discussed it yet with Carter because, as usual, he’s been too fucking busy to show up at work, while I’ve been working day and night, configuring new software.

  “Well, Dixon, I hear you are a computer prodigy. I definitely want to hear your plans. How about we discuss this in say, forty-five minutes?” The president looks at his watch and then nods to a woman, whom I hadn’t noticed before, standing behind him with an iPad in her hands.

  “That would be great.” I smile.

  “Excuse us.” The president tips his head and looks over to his wife, extending his arm for her to take.

  I wait until they have left the conversation. Schmidt eyes me warily.

  “It’s all good,” I reassure him and turn to leave, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin around to see that Carter has the audacity to touch me.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Would you lighten the fuck up? This is a gala dinner, Dick. Enjoy yourself.”

  “This is a business dinner, Carter, so I intend to do business.” I walk away.

  I’m the one who created Socialite. He just came along for the ride. Carter was my best friend, so I didn’t mind that he was basking in my glory. Problem is there is only so much basking a man can take and tolerate.

  I turn away and head for the bar, leaning against the cool steel counter. My shoulders slightly hunch, and I let out a breath of air, needing to shake off this tension. This bow tie feels like a noose around my neck. I don’t do tuxedos. Tonight I
had no choice. There’s a lot I can get away with, being who I am, but not for a presidential dinner. Jeans, T-shirt, and Chucks wouldn’t fly.

  The bartender walks up to me and nods. “Hey, what can I get you?”

  “Johnnie Walker, blue label, if you have it?” I ask, hoping he’s got the right stock. It’s expensive and the aftertaste is smooth. I take a seat on a stool.

  A lady walks up to the bar, and the bartender pulls his attention away from my order and his eyes drop to her chest. Curious about this distraction, I turn my head to see what or who has grabbed his attention. I immediately understand. The woman is tall, slender, and blonde, but that’s not the only enticement. She has curves in all the right places. Her black gown is long with a deep V-cut, revealing the sexiest spine I’ve ever seen.

  “What can I get you, miss?” The bartender flashes a brilliant white smile.

  He’s a good-looking guy with bulging arm muscles. I know what the ladies like and he’s got potential. It’s also obvious his charm isn’t working, and I’m relieved because I’m interested. Before she has a chance to respond, he offers her a Cosmopolitan, then a margarita. She shakes her head at both options, leaving me intrigued.

  “A double shot of vodka, straight up, please,” she says, her tone filled with irritation.

  A throaty chuckle leaves my mouth, causing her attention to swivel my way. She narrows her eyes at me and I flinch, because holy hell, she’s got the most beautiful fucking eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “I’m sorry, do I amuse you?” she snaps with a raspy voice.

  The air gets sucked out of my lungs, and I clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I reply with a chortle. “You just sound how I feel.”

  I try to pull my gaze from her, but I can’t. Her blue eyes are slanted, with thick lashes surrounding them. They almost look feline. Fucking hell.

  She turns her upper body toward me, still leaning on the bar with one arm. “And how’s that?” The beauty tilts her head to the side as if she’s assessing me. Feisty. I’m not surprised. A hot chick like her has every right to be. I know I’m a dick, but I call them as I see them.

  “Like you can’t get out of here fast enough,” I respond, lifting both my brows suggestively.

  Her shoulders slacken. “Busted,” she laughs. It’s more relaxed, and I sense the earlier tension rolling off her shoulders. She takes a seat on the stool next to me while the bartender places our drinks in front of us. Her feline eyes land on me. There’s a wariness, even though her grin remains friendly … I think.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asks, furrowing her brows and looking deep in thought. Her response tells me she isn’t like the thousands of other women who have seen me on the news or in the gossip columns. She thinks she actually knows me. Hmm.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply, trying to place her. My mind turns up blank. I would remember that face. Those eyes.

  “Dick Crawford,” I say, extending my hand to shake hers.

  “You’re shitting me, right?” she answers with a burst of laughter. Well, that’s a first. I usually have women eating out the palm of my hand at hello.

  I cock my head to the side, assessing her. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your name is really Dick?” she asks and covers her mouth playfully, but she is definitely taunting my name.

  “Yes, it is. Don’t you know that making fun of a person’s name is better left in grade school, and even then it isn’t acceptable. My name is Dixon, if you must know. My friends call me Dick.”

  Getting some sort of reaction out of a woman when they hear my name is commonplace. I envision their internal monologue is something like, “Hmm, I wonder how big his dick is?” or “I would like to take that dick for a ride.” I’ve never received a laugh or a snicker … until now. I achieved my nickname during my time in college. I was the only Computer Science guy in my class scoring the hottest chicks on campus. After spending my days in high school glued to a computer screen, college granted me freedom I never had before. It also rectified all the years I went without getting any pussy. I made a reputation for myself as a ladies’ man. I’m good looking, rich, and I have a nice bulge in my pants that does wonders. It’s a win-win situation. At the beginning, my friends called me Dix, short for Dixon. Then after a few comical scenarios of me pissing off some chicks, it turned to Dick. It kind of stuck. I was good with it.

