Billionaire Bad Boy

"You're boring," spat the spiky-haired kid
on the TV.

Annie McCallum blinked at the screen then glanced at
her colleagues sitting around the boardroom table. She expected to see shocked
expressions but only saw resignation. It seemed that none of the other agents
at McCallum and Horton wanted the kid to elaborate. Maybe he was right.

"Boring?" she prompted. She'd been called
many things in her life, but boring wasn't one of them. Okay, so she'd started
at McCallum and Horton straight out of college, she'd never lived outside LA
and her love life could use a little something—like a man. And she
probably lacked the get up and go of other LA agents, especially on Monday
mornings before gulping down her second cup of coffee. But she was
not
boring! She refused to be boring. It wasn't good for her image as one of the
top agents of the LA music industry.

Except she wasn't a top agent. Not even close.

"What do you mean boring?" She tried to keep
the scathing edge out of her voice—not an easy task. She needed to be
careful. She was talking to one of the most popular artists of the moment, and
they wanted his business. They
needed
his business. He may be a
snotty-nosed, high school dropout with a bad haircut, but Dug-E-Dug was the
hottest artist around. His latest single
Don't Call Me Dumb
had been
number one for four weeks and his concerts were a raging success.

"Yeah, you heard me. You're all as dull as,
as..." Dug-E glanced around, his eyes focusing on someone to his right,
out of camera shot. "...as my mother."

Dug-E's mother's head popped into view.

"Hello, Mrs. Douglas," said Bob Horton in
his smooth agent-voice. "Nice to see you again."

The silver-haired woman with the wire-framed glasses
smiled sheepishly at them and stared into the screen. She leaned forward,
eyeing the equipment with suspicion, giving the McCallum and Horton agents an
unpleasant view up her nose. It was like something out of a horror movie. The
four seated around the boardroom table instinctively leaned back.

"You must forgive my son," Mrs. Douglas
said. "But he has a point."

"A point?" Bob said.

"Yes, a very valid point," she said in her
schoolteacher voice that made everyone sit up straight. Everyone except her
son. "He's a young, up-and-coming artist, Mr. Horton. He needs freedom to
express his personality through his music, and his life outside of music. He
feels—we both feel—that a younger, more hip agent would understand
him better. I do apologize," she added sincerely. "But we feel
Douglas's talent should be nurtured not stifled."

No
,
thought Annie,
but his obnoxious personality should
. Just ask every
five-star hotel manager on the West Coast whose rooms he'd smashed to pieces
last month.

"Right, er, of course," Bob said. "That's
a real shame, though. We have some great ideas for him."

Annie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You're
not giving up yet are you?" she stage-whispered across the table. "Just
like that?"

"He's not interested, Annie, let it go," he
whispered back.

Mrs. Douglas leaned forward again, this time turning
and placing her ear closer to the screen. Clearly she hadn't mastered the art
of video conferencing. The volume control was on the remote.

"What did you say?" she shouted.

Annie glanced at Bob. He shifted uncomfortably in his
seat and dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. He wanted Dug-E. McCallum and
Horton
needed
him. Ten years ago the firm had represented some of the
hottest talent on the charts but those groups hadn't performed in years and the
young kids all went to the flashy, glitzy agents who got them entry into the
hottest parties in town. McCallum and Horton just wasn't that kind of firm
anymore. The party-throwers they knew had all grown up and become respectable
citizens of LA with budding wild children of their own. The only vomit they
cleaned up in the middle of the night now was a baby's.

Annie hadn't been around in those days. She'd joined
the firm seven years earlier as a young assistant straight out of college. In
that time she'd worked her way up to becoming one of the firm's most sought
after agents. Well, as sort after as any of McCallum and Horton's agents were,
which was nowhere near as much as her late father, the agency's co-founder, in
his day.

"We understand," Bob said quietly, his jaw
squaring as firmly as his double chins would allow.

Annie could tell he was working up to something. His
face had that look—a look she hadn't seen since her father's death ten
years ago. Ambition. He glanced around at his three agents seated at the table.
They stared back at him, waiting expectantly as if he were the Messiah about to
announce a prophecy. His gaze settled on Annie. Oh boy.

Slowly, very deliberately, he turned back to the
screen.

"I was saying that we have the perfect agent for
your son, Mrs. Douglas. She's young, she's...er, hip and wired." He looked
pleased with himself. "Yeah, wired. We think she'd be perfect for your
son. She knows all the happening places. All the cool gigs."

Annie rolled her eyes. She only knew about cool gigs
afterward
when she read about them in the paper.

"Well, where is she?" Dug-E snapped. He peered
into the screen, just as his mother had done, his pimply face coming into
frighteningly detailed focus.

Lenny, sitting next to Annie, cringed and gave his
undivided attention to his blank notepad.

Bob indicated Annie. "Right here." He
grinned, the unexpected movement shaking his jowls like a turkey's.

"Um, Bob, can we talk—"

"Later," he whispered, still smiling.

She sighed. Great. She was about to be hung out to
dry.

"Annie McCallum," Bob announced.

