TRAINWRECK 1: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Inspired by a True Event Page 3
Ari
She looked adorable as she slept. Her head had fallen on my shoulder and soft snoring emanated from her slightly-parted full lips. I didn’t have it in me to wake her and instead continued to respond to my endless emails on my cell phone. I ran a global conglomerate and the work didn’t stop at six o’clock. With offices around the world, I worked 24/7. There was always another fire to put out or some decision requiring my attention.
But it was hard to concentrate with her so close to me, her sweet touch and scent sending bolts of desire to every part of my body. I had fucked her. Fucked her hard. And I’d loved every fucking minute. She was so frickin’ tight, almost like a virgin, but I knew that wasn’t possible with the way she fucked. It was the best damn orgasm I’d ever had, one that had barreled through me like a freight train, taking me to a place I’d never been.
I was still a bit stunned by my actions, especially since I’d never done this with a stranger on a train before. Especially not with a beautiful stranger, who I’d fantasized about for months. Most of the time, another self-absorbed suit sat next to me. But today, the unpredictable beauty named Fate had taken his place. I’d often heard that Fate was a bitch, and believe me, I knew her, but this Sarah—oh Saarah—must have been her angelic twin sister. I planted a chaste kiss on her silky hair trying to process my emotions and contemplate my next step. Any form of involvement was so not what I wanted. I’d been with a lot of women, all of them conveniently disposable. Not one had sent me to the moon like she had. While I drunk in my brunette beauty, with her intelligent, sensuous face, not a single stop sign popped up in my head. She was different. Impulsively, I kissed the top of her head again.
As the train made its next stop and the conductor shouted out the name of the station, she stirred, and the large satchel bag on her lap tumbled to the floor, spreading its contents at her feet. I cast my eyes down and surveyed the array. Not too bad. Carefully, without waking her, I bent over and picked up the satchel, and then retrieved each item that had spilled out, one by one. First her thin red wallet. I know I shouldn’t have been nosy, but curiosity got the better of me. I unzipped it and wasn’t surprised it didn’t contain much money—a single twenty dollar bill and about a dollar’s worth of change in the coin compartment. Tucked inside were a Visa card and her driver’s license. I slipped the latter out and studied it. The photo looked just like her—with her high cheekbones, full lips, and wide-set brown eyes; she photographed like a million bucks. So her full name was Sarah Greene; she was twenty-five-years old having just celebrated a birthday, five feet nine, weighed one hundred twenty pounds, and she lived on the West Side. Two twenty-five West Forty-Fifth Street in the heart of the theater district. I committed the address to memory and then slid the wallet back into her bag.
The next item I retrieved was a small leather notebook that looked to be a journal of sorts. I flipped it open and began to read it. Every page was filled with famous sayings and lines—some inspirational, others humorous, and a few quite profound. I skimmed them quickly, chuckling when I came to the last one: Think big. I shared the same philosophy; bigger was definitely better.
After putting the journal back into her bag, I reached for another notebook—a sketchpad—with one hand, and with my other, I gathered up a mechanical pencil and a pack of colored ones. After dropping the pencils in her bag, I opened the pad. On the inside cover was a message:
IMPORTANT!
If found, please return!!!
Call me at 212-555-9696 or email me at toygirl@gmail.com
THANKS!!
Girl toy was more like it I thought, flashing back to our bathroom encounter. My still swollen cock stirred at the thought. I quickly added her name and phone number along with her email address to my contact list on my cell phone before leafing through the pages of the notebook. Page after page was filled with impressive portraits of a young woman with soulful eyes who looked a lot like her—perhaps an older sister? An interspersed among these drawings were detailed sketches of weird looking creatures, gizmos, and vehicles. She must be some kind of designer or artist. With her bohemian attire, she looked like the artsy type. She was indeed very talented…in many ways.
I carefully placed the sketchpad back in her bag. Bending down again, I reached for a plain white envelope. Unsealed. I peeked inside at the contents—it looked to be a ticket to an event. Curious, I removed it and my eyes grew wide—it was a ticket to the highly coveted Black Eyed Peas reunion concert tonight in the park. They’d sold out quickly in less than twenty-four hours, and even I, with all my connections, couldn’t score one. Who the hell was she and who did she know? Maybe Ms. Artsy had a boyfriend connected to the band. Or fucked one of them. Jealousy, an emotion that was alien to me, raised its ugly green tail in my chest.