  “I’m sorry, Dick, I meant no offense. I’m just feeling off tonight. You’re right I don’t want to be here. I’ve already put back two of these.” She holds up her glass. “I’m a lightweight and admittedly a little more than tipsy. Shh!” She lifts her finger to thick, lush lips covered in red lipstick. Sinful. On anyone else, I would say it looks cheap. On her, it’s classy as hell. “Eden Howard. I’m sorry I really don’t know where my manners are tonight.” She extends her long slender arm to meet my hand. She’s got a sparkling diamond bracelet on her wrist and a large diamond rock on her finger that catches the light from the chandeliers. She’s married or engaged. I shake her hand.

  She throws back half the vodka in her glass.

  “Whoa! Easy there. This is a presidential function,” I remind her, my tone light and friendly.

  “Exactly, Dick. I would rather be anywhere else but here,” she says, pulling her gaze from mine and dropping her head in defeat. I wonder what that’s about. “My husband usually comes to these things on his own. He insisted he needed me for this event.”

  “Who’s your husband?” I ask, just for the sake of curiosity. A ring on the finger hasn’t stopped me before. I also don’t mix business and pleasure, so if her husband is a possible business option, I will have to shut this down. By her sweet, seductive smiles and the way she lingers so close, I can tell she’s into me.

  “Blythe Howard. Do you know him?” She picks up her head and looks at me, then throws the rest of the contents in the Waterford crystal down her throat. She cringes, squeezing her eyes shut. She’s beautiful, adorable, and clearly troubled.

  “Everyone knows Blythe Howard. The guy owns CRN,” I confirm. I’ve been interviewed by his reporters on many occasions.

  “Excuse me!” She waves down the bartender … I assume for another shot.

  “Yes, ma’am?” His smile is full wattage.

  “I’ll have another.” She holds up the crystal glass, dangling it in the air. The bartender gives her a wary look.

  I lean over to whisper in her ear. “Are you sure?” She smells like fresh peaches. My dick slightly hardens, and I’m thankful to be sitting.

  “Dick? It’s Dick, right?” she asks, squinting her eyes. Damn, she’s so beautiful it almost feels like my chest is tightening just by being this close to her.

  “Yes, it’s an original name. I can’t believe you forgot it already,” I answer sarcastically and laced with humor.

  The bartender pours her more vodka and places it in front of her. I throw back the rest of my scotch and ask for another. I’m a little looser now. One more and the edge will be taken off completely. Scratch that. I have Eden Howard to thank for loosening me up, not the scotch. As dirty thoughts flicker through my mind, I envision taking her to a private room and fucking her up against the wall. I can’t help but wonder what kinds of sounds she makes when she comes.

  “I didn’t forget, Dick. I just have a lot on my mind.” She pulls me out of my daydream and I refocus on those feline eyes. “I need to get home. I don’t usually drink at all. I have to say I understand the enticement now,” she explains, swirling the vodka in the crystal, then gazing at me. Man, her damn eyes are undoing me.

  “What’s at home that’s so important?” I ask curiously. My dick is rock hard for this woman. I don’t ever remember having a reaction like this before.

  She pauses and it looks like she’s pondering something. “My four-year-old son, Grant. He’s staying with a sitter for the night, and he’s only met her once before. I didn’t want to come to this damn thing. My husband insisted I make an appearance,” she explains, her sho
ulders bristling. By the slight sway in her movements, I can tell she’s definitely feeling her drink. She also volunteered a heck of a lot of personal information. Or maybe she talks about her kid with random strangers. I don’t know.

  “I’ve got two kids,” I immediately respond, surprising myself. “A four-year-old boy, Jaden, and a three-year-old girl, Macy.” I don’t talk about my kids. They are my private business. Something about Eden comes off as maternal. It doesn’t feel wrong.

  “That’s nice. Must be a handful. Where’s your wife?” She turns her head to look past me.

  “I’m divorced,” I answer curtly.

  “Oh.” Her bottom lip juts out. I wonder what that’s about. I’m just about to ask her when Blythe Howard walks up to us wearing a fake smile and snakes an arm around her shoulders. I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t be happy to see my wife sitting at a bar, throwing back drinks with someone who looks like me.

  “Mr. Howard.” I nod my head.

  “Mr. Crawford.” He nods back. We’ve met before. He’s in his early forties and isn’t known to be the friendliest guy. He’s more cold, the high and mighty type. Eden looks mid-twenties at most. She’s a stunningly beautiful woman. I don’t see what they would have in common. She seems too normal and down to earth for him. He pulls her away and her gaze falls on me for a moment before she turns her head. I know I shouldn’t be thinking this, but I need to see her again. I want to talk to her some more. The fact that I’m even thinking this way is startling, since I can’t remember the last time I engaged in small talk with a woman … not unless I’m sweet talking them in bed. That’s different, though. With sex the end game is orgasm, and I’m a pro at that. Any fool would know that words are just as important as actions in a bed. Especially when it comes to the big O.

  I turn my attention back to the bar and toss back the rest of my scotch. “Easy there, bud. We need to be meeting the president in a back room in like twenty minutes,” Carter says. His voice feels like a bucket of cold water thrown over my head. Fuck, he always has the worst timing. Eden had me feeling good.

  “Yeah, man.” I get up from the stool and look between Carter and his wife and walk away.