Page 2 of Wicked (Wicked Billionaires #2)

RAVEN

I am wearing the classy black leather skirt and the sexy white blouse, just like I’d seen in a Vogue magazine. I am also wearing chic black high heels, but they didn’t help.

As the moon rises in NYC, I walk home and decide no more online dates for ninety days. Also, no more obviously fake online jobs or careers.

No more near perfect but fake profiles, and no more losers with made-up hobbies.

As I walk on, I relive tonight. Enough! A soulless creep who had a fudged photo, a tricked-up profile, and imagined career, as a pilot.

Right! And I’m a pop star.

After exiting the elevator, I slam the door to our old warehouse apartment. I enter the kitchen, frustrated, and grab the open bottle of wine. I walk through our cool, sometimes leaky warehouse apartment, remove my outfit, and pull on a pair of comfortable sports shorts.

As I walk along the rooftop, I adjust my black bra. It’s warm out, and the stars sit above.

Slumping next to my roommate, Parker, I sigh. Our kooky rooftop overlooks NYC, and it rocks, unlike my love and sex life .

I pour a glass of wine, check Parker’s, and look at her. As she puts her book down, I knock my wine back like a shot. Closing my eyes, I wince and do another nasty hit.

I want to die.

I cannot keep doing this. Twenty-three and a virgin is not acceptable.

Developing late didn’t help, and neither did the braces. Being bookish and curvy didn’t help either.

I mentally recap on why I’ve never had sex. I then conclude it’s because after various bad dates in my teens, I avoided boys. Escaping into books brought me joy and safety! I basically started to date books instead. Books were stable. Books were safe, and books didn’t judge me.

A literature degree after was likely unwise. Especially at a semi fancy university, taking on more debt than several Central American nations. What the actual fuck!

I’m kind of socially awkward, but that may just be my lack of confidence.

I know I’m a slightly curvy nerd, possibly even a recluse. Maybe sex is just not for me.

Even if I imagine being commanded and claimed, being taken against walls until I cannot stand or come anymore, something has to stop.

“Enough!” I huff. I side-eye Parker next to me, “I’m going to get married.”

“Fantastic!”

“To my vibrator. He will always be my lover.”

Parker leans her head on my shoulder. “Vibrators can’t command you. And they cannot get grumpy and tell you when to come.”

“I don’t care. They’re stable, and I’m going to die a virgin!” Parker puts an arm around me. “You?” I ask.

“No dates. I worked on another website.”

I remember my dead-end job and career. “It’s cool you work for yourself. I’m over the travel writing we do. I want to be a real writer.”

“So, finish writing the darned book,” Parker says, giving me the eye.

I cross my arms and think about my half-completed manuscript. It is all about life. Phah!

Life! What do I know?

I pour another wine and try to work out how to maneuver my way through the universe. I’m usually bouncy and positive, but now, I don’t know what to do. Giving up on men is high on the list, as is changing my career.

The next day, I polish the flat travel writing other writers have done. It’s been a long hard year, and craving to be a novelist does not help. I almost find flow in the afternoon when my CEO boss yells down the hall.

After walking into my stressed-out boss’s office, I turn on my best I-give-a-F look.

“Door!” she seethes.

I close the door, pen and pad in hand. The woman paces as I sit and wait for her oncoming rant. The marketing head and CEO rubs her temple, and I notice her large travel bags packed near the door. At least she is off again, and soon.

“Okay! I got it,” she snaps, and I turn on my I’m-here-to-help look.

“I’m supposed to be in Italy next week to create an article.

The board, however, wants me in Chicago!

I have to rebuild the magazine’s revenue model to chase more advertising dollars, but that’s too much detail for you.

Therefore, with all the changes… you need to go. ”

I feel sick. “I’m sorry. Like… Go? Like leave the company?”

Our Overlord raises a brow. “To Italy.”

I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve never been overseas.

“Now, listen!” she says, crossing her arms and pacing. “I need a story on Italy, five to seven hundred words. I also want nonprofessional feeling photos to match said words. I need a story to make Italy seem… stuffy, old, stale, and boring.”

I write the keywords and start to feel uncomfortable. Make a nation look bad?

