Bad Boy vs Millionaire

By: Candy J. Starr

“I punched him in the nose.”


Dad looked like he was going to blow something in his insides from the way his face went lobster red and set into hardened lines.

“I thought he was a bag snatcher. He grabbed my bag and tried to walk off with it. That seemed mighty fishy to me at the time. Who does that? Like a ‘hello, your father sent me to pick you up...’ would kill him.”

“I sent you a text saying he was coming. Didn’t you read it?”

I paused outside the fitting room.

“My phone must’ve gone flat or I couldn’t hear it over that noise. Still, he was quite nice after that. It didn’t seem to worry him too much.”

“Thankfully. You could’ve ruined everything.”

I went into the fitting room and tried the dresses on. What could I have ruined? Some business deal, obviously.

As I'd thought, the black dress looked too severe ― unless I wanted to give off some dominatrix vibe or something. I stepped out of the change room to show Dad.

“It doesn't work. Told you. And I'm not wearing some beige horror either.”

The shop assistant hovering nearby pursed her lips and appraised me then found an eggshell blue shift dress. Very simple. Very elegant.

“It's perfect,” Dad said. “We'll take it.”


Hours later, I returned to the hotel with my arms laden with shopping bags. It should have filled me with the long forgotten delight of spending obscene amounts of money on pretty things but strangely it didn't. Instead, all I could think about was the weeks of rent that I could pay with that money or the number of band t-shirts I'd have to sell. That made me kind of sad.

I did my hair and got ready for dinner. I put on a touch of lipstick and checked myself in the mirror. Then I picked up my phone and started to type a message. But the words didn't fit together and anyway, I had promised Angie I wouldn't contact him. I had to get my head together and work out what I wanted. That's what Angie had told me to do and it made sense but I also wanted to talk to him. To make sure he hadn't forgotten me already. He could be out with some skank whore groupie right now and… This was exactly why I shouldn't text him.

But I could still feel the touch of his fingers on my skin and the thrill that ran through me when his lips met mine. I had Jack Colt brain fever and I needed a cure. A cure that would help me think rationally and get me away from his hot-cold attitude. I put my phone in the drawer and slammed it shut.

“Tokyo will be awesome,” Angie had said. “Get your head straight and see how you really feel. Work out whether this thing is in your heart or in your pants. You don't want to be messing with this shit. Have a fling with some hot foreign man. Then tell me all about it. I'm so jealous anyway, I always wanted to go to Japan.”

She’d given me a list of stores to visit, none of which had been on the agenda for today. Angie's list was about what was cute and hot and on the edge. You don't get that at designer boutiques where people tried to avoid being flashy. I sighed.

Chapter 2. Angie

Love sucks. Especially other people's love. You know how it goes. You have a perfectly good friendship with someone and do all kinds of fun shit and then they go and get themselves all loved up with a dude and suddenly they are all like “sorry, I'm seeing my boyfriend tonight.” And, even if they do bother to come out with you, they drag their boyfriend out with them and spend the night wrapped up so tight in their own little circle of love that they may as well not be there anyway. If you are going to be like that, you may as well stay at home instead of wasting perfectly good space.

Not that was what it was like with my friend, Hannah. Not yet anyway. She was just in that stage one of love, the stage where they want to discuss stuff. Stuff about their love guy. Like you say “oh, the sky looks blue today” and they do that sighing and cow eyes and say shit like “Jack has blue eyes…” and he doesn't even have blue eyes, they just want to say his name. Then the angst and the having to analyse everything he says and does.

That's annoying. You have to admit it.

I think Hannah would have been better off if she'd just shagged Jack upfront. Gotten it out of her system and moved on. That smoldering sexual tension will make a girl think she feels all kind of things that are just plastic fantasies she's built up in her head. Even though I was friends with the band now and got to hang out with them and cool stuff like that, I kinda missed the imaginary Jack Colt I'd created. He was like my best friend but now he was gone and I'd never get him back. You can't go around having sexual fantasies about your friend's kinda sorta boyfriend. So I’d made a deal with her. She could have Jack Colt if she bought me the super awesome boots I wanted in Tokyo. She said she didn’t want him but any fool with a two brain cells could tell she did. And I really wanted those boots. A lot.

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