Dirty Money
Jessica Clare
Titles by Jessica Clare
Roughneck Billionaires
Dirty Money
The Billionaire Boys Club
Stranded with a Billionaire
Beauty and the Billionaire
The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed
Once Upon a Billionaire
Romancing the Billionaire
One Night with a Billionaire
His Royal Princess
Beauty and the Billionaire: The Wedding
Billionaires and Bridesmaids
The Billionaire and the Virgin
The Taming of the Billionaire
The Billionaire Takes a Bride
The Billionaire’s Favorite Mistake
Billionaire on the Loose
The Bluebonnet Novels
The Girl’s Guide to (Man) Hunting
The Care and Feeding of an Alpha Male
The Expert’s Guide to Driving a Man Wild
The Virgin’s Guide to Misbehaving
The Billionaire of Bluebonnet
Dirty Money
Jessica Clare
INTERMIX
New York
INTERMIX
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Jessica Clare
Excerpt from Dirty Scoundrel copyright © 2017 by Jessica Clare
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INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
ISBN: 9781101989272
First Edition: January 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Titles by Jessica Clare
Title Page
Copyright
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from Dirty Scoundrel
About the Author
Chapter One
Boone
It’s a blistering hot day out in West Texas. There’s not a fucking cloud to be seen, and it’s so dry that the dust puffs up under your boots as you walk. Reminds me of the old days, back when me and my brothers used to be the roughnecks out on the old, rickety rig that cost me a finger and Clay two toes. In a way, it’s kinda nostalgic. I’ve got my bandana on under my trucker cap to kill the worst of the heat, an old company T-shirt on with my jeans, and shitkickers on my feet. I got grit on my face and a brutal sun beating down, and the land all around me is flat and open and bare of everything but the occasional rig in the distance. Ain’t a tree around for miles.
Feels good. Feels more like me than I have in a long time.
But the moment I see the guy in the suit show up, briefcase in hand? I know this shit’s gonna be trouble.
I take a swig of my water and watch the peckerhead rush across the endless landscape like he’s got somewhere to go. I hate suits. Hate guys that think they’re appropriate on a rig site. Hate wearing the damn things.
Just kinda hate suits in general.
Clay finishes chatting with a couple of the roughnecks leaning against a nearby pickup, and spots the suit hobbling over toward us. He drifts over to my side, where I’m perched on the end of my truck bed, and sits down next to me. “Who’s that?”
“Dunno.” I check the time on my watch. Ten minutes to go.
Clay crosses his arms and tilts his head, staring out. He chews on the toothpick in his mouth for a moment, then leans toward me. “I’d ask if it was the company man, but I guess that’s you and me, right?”
I shrug over at him. “Did Bates say he was sending someone?” Bates is our partner for this newest rig, just because I owed him a favor from way back when. It ain’t because I need the money. These days? I don’t need anyone’s money. But Bates did me a solid back in the day, and now his company’s got nothing but dry wells. So I told him I’d give him half the profits if he’d let me handle the dig site and the crew and all the shit that takes a brain. Bates? Nice guy, but not much in the way of brains. Better to let me do it.
“Dunno.” Clay chews on his toothpick again. “Maybe our boy here’s lost.”
I scratch my beard absently. “Seems like an odd place to get lost, if you ask me.”
“S’pose we’ll find out soon enough,” Clay says. “You got your dowsing rods?”
I nod and pull them out of a back pocket. “We’ll get started in ten.”
“I’ll tell the others.” Clay hops back up, whistling, and the truck bed bounces as he does.
I remain seated, rolling my dowsing rods absently between my hands. My mood’s growing a little darker by the moment. I don’t like surprises. I sure don’t like a surprise on a potential well site that I’m in charge of. Gives me bad juju. I ain’t a fan of bad juju.
The suit finally arrives where our trucks are parked. We’re out in the flats, in the middle of nowhere. He hesitates, then looks around. I’ve seen that look before. He’s looking for the boss man.
That’s me.
After a moment, he hugs his briefcase closer to him and then heads toward me. “Is this the meeting site for the Price-Bates potential well?”
“Yep.” I roll the dowsing rods between my hands again, slowly. Should put ’em away. Shouldn’t be filling ’em with all this bad energy, but I can’t help myself. Need something to do with my hands, because the urge to jerk that briefcase out of his grip is growing by the moment.
He sizes me up, studying my form. I’m bigger than him, a helluva lot more tanned, and dressed like the rest of the crew. After a moment, he sniffs and glances around. “Are we waiting for Mr. Boone Price to arrive?”