She stirred again, and afraid she might wake up, I quickly put the envelope with the ticket back inside her satchel and gathered up the rest of her belongings. Some lip gloss, a hairbrush, a few loose receipts, a tampon, a hair elastic, a checkbook with a balance of eighty dollars, a set of keys, and several packs of Big Red gum. For toting such a large bag, she sure didn’t carry all that much. “Less is more,” my late father always preached, but I knew better than that as I glanced down at my still raging cock. And somehow, I thought there was much more to this girl than met the eye.
Sarah
“Last stop, New York Penn Station.”
The loud announcement woke me with a bang. Startled, I blinked my eyes open, to find my head resting on Ari’s broad shoulder. Embarrassment swept over me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself.
“Don’t be.” He flashed a quick dimpled smile that rendered me breathless.
As other commuters stood up, he helped me to my feet, the touch of him sending goosebumps up my arms.
“Ladies first.”
As I side-stepped past him and made my way to the automatic sliding doors, the sinking feeling that I might never see him again set in. The train ride was over.
###♥###
Penn Station was stinking hot, bustling with commuters and tourists, and it wasn’t even summer yet. It tasted, smelled, and sounded like 30th Street Station’s ugly stepsister. Ari clasped my hand as we wove our way in and out of the ruthless crowd of rush hour commuters and ubiquitous homeless. His hand was warm, the grip firm but not too tight. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, his stride a blend of grace and arrogance. He was clearly an expert, manipulating this oppressive swarm of people. Despite having lived in the city for almost three years and taking my share of subways, I had yet to master the impatient New Yorkers always in a hurry to get where they were going.
Silence prevailed between the two of us as we made our way through the throng. Only the hum of the vast station sung in my ears. It, however, did little to quiet the turbulence whirling around in my head or the turbulence centered between my legs. I had lost my virginity to a man I would likely never see again. A man I craved but could never have. As the exit sign came into view, I started thinking about my exit line. “Nice knowing you.”…“Thanks for taking away my V-card.”…“Thanks for the memories.”…“Have a nice life.” If he weren’t dragging me through the station at breakneck speed to the point I was almost jogging to keep up with him, my heavy heart would have slowed me down. The truth was I didn’t want to say goodbye to this beautiful stranger on a train and was dreading it.
Suddenly, a sharp tug from behind followed by a forceful shove sent my jumble of thoughts to a screeching halt and me tumbling onto the filthy Penn Station floor. Stunned and stinging with pain, I caught sight of my assailant, a skinny Latino youth running through the crowd with my bag. My keys! My cell phone! My wallet! My identity! And the cash I needed to get through the weekend!
“Little fucker!” yelled my companion, taking off in hot pursuit.
Staggering to my feet, my eyes could not believe the speed with which his long legs carried him. It was like watching a scene from Mission Impossible with To
m Cruise or some stunt double running after the bad guy. My assailant glanced back at Trainman, panic washing over his face as he saw my action hero gaining ground. Even as the bad guy picked up speed, the gap narrowed until Trainman pounced on him, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay sprawled on the ground between Ari’s powerfully splayed knees, his face frozen with fear.
Gripping the lad by a clump of his greasy ebony hair, Ari yanked him to his feet. The boy was shaking and near tears, and I was taken by how slight he was compared to my tall, mighty, broad-shouldered hero. The boy surrendered my bag and defensively raised both hands, clearly afraid that his captor might strike him. Still clasping his hair, my hero lifted the youth until his Nikes no longer touched the ground. The boy grimaced in pain. And then Ari lowered him. I was close enough to hear him growl.
“Now, get the fuck out of here, you little twerp.”
He released the boy, who, wasting no time, sprinted through the station without looking back. He then wheeled around, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on me. I was shaking—unsure if it was from the shock of being violated or the shock that this devastating man had risked his life for me. I mean, the kid could have had a knife. Taking long strides, Ari loped my way.
“You okay?” he asked, his concerned blue eyes surveying every inch of my body.
“Yeah,” I managed.
Glancing down, I noticed patches of grime on my beige skirt. My right knee hurt from the fall. I lifted up the skirt by its hem to check it out. No blood. Just a large hole in my pantyhose—though it was a mere fraction of the hole between my crotch. Embarrassment crept through me as Ari handed me by bag. It was intact and in one piece.
“Hold on to this,” he said, his frown curling into a wry, but oh-so-sexy smile.
I quirked a quick smile back. My gaze met his once again, and I was immediately aware of the post-orgasmic waves crashing against my pelvis. My heart thudded. Thank goodness the buzz of the crowded station drowned out the sound.
“Saarah, I’m having drinks with someone,” he said, his eyes still holding me fiercely.
He needed to say no more. He was meeting some stunning supermodel. The type of woman he belonged with. My heart sunk. It was time for my exit line.
“Um, okay,” I spluttered. “Thanks for everything.” Yes, everything.
