Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Read online

  Dirty Rogue

  A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

  by Amelia Wilde

  Hello! My name is Amelia Wilde, and I can’t get enough of romance…especially those bad boys. Since you’re here reading my book, I’d like to offer you another free read by yours truly.

  Hate Loving You is another story from the same world as Dirty Rich, Dirty Royal, and Dirty Rogue but with a small-town flavor. This title is exclusively available to members of my mailing list.

  Interested? Just let me know where to send it by following this link: http://tiny.cc/awilderomance.

  In addition to your complimentary book, you’ll also be the first to know when my new releases drop as well as giveaways and other perks…like the extended epilogue to Dirty Rogue that will be released exclusively to my mailing list members.

  See you there!

  ~Amelia

  Table of Contents

  Dirty Rogue

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Looking for More?

  Claim Your Free Book Today

  Bonus Book: Dirty Royal

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  About Amelia Wilde

  Copyright Information

  Prologue

  Ten years ago

  The needle of the tattoo machine bites into the skin of my brother’s chest. I can hear its pulsing hum above the music echoing off the brightly painted walls of the shop. It’s some kind of pop-metal that was popular a couple years ago and has since fallen off the mainstream radar. My brother grins up at me from where he’s lying back in the chair, completely relaxed even though the entire process appears painful. “It’s not that bad.”

  I roll my eyes. “It looks damn delightful.”

  The tattoo artist, a young man with a serious expression, skin covered in tattoos, pauses to wipe some blood from his skin.

  “You good?” he asks my brother.

  “Yeah. Keep going.”

  “Dad’s going to be pissed,” I say lamely. It’s the same argument I’ve been making since this morning, when my twin brother started pestering me about the tattoos—again—as we drove together in the Town Car on the way to our hometown of Dalton. It’s our eighteenth birthday.

  “He won’t, and you know it,” my brother laughs.

  He’s right in one sense. Dad won’t be upset with Chris, but he’ll find a way to make me feel like a goddamned idiot, one way or another. It’ll either be that I shouldn’t have gotten such a dumbass tattoo, or that I should have gone along with my brother’s idea. I can never tell with our dad. We just don’t get each other.

  Stepping closer to the chair, I look at the way the design is coming together on his skin. As far as tattoos go, it’s pretty awesome—it’s a reproduction of the Pierce family crest, but with one small alteration. Instead of the falcon that appears in one tiny portion of the crest, there’s a C. You’d never notice it unless you knew it was there.

  The benefit to having an identical twin is that if he’s the reckless one, you can stand back to see how things turn out before you jump in feet first.

  And in my case, my brother is the reckless one.

  I don’t fucking get it why everyone worships my brother, but that’s also probably why he’s our dad’s favorite. My dad was the king of his frat in college. He still loves to party, but now that he’s one of the richest men in New York, he doesn’t take it quite as far as he used to. Everyone loves him because he’s so much fun. It’s the same thing with Chris.

  For such a “fun guy,” Dad can really be an asshole. As far as I know, not being the life of the party isn’t a crime.

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Not being at the top of my dad’s popularity list probably has to do with Mom. I’m too much like her.

  But I’m not the one who divorced him.

  “Come on, Eli. It’s going to be fucking awesome. Everyone’s going to love it.”

  I smile in spite of myself. “If I wait, we can test it out.”

  “Testing things out” is something you only get to do if you’re exact replicas of one another, which is exactly the case with my brother and me. The differences between us—at least physically—are so subtle, so tiny, that we’ve successfully tricked our parents on more than one occasion. Not many people are going to be looking for the pinprick of a mole that Chris has on his left ankle. We’re talking that miniscule level of shit. In every other way, looking at him is like me looking into a mirror.

  As identical as we are physically, however, our personalities are the opposite–we’re as different as night and day.

  I’ve always been hesitant; he’s always been the go-getter. It’s not that I don’t or won’t go after the things I want, but in general, I’ll think it over for a while whereas Chris never does.

  “What would we need to test it on?” he says, arching an eyebrow.

  “Girls.”

  Chris scoffs. “You think girls aren’t going to like a tattoo? You’re crazy, man.” The tattoo artist cracks a smile, but he doesn’t look up from his work.

  “Well, certain girls.”