I shrug. Clearly this fool doesn’t realize I’m Boone Price. It’s something I get a lot, and it shouldn’t surprise me after two years of this nonsense. People think a billionaire can’t have a beard, or tattoos, or wear a T-shirt. They think I should look like this peckerhead in the suit, all sweaty and nervous with his damn briefcase. “There a problem? Wasn’t told there’d be company men here.”
“Company men?” The man wrinkles his nose.
Hell. Does this guy not know anything about roughnecking? “You know, the boss man’s lackey. The shill. A tool. The company man.”
He frowns at me and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, then mops at his forehead with a linen hanky. “Mr. Bates sent me with contracts for Mr. Price. I’m to get him to sign things before the well is dug.”
“Did he, now,” I say flatly. “We aren’t drillin’ today, you know.”
&nbs
p; “We’re not?” The suit frowns, gazing around him.
The man’s stupider than dirt. I glance over at Clay and the other boys, but they’re all looking at me with amusement. Clearly, this is my problem. I roll my dowsing rods between my hands again. “No digging today. You see any equipment?”
He turns. He actually turns and looks around. Like he wouldn’t see a fucking rig from a fucking mile away. They ain’t exactly stealthy pieces of equipment. Off to one side, my brother Clay snorts and presses a hand over his face, trying to hide his laughter.
I glance at my watch. Five more minutes. Damn. That means this idiot’s gonna sit here in front of me for five more minutes, looking for a rig that ain’t here.
The suit finally turns and looks at me again. “If we’re not digging, what are we doing here?”
I hold up the dowsing rods. “We’re picking where we drill.”
The suit stares at the rods I’m holding, then looks me right in the eye. Then, he looks away over at Clay and the others. “Does your boss know that you’re using sticks for this?”
“It’s called dowsing,” I correct him. He’s got a snotty tone in his voice I like even less than what I’ve heard so far. “And it works.”
“Listen,” he says, clutching his briefcase to his chest and wiping at his forehead again. “I realize that Mr. Price had a big hit on oil—”
“So I hear.” Really, this would be amusing if it wasn’t so damn insulting.
“And I know they call him Spindletop, because he found a well that rivals that one—”
“Hundred thousand barrels a day,” I agree. I know this story well. It’s my damn story.
“And I realize that maybe because he came from working oil that he doesn’t mind if you do things in a haphazard fashion,” he continues, his lip curling as he looks over at me. “But Mr. Bates is not as foolhardy with his money and his time, and I’m here to see that Mr. Price doesn’t waste either of them.”
“Uh-huh,” I say slowly.
He stares at me, waiting for an answer.
I check my watch. Two minutes until the top of the hour. Close enough. I hop off the end of the truck bed and nod at Clay. “Wanna get started?”
“Still got two minutes,” Clay says.
“Two minutes?” the suit asks. “Two minutes for what? Is Mr. Price going to show up?” And the idiot turns and looks around again.
“Bad juju if we don’t start at the top of the hour.” Clay smirks over at me. “And we need all the good juju we can get ’round here.”
“Our juju’s already bad,” I say, rubbing the dowsing rods with an oil-soaked cloth like I always do, so they get the scent of what they’re looking for. “Might as well get this dog and pony show going.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Price? My employer won’t be happy about this dowsing—”
I’ve about had enough of this peckerhead. I step forward, and the man retreats like I’m gonna raise a fist. “You want Boone Price?” I ask him.
The suit nods, cringing.
I shove a thumb at my chest. “I’m Boone fucking Price. And if I wanna fucking dowse for oil, I’m gonna dowse for oil. Understand?”
The man’s mouth drops open. Then shuts. Then opens again. He eyeballs me, then the rods in my hand, as if he doesn’t quite believe it.
Hell of a day I’m having.
***
By the time we leave the worksite, I’m in a foul mood. Worse than foul. I should go home and shower the West Texas dust off of me, but I can’t stop thinking about the dickface in the suit and how he was such an ass to me. I don’t know why it’s galling me so much, but I can’t get past it. I’m still pissed about it when I climb into my truck and Clay sits in the passenger seat and starts yammering about the day. He’s in a good mood—of course he is. Ain’t nothing that bothers Clay for long. Me, I’m the one that stresses the fuck out over everything.
And the lack of respect I’m getting right now? It fucking bothers me.
I tear down the highway, only half listening to Clay laugh and tell jokes about what the guys said. About what I did today. I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is Bates. Bates sending his little pencil-dick company man to try to get me set up “proper.” Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m the one that doesn’t have money.
Like I’m the one that’s the needy party.
Fuck that shit. I don’t need anyone.
By the time we get to the outskirts of the city, Clay’s yawning and mentioning beer. I give my brother a narrow-eyed look and a nod, then grab my phone off the dashboard. I dial Bates.