Without not so much as a goodbye, I sprung toward the exit sign. With hot tears clustering behind my eyes, I walked blindly through the throng of impatient commuters and filthy bums begging for money, brushing up against more than I wanted. It was over. I’d reached my final destination. My scenes from a movie were over. I didn’t even know a thing about him. His last name. Where he lived. What he did. What did it matter? I’d probably never see him again. It was just a fluke thing that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I shrugged my shoulders and inwardly sighed. Yet, there was so much of me that kept hoping I would feel his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me dead in my tracks. Spinning me around. Pulling my head back with a yank of my ponytail. Sinking his lips into mine and then parting them with his tongue, gifting me a kiss that lasted for an eternity right in the middle of Penn Station. That’s what happened in movies. With wishful thinking, I stole a glance back over my shoulder. Ari was hugging a tall, drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a chic suit. Just his type. A mixture of envy and self-pity pulsed through me. Facing front and fighting back tears, I quickened my pace. Why was I fooling myself? My West Side Story was a dream. My life was a reality show. A really lame reality show.
Ari
Gwen looked as stunning and as put together as ever. In a chic olive green pantsuit and stylish heels that accentuated her lean build and her enviable height. With her mane of flaming red hair and lankiness, she could have easily been a model. Grace Coddington, the legendary lookalike Creative Director of Vogue, had once scouted her on the street in The Village when she was seventeen and begged her to model—even offered to introduce her to all the top modeling agencies and pay for her comps, but my brainy, Wellesley-bound companion had no interest. A feminist, she was way more interested in saving the world and fighting for the rights of women than in saving Calvin Klein’s sagging career.
She gave me a hug, her taut, toned body pressing into mine. She’d texted me earlier in the day that she would be here at Penn Station at this time, after spending the day in a Long Island court dealing with a nasty divorce case. We’d agreed to meet up for drinks.
“You look amazing,” I breathed into her ear. “I want to introduce you to—”
I flipped around and she was gone. My eyes darted around the crowded station. She was nowhere in sight. Shit. Sarah was gone. Fucking gone. Why some bizarre girl I hardly knew made my heart beat into a tailspin, I could not explain. I just knew I had to see her again. And I wanted to see her soon.
“Gwen, can I take a rain check?”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
My mind raced. “Is Dawn still at Bergdorf’s?”
With a puzzled look, she assured me nothing had changed on the sixth floor of the venerable department store and gave me all the info I needed. Her sharp inquiring mind, however, wanted to know why I urgently needed a women’s clothing personal shopper.
“I forgot it’s Miss Thatcher’s birthday tomorrow and I need to get her something fast.” Miss Thatcher was my prim and proper spinster secretary, who’d likely never been laid in her life.
Suspicious Gwen cocked an eyebrow. I cocked back a smile. “Honestly.”
With her eyes and ears on me, I pulled out my cell phone and made a call.
“Since when is Miss Thatcher into Marc Jacobs and wearing a size six?” she asked after I ended the call.
“She lost a lot of weight and is changing her style.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, she wants to expand her horizons. And meet a hot guy.”
Gwen shot me another wry look and then told me she was looking forward to tomorrow night.
All was looking good.
Fuck the Black Eyed Peas.
My girl toy filled my head. If I had my way, and I would, she would be playing with me tonight. It was going to be a good, good night.
Sarah
Fuck him.
Remorse giving way to rage, I decided to walk home from Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing between my inner thigh area kept me in a fog. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin,” as Lauren sarcastically called me, made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I wished it hadn’t happened with that Adonis. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. The asshole didn’t even thank me for fucking his brains out. But I was the idiot for letting him seduce me. Now I hated myself for succumbing so readily to his selfish, lustful assault.
I got to my brownstone in no time. Mounting the five-step landing that led to the front door, I dug deep into my large bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled thinking about the possibilities.
I jiggled the front door key into the tricky deadbolt lock. It was a royal pain in the butt to get it to unlock, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood, which was still considered a little seedy.
Once inside, I used a tiny key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished mailboxes lining the chipped walls of the dingy entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. B
lumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress, who always had a story to tell me about her song and dance days and was convinced she was related to the city’s former mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a nearby pizzeria. They were both always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.
I reached my hand into the narrow metal box and grabbed the pile of mail. Bills. Bills. And more bills. And a letter from the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about being used by that asshole on the train.
Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn, both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her, alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing cock deep inside me. I wanted the memory to go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.
Breathing heavily, I unlocked my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, short for Josephine, the sweet black cat I was caring for, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed. Her true owner, a flamboyant, singing-dancing transvestite, was away on a yearlong tour of La Cage Aux Folles.