The pimply boy on screen glared at Annie for an eternity,
then made a face. "Nup. Boring."

She squirmed in her seat. She had a million retorts to
make and if she wasn't within earshot of a prospective client, she wouldn't
hesitate to let one out. But she bit her tongue. Literally. The taste of blood
snapped her attention back to the screen.

"She's very far from boring, Dug-E," Bob
said quickly, his salesman's face still frozen in place. It was the one he
turned on when he wanted to charm, to knock the socks off someone important. He
rarely used it these days. Maybe it was about time he did. Annie just wished
she wasn't the object he was trying to sell, and that Dug-E wasn't the buyer.

The teenager leaned back in his chair with an audible
thud, a sneer of disgust distorting his features. He stabbed the pinky finger
and forefinger of his left hand at the screen. "She's wearing a
suit," he accused.

"Er, that's only because we make her wear one in
the office." Bob winked at Annie. "She's really one wild girl. She
rides a motorbike to work and parties all night. Oh yeah, and she always comes
to work hungover, don't you Annie?"

She blinked at him. The person he'd described sounded
disgusting. It may be exactly what Dug-E wanted in an agent, but it was an
outright lie.

"Annie?" Bob prompted, his face turning
salmon pink when she didn't answer straight away.

"Yeah," she drawled. What the hell—she'd
go along with his plan. For now. "I'm real...bad."

The relief on Bob's face was worth the effort, if
nothing else. At least that dangerous reddish tinge subsided.

But Dug-E didn't look convinced. "What sort of
bike?"

Uh-oh.
Think, Annie, think
. "A
Ducati," she said on a breath, recalling a name from one of the bikes in
the motorcycle shop she passed on her way to work.

It must have been the right one. Dug-E looked impressed.
He grinned and nodded. "Fine," he crooned. "Real fine. How does
she do?"

She? Do? Were they still talking about a bike? "Um,
good. Rides like...the wind." Annie
felt
the men around her cringe.
Well, it was the best she could come up with on short notice. "She's a
beautiful piece of metal," she added.

"She's more than metal, Lady, she's a sweet piece
of ass."

"Yeah, sweet."

Dug-E's expression sobered and his face became a blank
canvas. She could practically hear the cogs slowly grinding in his brain. Then
he brightened. He pointed both be-ringed forefingers at the screen. "Okay,
I'll give her a chance. But if she doesn't live up to my high standards, I'm
going with Jamieson and Jamieson."

Pity his high standards didn't extend to his personal
grooming.

Bob made an appointment with Dug-E's mother and the
screen flickered off with her waving at the camera and Dug-E looking bored. Then
he turned to his agents, eyes sparkling. "Okay, Annie, you're our girl. Go
for it."

She blinked at him. "Go for it? Are you insane? Have
you lost your mind?"

"What's wrong? You're perfect for this."

"Perfect! You just made me sound like a...a
rebel." She threw her hands in the air. "I don't know anything about
motorbikes or parties or drinking beer. I haven't been drunk since 2006 and
even then it was only because someone spiked my soda. I'm not my father,
Bob." Nor was she the daughter Reg McCallum had wanted her to be. He'd
wanted a wild child, like himself. A party animal and socialite. He'd got a
daughter whose idea of rebelling was to go to the library after school instead
of straight home.

Bob shrugged. "Then you'll learn." He nodded
at the other agents. They stood and left the room. When the door closed behind
them he placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. On anyone else it
would be a threatening move, but on a big teddy bear like Bob it was hard not
to smile.

"Look, Annie, you're our last chance. You're the
only agent under thirty here. Hell, you're the only agent under fifty. We need
you on this one. We can't lose Dug-E to Jamiesons."

"Why not? He's a snotty-nosed little—"

"Now, now. It's attitude like that that sends the
kids elsewhere." He wagged a disapproving finger at her but there was no
real admonishment in his tone.

"But I'm no hip and happening young thing, Bob. I
can't give Dug-E what he wants. I don't know what boys his age do."

"Don't worry. I've got the perfect person to
teach you."

She narrowed her eyes. "Teach me what?"

"To ride a motorbike for starters."

"You're really going to make me get on one of
those dangerous things? I could get killed."

"Calm down, Annie, you won't be killed. He's a
great teacher. He'll make sure you don't even fall off."

She rolled her eyes. "Gee thanks. Is
he going to teach me how to drink beer, swear like a sailor and flash my
breasts at passing trucks?"

He grinned. "If you ask him nicely."

She crossed her arms and tried hard to swallow her
simmering temper. Bob had been good to her, giving her a chance. He may have
done it in memory of his best friend, but he'd stuck by her even though she
didn't bring in as many clients as her father had. She owed him and she would
love to repay him by getting Dug-E. But did she
have
to drink beer?

"So who is this amazing teacher?"

"A friend of mine. We've known each other for
fifteen years."

"Fifteen? How old
is
he?"

"Thirty-four."

"Isn't that too old to be a rebel?"

At least thirty-four was better than eighteen. He
might not be as juvenile as Dug-E. Although he was male...