“I’m on the fourteenth hole and I’ve got an hour of daylight left,” he barks into the phone. “This better be important.”
“It’s Boone,” I say flatly. “Which golf course?”
“Golf course?” Clay asks, a groan in his voice. He puts a hand on the brim of his cap. “Shit, bro, I just want to get drunk. Can’t we go to the bar?”
I ignore him, concentrating on Bates’s aggravated words. I catch “Silver Birch” and something that sounds like “Country Club” before he hangs up on me. Fine. I fling my phone at Clay. “Type in Silver Birch Country Club and gimme the address.”
He sighs. “You’re not gonna rest until you get this out of your system, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine.” A moment later, the phone starts to spit out directions in Homer Simpson’s voice, which amuses my brother enough that he shuts up. I follow the directions and a half hour later, I pull into the parking lot of the country club, right next to some fancy convertible. Clay whistles at the sight of it. “I’ll stay here. You gonna be long?”
“Not long.” I climb out of the truck, slam the door behind me, and stalk toward the main clubhouse. The sun’s setting right in my eyes and it’s been a long, hot day, half of it spent in the damn car. I’m covered in dust, my throat’s drier than anything, and I want the drink that Clay’s been bitching about for the past half hour.
But I also can’t let this go. Not until I get it out of my system. That’s how I am. A dog on a bone, my brothers joke, and they ain’t wrong. Once I get fixated on something, I don’t let up until I’m satisfied. And right now? I sure as shit ain’t satisfied.
A woman hurries up to me. She’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt with a logo and a pair of khaki pants. The smile on her face is not welcoming in the slightest. “Can I help you find something, sir?”
“I’m looking for a friend,” I tell her, not stopping.
She trots after me. “I see. Do you have a membership?”
“No.”
“I see. I’m afraid we’re not open to the public.”
I stop and look over at her. She’s got the bright, fake smile on her face that says sorry, but I’m not leaving you alone. “How much for a membership?”
Her smile remains tight and fake. “It’s not just the price, sir. We rigorously perform background checks on our club members and ensure that only the most prestigious qualify.” She gestures back behind her, indicating I should leave.
As in, I ain’t gonna cut it.
Fuck that. I turn and start walking again. All I need is five minutes to talk to my shithead “buddy,” Bates. She can just hold her horses.
The woman starts making squawking noises and follows me a moment longer. When I won’t stop to acknowledge her, I hear her radioing for security. Like I’m a damn criminal. It’s so fucking ridiculous I can’t even find the words.
I’ve never been on a golf course before, so I don’t rightly know which way to go. There’s a path and so I start to follow it, and as I do, Bates rolls up in a golf cart, a frown on his face. “What are you doing here, Boone?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Got a few things to say to you.”
“All right.” He gets out of the cart and turns to look at
the men sitting beside him. “I’ll join you boys in the locker room shortly.”
They give me disgusted looks—ironic considering they’re all wearing pink shirts—and then drive off. Like I’m some sorta cockroach that crawled onto the greens. Fuck them, too.
Bates pulls at the leather gloves on his hands, a slight frown on his face. He eyes me up and down, from my cap to the dust on my work boots. “Did you just come straight from the site?”
“I did. Some of us like to work,” I drawl.
“I’m working,” he protests. “Networking is a very important part of being a good business owner.” The look he gives me is cool. “It’s something you might want to consider in the future.”
“You’re giving me tips on how to run a business?” I bark a harsh laugh. “That’s rich, given that you came crawling to me asking for my help because you need a producing well instead of the dry holes you got right now.”
The look on Bates’s smug face grows alarmed. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses, and leans in. “What the hell is this about, Price? Why’d you come storming here?”
“I came here because your asshole suit showed up on site and I want to know why.”
He tilts his head and stares at me like I’ve gone crazy. “What do you mean, you want to know why?”
“Just what I said. I want to know why.”
Bates sputters. “He’s one of my executives and the overseer of this particular project. He’s there because he’s got my company’s best interests in mind—”
“Because you think I’m gonna screw you?” I snarl. “You came crawlin’ ta me.” I slam a hand against my chest. “This is a favor I’m doin’ you. Why would you need to be protected from that?”
“It’s procedure—”
“Fuck procedure!”
He casts another horrified look around us. “Keep your voice down, Boone. This is a gentlemen’s club.”
Am I not being gentlemanly enough for him? Too damn bad. I glance around and sure enough, there are several groups of people staring at us, including the employee that tried to stop me from coming in. All of them have shocked looks of distaste on their faces as they gaze in my direction. You’d think I took a dump on the green right in front of them or something. “I’m pissed at you, Bates, because you didn’t trust me and sent that insulting shithead over just to tick me off.”