  That’s another differen
ce between Chris and me. His attention tends to….wander. Chris dates a new girl every week, and they’re typically the kind who like to get right down to screwing in the backseat of someone’s car or their parents’ spare room.

  I’ve dated a few girls, and it’s always been a long-term kind of thing. At least, as long-term as it gets during high school. Date someone a year and you’re practically married.

  Which, it turns out, is too boring for some people—namely, my last girlfriend, Sarah. She liked that I could afford to take her on all the fancy dates she wanted. What she didn’t like was that I wouldn’t sneak out with her as often as she wanted.

  Not that my Dad would know, or care.

  Unless it’s on a day when he decides that he does, and then there’s hell to pay.

  Whatever. I’d rather not go through the hassle of buying my way out of some underage drinking charge.

  Or worse.

  Christian has been going to parties most every weekend, and I know he’s doing more than drinking at those things. I can see it by the hazy glaze in his eyes some mornings, even if he won’t admit it to me.

  Even my fun-loving father doesn’t get behind drugs.

  This weekend, Chris is throwing a party at one of my father’s rentals in the city. It’s a massive penthouse that’s currently between renters. What’s convenient is that Dad leaves tomorrow for a five-day business trip to survey some of Pierce Industries’ factories in China, so there’ll be plenty of time to have the place cleaned after the party.

  It’s not the state of the penthouse carpet that has me worried. When I asked Chris earlier this week what type of party he was planning to have, he looked away before he answered.

  “Just drinks,” he lied.

  It won’t be just drinks.

  “What are you going to do, Eli? Are you too much of a delicate flower to go through with this?”

  “No,” I say, shooting him one of my “I can be as cool as you” looks. The tattoo artist makes a few more strokes on the design, and then it’s finished.

  Chris is right. It looks cool as hell.

  And maybe it’s lame, but I want to impress him.

  “I’m doing it,” I say confidently.

  Chris reaches out with his free arm and gives me a fist bump. “I knew you would.”

  “It looks sick,” I say, as the tattoo artist wipes down Chris’s arm with rubbing alcohol and begins applying Vaseline to keep the new piece de resistance moist.

  “You’re damn right it does,” Chris says, bending his neck down to get his first real look at it. “Just think, Eli. You’ll finally be edgy. How will the ladies resist?”

  Chapter 1

  Quinn

  I’ve been in New York City for five minutes, and it’s already spitting on me.

  Literally.

  The moment I step out from the terminal into the taxi line, the heavy gray clouds that have been hanging ominously low over the city open up. The roof over the taxi stand isn’t worth a damn against the rain, which is being driven by a squally summer wind, and of course I’m not wearing a raincoat and I don’t have an umbrella.

  The last thing I’m going to do is drag my oversized suitcase, stuffed with the clothes and books I couldn’t bear to leave behind in Colorado, onto a city bus.

  All I want to do is get to my new apartment, but the city is not playing fair.

  What a welcome.

  I straighten my shoulders in a display of resilience. The one positive in this situation is that my traveling outfit consists of a black tank top and yoga pants, far better than the thin, pale pink t-shirt a woman three places ahead of me in line is wearing. She doesn’t have a raincoat, either.

  The line inches forward, and finally it’s my turn to get into one of the waiting taxis.

  I yank on the handle of the back door to the cab, only to discover that–of course–it sticks, and I narrowly avoid falling backward into the man waiting behind me in line. With another jerk on the door handle, it finally releases and the door opens on squeaky hinges. .

  This has to be the most run-down cab in the entire city. A fine layer of grime seems to cover every available surface of the vehicle and it reeks of stale cigarettes. Country music blares from the front of the cab.

  No problem, I reassure myself in my most upbeat mental voice. It’s only going to be half an hour.

  I slide along the torn and patched back seat and wrestle my suitcase in beside me—there’s no way I’m going to deal with the trunk—and then I lean awkwardly over it to haul the door closed. It’s only when I look forward again that I notice the taxi driver leering at me in the rearview mirror.

  Gritting my teeth, I give him a smile, my lips pressed together tightly.

  “Where to, sweetheart?” he rasps, not turning to face me.

  I had memorized the address of my new place—well, my friend Carolyn’s place—and I rattle it off to him, doing my best to sound as if it’s not my first time in New York City.

  “Great,” says the driver in his raspy voice, as he steers the taxi away from the curb. “That’ll give us plenty of time to get to know one another.”

