Billionaire Unveiled

By: J.S. Scott



If I ever laughed—which I didn’t—I probably would have snickered. But I didn’t show emotion—not ever. However, the youngster in front of me was rather amusing. He reminded me of an adolescent who had watched too many bad gangster movies.

I reached out, and in a split second I’d snatched his wrist, squeezing a nerve on his lower arm until he was forced to let go, and the weapon dropped onto the sidewalk with the loud clatter of steel meeting the cement. I pushed him into the cold metal of the streetlight pole, his face plastered against the post, and the Glock I’d previously kept concealed at his temple.

“That hurts,” the kid griped nervously.

I leaned into his body and said close to his ear, “A bullet in your head would hurt a hell of a lot more. Go home, get off the drugs, and quit stealing from people to fund your habit.”

“I live in a foster home,” he protested, his voice anxious as I pushed the barrel of the gun into his temple just a little bit harder, hoping to scare the bejesus out of him.

“Then you’re damn lucky to have a roof over your head,” I growled. “Take advantage of it and quit being a little asshole. Keep this shit up and you’ll be dead before you’re legally able to drink.”

I let go of him, but I put my foot over the knife on the ground before he could snatch it. “I said go home,” I warned in an annoyed tone.

“Who the hell are you? I ain’t seen you around on the streets,” the kid asked hesitantly.

“Somebody you don’t want to mess with,” I answered vaguely.

The brat turned around and ran until he was out of my sight. I kicked the knife deep into the bushes next to the sidewalk, just in case he came back for it. I wasn’t about to make it easy to find.

The boy was a bully, and I hated that. I probably should have called the cops and let them take him to jail, but I had bigger things to worry about. And although it was probably wishful thinking, maybe the punk would straighten himself out someday.

Problem was, he was obviously hooked on something. It wasn’t hard to read the desperation of an addict. Fucking hell! I hated seeing a guy that young screwed up on drugs.

Shoving the gun back into its concealed holster, I pulled my jacket closed. I hadn’t even taken the safety off. The kid might be a juvenile delinquent, but I still wasn’t about to shoot a boy who probably wasn’t old enough to vote. My only purpose had been to scare the shit out of him.

I brushed off my suit jacket because it was one of my favorites, and then proceeded to walk to the end of the block and to my destination.

When I arrived, I realized the bar was basically a dive, the neon sign in the window blinking like Christmas tree lights.

“Real fucking classy,” I muttered to myself, unable to see Dani in this place.

However, this was where she was meeting up with Becker. This sleazy bar was the best the jerk could do? Danica was a goddamn Lawson, a woman who had more money than she could ever spend. And this is where the two lovebirds were trysting?

Jett had told me where his sister was going for the evening. I wondered if he knew that it was a haven for prostitutes and drug dealers.

Probably…not. My buddy would most likely lose it if he knew his little sister was hanging out in this dive.

I shook my head as I peered into the front window. If Jett had known, he’d have been here, even if he was recovering from his latest procedure. Dani’s brother would have a damn heart attack if he knew she’d even set foot into this neighborhood and this shithole of a bar.

My eyes scanned the general layout of the small club from the large, very dirty window out front. I didn’t see Becker, but I did finally spot a woman alone at the bar. Her hair color gave her away, the deep-red strands now long enough to brush her shoulders.

I grimaced as I noticed the short, black, leather skirt she was wearing, and the skimpy green top that barely covered her breasts. Her black stiletto heels were secured over the lower rung of the round stool, and she was sipping slowly on some fluffy drink that was topped with whipped cream.

“What in the hell are you doing, Danica? You sure as fuck don’t belong here,” I said in a raspy voice.

The clothes, the location, the boyfriend…everything was wrong. The Danica I was acquainted with wanted nothing more than to chase down a story that she thought needed to be told. She wore a T-shirt and jeans because it made it easier for her to go after her story.

She didn’t wear several inches of makeup like she was sporting now.

She didn’t need it.

She never had.

Dani Lawson was drop-dead gorgeous without makeup and with hair of whatever color she wanted to tint it.

Protective instincts rose up inside me, emotions I definitely didn’t want but couldn’t seem to contain.

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