Shut up and do not question, I tell myself.

My boss tosses an envelope onto my lap, and she moves fast. “Ticket and per diems are inside, plus enough Euro dollars for ten days at decent hotels. A car has been rented already. A fancy car. Do. Not. Crash. It!”

I stay focused, my heart pumping. The brute then gives me a ‘why are you still here?’ look with her hands on her hips. As she claps her hands, she herds me out like a dog. “Go go go, the flight leaves in a few hours!”

At home, I move fast, and I have three hours before I fly. After dragging my hardly used travel bags out, I toss things in them. Five minutes later, I’m almost finished when the door slams.

“Babe!” I yell before Parker leans in, her scruffy hair now trimmed. “Hair looks great but get this. Overlord wants a story on how boring Italy is.”

Parker’s eyes pop as she sees my bags. “Kind of weird, but great! And maybe what you need to pop that cherry!”

“Screw the cherry!” I say, sexually frustrated.

“Take your half-written novel!”

“Great idea!” I huff, enthused.

I can likely write the short travel article quickly, then find time to write the end of my novel. Time on the road will also be healthy, and a good way out of the dating hell.

I slip my printed work-in-progress novel draft, plus a book, into my day pack, and they sit next to my laptop. The dog-eared yellow book has a large sun on the cover, and the author was my mother.

She’d given me the signed copy when I was ten. A year before…

She passed.

Her writing and my dream of writing is a connection I imagine we have. Keeping her book near me is like keeping her near me. The book is like a lasting umbilical cord in the cosmos. Don’t ask.

I arrive in Rome excited, but after the free spirits and movies in business class, I’m slightly hungover. I get the pre-booked, red Italian sports car and beam. It may be cramped inside, but it’s awesome.

The only problem is my big travel bag will only fit on the roof. After securing travel cables, I strap it on and race off.

I learn fast the Italians drive wildly, and they use hand signals a lot. Many seem to be F you, WTF, and out of my way. Intense… Colorful…

And scary.

As I start touring Italy, I wonder how much of the accommodation money and per diems I can save and how.

I can likely use my annual leave to finish my novel, and if I live cheap, by the time I leave Italy, my novel will be done!

My first few days are amazing, and it’s perfectly sunny and warm. I adore the country, and the culture is spectacular. The food, the history, the clothing, the people, and the architecture are to die for.

As I drive, I take photos and use a voice recording app. I eat and beam. I cannot believe how amazing it is. After visiting Rome, the Vatican, Florence, Venice, and even Lake Como, where Clooney supposedly has a home, I head towards Tuscany.

Besides the sites, the gorgeous Italian men blow my mind. They are beyond flirty, and their eye fucking is next level.

As I pull over for gelato, Italian ice cream, on the most perfect stretch of coastal road, I lick, then freeze.

I do a three sixty, and realize my bag is gone. And so is half of the cable tie. Sighing, I try to work out what was in it.

Everything, except for my novel, passport, and really important things. Gone are most of my clothes, my vibrator and basically everything else.

“Oh God,” I say as a car horn blasts and a car streaks by.

I decide against driving back hundreds of miles. In no way can I remember every road I’ve taken today, plus I’d also lose an entire day.

I look down at what I am wearing, and the few clothes in the sports car. I finish the cone, slide back in the car, and mutter ‘life’. I start the car, remind myself to be less of a loser, and I blast off along the stunning coast.

Over the next few days, I drive around the Italian coastline.

I swim in the ocean where it’s private, and I swim in my black lingerie.

I have no swimsuit with me now, and no spare money to buy one.

I am in awe of the Tuscan rolling hills, vineyards, restaurants, and endless gorgeous pasta dishes. Also, its coffees and foods.

I adore the rich culture and history, and I get distracted with the endless beauty. I stay at affordable hotels on the way, and I eat more of the spectacular local food.

The weather is perfect, and I start to wonder why Italians ever came to our wonderful nation in the day, especially NYC. The Italian architecture, arts, culture and old castles are stunning. The history is on another level.

As I drive on, I write the travel article, and I take photos. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Something however worries me, and I know something this good cannot last. I suspect the universe is messing with me and that chaos is just around the corner.