  The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, but I’ve been traveling all day. I’m only half an hour away from my new apartment. I’d give this creep a piece of my mind, but I just don’t have it in me right now. Instead, I pull out my phone to scan through my social media accounts.

  That doesn’t last long. It was terrible enough to find out that my fiancé, Derek, had been cheating on me for a year with my best friend. Former best friend. On top of that, now every time I open one of my social media apps, there’s another message from a well-meaning friend or rabid gossip hawk wanting to know what happened?!?!? You two always seemed so happy together.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and open up the Maps app, watching the small blue dot representing the cab hurtle down the expressway at fifteen miles per hour over the posted speed limit.

  The driver swerves the taxi into the opposite lane. The jolt throws me into the door next to me, and seconds later the red Ford Explorer he cut off speeds up alongside us, the driver red in the face and shaking his fist at us. My heart pounds. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

  Now that we’re on I-495, there’s nowhere for me to get out.

  The cabbie raises his middle finger at the driver of the Explorer and bursts forth a croaky guttural laugh. Then he glances back into the mirror to look at me.

  “Enjoying the ride?”

  “No,” I say flatly. I don’t necessarily want to antagonize this asshole, but with this kind of ride, I certainly will not be tipping him. “Please slow down.”

  The driver taps the brakes abruptly, then lets out another cackle. “Sure thing, sweetie. I’ll slow down, and we can talk.”

  “I’m not in the mood to talk,” I say, reaching over to my suitcase and tightening my grip on the handle. The second—and I mean the very instant—we’re in Manhattan, I’m bailing.

  Now cars screech their brakes around us and drivers are honking their horns furiously at our cab, which is crawling along at something like twenty miles per hour.

  I’m about to open my mouth and demand that he drive like a normal person, when he abruptly speeds up again, now cruising along at the speed limit.

  Yep. I’m in a cab driven by an insane person. Seriously, he must be fucking crazy. I could die just trying to get to my new apartment. Wouldn’t that be rich?

  It’s like New York City doesn’t want me here.

  “Where you from, doll?” he comments like nothing has happened, and my stomach turns over.

  Just then, my cell phone rings. My realtor’s name flashes on the screen, and I’m seized by a wild hope. Maybe she found a buyer for my house already.

  “Hello?” I answer, shouting over the loud country music still blaring from the cab’s radio.

  “Ms. Campbell?” my realtor says. She’s a woman who always looks a little frazzled and right now she sounds that way, too. “Can you hear me?�
�

  “I can hear you,” I answer, hunching down in the seat and cupping my hand over my mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “Well—” she says, and I can practically hear her psyching up to give me bad news. “There’s been a problem with your plumbing.”

  “The plumbing?” This is a new one. When I left my house, it was in perfect condition, ready to be sold. As quickly as possible.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, some pipes have burst in the basement level, and there’s just no way we can proceed with showings unless…”

  I tip my head back against the filthy seat and close my eyes, letting her voice fade into the background. New York City doesn’t want me, and Colorado won’t pull its claws out of my flesh.

  “Thanks, Sherrie,” I say when her voice finally peters out. “I’ll get in touch with someone local to make the repairs right away.” Just as soon as I’ve survived this death trap of a cab ride.

  The driver makes a sharp turn, cutting across another lane of traffic. I end the call.

  “So,” he calls back over the music, licking his lips, “you need help with some plumbing? I’m available right now, hot stuff.” He winks. Winks. I shudder.

  We’re careening over the Williamsburg Bridge and crossing into Manhattan, and as the words leave his mouth, something inside me snaps.

  “Stop the cab,” I yell over the music, my voice cold and angry.

  He bursts out laughing. “Sweetie, don’t take it so personally. We’re just kidding around. We’re having a good time.”

  “Stop the cab!” I shout, louder this time. “Right now, or I’m calling 9-1-1.” I hold up my phone so he can see it in the rearview mirror, my finger poised on the button.

  The leering smile leaves his face as his mouth twists into a scowl.

  “Fine, bitch,” he spits, then jerks on the wheel, cutting across a lane of traffic to reach the curb.

  I’m out the door even as he begins to scream at me, incoherently, and the damn suitcase fights me too, sticking inside the door.

  “Hey! Hey!” I finally make out some of the words. “You owe me! You owe me!”